Roman Sturgis

NEW SITE

2008-12-17T01:13:00.002-06:00

Hello.

My new website is RomanSturgis.com

It features my fiction, travel writing, podcasts, and blog.

Come on over!

Best,
Roman

Excitement!

2007-10-14T22:03:00.000-05:00

I ordered a Rode Podcast USB mic this weekend from Amazon after price comparing at Guitar Center. I'm very excited to start recording my stories and also doing interviews, particularly my grandmother, who started writing her memoirs, but stalled out. (We know how that goes.)

A friend from the West coast will help me produce the podcasts. A friend on the east coast will help me design a new site, http://romansturgis.com (losing the www is the future of web, I am told.)

Reading Sound and the Fury and A Feather on the Breath of God (Nunez), and some wonderful stories from my fellow writers. Lately I have been having dreams, in text, that take off from where I finished reading for the night. Very confusing.

Wedding bells? Getting closer.

Check-in

2007-09-28T11:00:00.000-05:00

I turned in my first two stories this week. That was exciting. It feels great to be writing fiction on a daily basis again. I’m glad I spent a lot of this past summer writing essay-type things, but being back in a focused artistic environment is so much more fun.

This week and next week I’m reading The Enormous Room, by E.E. Cummings, and Grapes of Wrath, by J. Steinbeck. My part-time teaching at Boston Arts Academy is going well. I recently received tickets for the David Sedaris reading this November, and my students seem to be excited to go.

Laura and I continue to talk out where we want to be next fall, and the latest plan is to teach ESL overseas. Likely South America or Southeast Asia. We’re looking at two possible seasons to get married next year, spring or fall. Spring seems like the better choice, as many school years start in August.

Boston is still warm. I don't get it.

First Day of School

2007-09-04T11:33:00.001-05:00

The BU computer lab I've been working in is packed and the print queue is half an hour. Thrilling.

Today I'll have my first class with Allegra Goodman. Last night we had a mixer at the house of one of the faculty. I'm not sure when I'll see the whole department together again. Many past graduates attended. It was really swell to meet them and see that many are active and plugging away.

Being back in Boston is very exciting, but I miss Laura quite a lot. I've been keeping myself as busy as possible to keep my mind from turning towards sadness. We're discussing the possibility of going down to South America (Argentina or Chile) next fall to teach.

New Presidents

2007-08-14T14:47:00.000-05:00

If it wasn't for the ridiculous amount of money being spent on the upcoming presidential elections, I would be tired already of the whole thing. Aside: does it strike anyone else that bigger budgets for campaigns translates to bigger government? Why not set limits to candidates budget in order to see who uses their money most wisely?

Anyway. With all this time to talk out platforms and drum up support, I find most candidates talking about solutions for far more problems than they can realistically address in four or even eight years. So why not get real with the people and admit the truth: I've got 100 days to accomplish two, maybe three if I'm lucky agendas, and after that it's all self-preservation--keeping my head above water so that I have a hope of being re-elected and accomplishing two or three more agenda items.

I want to see a presidential candidate not only clearly establish where he or she stands on the following issues, but also prioritize them in a way that gives us a real sense of what the president would work towards:

Iraq
Immigration
Abortion
Education
Health Care
Campaign Finance Reform
Taxes
Federalism
Big Govt vs Small Govt
Energy
Climate Change
Global War on Terror

And I'm sure there are others. Wouldn't it be nice if we could establish a list of items, by popular consent, and get a priority ranking from all the candidates? I think this would be much more useful for understanding who stands for what than the circus and hype we've seen so far.

For a Good Time, Call: "Unkown Sender"

2007-08-13T13:43:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, late a night, after I've been drinking, I go thru my SPAM folder.

I have developed a relationship with "unknown sender". Opening emails from "unknown sender" is exciting for me, like opening a message from an old friend who has only recently gotten back in touch. Where the hell have you been? What the hell have you been up to? Oh my God, it's been so long. Or, like a special new somebody looking for friendship and fun on MySpace, "Unknown Sender" serenades me with poorly constructed sentences filled with words "Unknown Sender" knows I like, because "Unknown Sender" has been reading what I've written:

"Regardless of how quiet he scary keeps helpful it, sail Bush art is promoting a national religion..."

"Unknown Sender" understands me, despite not being able to communicate very well in my language.

I've never hooked up in a gas station restroom, but I imagine it must feel like reading mail from "Unknown Sender". The reckless abandon. The excitement of not knowing exactly what's underneath the clothes in the dark: like taking a chance on the "One of Four Special Sexy Surprises" in the quarter-fed condom machine. I don't know where "Unknown Sender" has been and "Unknown Sender" could have been ANYWHERE. It's not safe. It's dangerous. It's against the rules. But it feels so good.

Potter Head Party

2007-07-21T20:35:00.000-05:00

Last night Laura and I went to Barnes and Noble in Myrtle Beach and got in line to buy book seven at midnight. I was number 386 and after an hour and fifteen minutes, had my very own copy of Deathly Hallows in my hands, only to have it stolen immediately by a raging Potter maniac in glow-in-the-dark Harry glasses--ahem, Laura.

We spent the afternoon lounging poolside in my community reading. We counted five other Harry readers, all on book seven. My brother and I are not as far along--I just finished book five tonight, and he will finish book six soon. I confess that the last week or so, essentially since returning from the UCLA IHS seminar, I've been a nut for these crazy books. I am now a full-blown convert, and a total flip-flopped from my former opinion that Harry Potter books were trashy fiction. I hope to one day write something equally as engrossing.

Oh, and one more thing... Some idiot at the pool walked up to us while we were reading to strike up a conversation about the books. She's a Harry reader as well. She asked me what book I was reading, commented on how good she thought book five was, and then proceeded to talk with Laura about things that happen in book seven! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? I felt as angsty/pissed as hormonal Harry. Had I a wand I would have turned her into a toad. But instead I began to re-imagine Umbridge in her likeness.

Anti-War Shirts Illegal in Four States

2007-07-17T16:04:00.000-05:00

I first read about this on OpenBah, hosted by my good friend who hopes to be a combat Marine one day. I have a deep respect for the troops.

The story is this:

Businesses like CarryABigSticker that sell products displaying political statements--everything from the magnetic ribbons you see on cars, to t-shirts and bumper stickers, have recently come under fire with the passing of a new law in four states that makes it illegal to profit from the use of naming fallen troops. One set of shirts in particular (from CarryABigSticker) lists the names of killed American troops in tiny print (smaller than the print on a penny) as the back drop to various messages along the lines of "Bush Lied/They Died."

Below is my post to the original link at openbah:

I’m not sure why it has been made illegal to sell this shirt. At first glance it doesn’t look like it’s degrading in any way to the dead–it seems to me that the message is “save the remaining troops by sending them home.”

As far as making a profit from selling t-shirts with dead soldier’s names, doesn’t the media do the same? I recall seeing names and photos of killed soldiers on many prime time tv news shows. CNN, FOX, and others are surely making money on those broadcasts.

I’m surprised to read that some states have made it illegal to sell this shirt. Sadly, this is another instance of the constitution being trampled by politicians whose primary goal is to be re-elected, or promoted.

I don’t see the shirt’s message as taking a swing at the troops. I interpret the message as “many have died already, so let’s bring the rest back ASAP.” Regardless of one’s views of staying the course vs. cut and run, that conversation is certainly protected by free speech, and it should be supported, not crushed. I feel for the family’s who have lost loved ones. One day we will have a wall somewhere on the Washington Mall commemorating them. Until then, can’t this shirt act as a stand-in? Besides, it’s the not like we’re looking at a giant billboard with everyone’s name clearly visible–the names are so tiny one can only read them with a magnifying glass.

If the message is taking a swing at anyone, it’s the politicians. And that’s a good thing–we’re far too easy on our politicians, left center and right. What has happened in Arizona and other states is a reversal of that–the politicians are protecting themselves by sacrificing free speech and enterprise.

To put it in perspective, what would we do if we saw a Jew wearing a shirt that listed the names of all the Polish Jews who were killed during the Holocaust?

BU BUZZ

2007-07-17T15:25:00.001-05:00

This just in:

The creative writing program at Boston University now offers an MFA in creative writing. Previously the intensive one-year program culminated in an MA. The MFA degree is terminal and the necessary credential to teach creative writing at the college level (with of course, several solid publications).

This is very exciting news for me, as I have been worried whether or not I'd need to go back to school, perhaps to U. Southern Maine, to get the MFA degree. So, less school for more degree, and afterwards I'm free to get on back down south where the weather and housing markets are more suitable to my sensibilities.

Back from another IHS seminar

2007-07-16T01:21:00.000-05:00

It was great. During the last two weeks a lot has happened, especially in the writing department. I'm now working on two collaborative projects, adapting "A Bottle of Water" into a short film, and a play that tells a story about a gay son and his father. I've also been added to the staff bloggers at ThinkForYourself, a project of the Institute for Humane Studies. I'll post links to my first posts soon.

The other big news is that my housing situation for the fall has been solved; a friend has asked me to apartment-sit. Funny how the proposal, "would you like to stay in my apartment" can have such a drastic effect on one's life.

Remember when I told you I was trying to get a paid gig with Gridskipper? I've been saving up some posts, and have many food posts from this most recent trip to LA, but while researching the apple pan, which does not have a website, realized--some things are great enough that they don't need websites.

Oh, and JS, who is two weeks into her "year on the road, living in a car (for no apparent reason)", and who will write a thoughtful book about it once she has finished, helped me sort out which equipment I'll need to podcast my short fiction for free.

That's right, folks. Soon you too will be able to download the voice of Roman onto your I-pod and listen to me tell you stories while you commute to work on the subway. You might be able to, but me, I can't wait!

I know, I know, I know...

2007-07-03T12:07:00.000-05:00

...I'm such a lazy shmuck. For shame.

What have I been doing?
1. Sleeping a lot.
2. Getting tan.
3. Reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I am determined to get caught up by the big day 7/21/07, as I want to dress as Draco Malfoy, or maybe even Snape, and scare the kids who come in with their taped glasses and magic-marker lightning bolts on their foreheads.

If you're going to give me shit about becoming a Potter-ite, read this first. A1. I resisted Harry earlier on, just as I resisted reading the Beats while at Emerson. There is no clear ration here except for this: if everyone is doing it, stand back and watch first. I have since audiobooked On The Road, (while on the road, in fact) and am halfway through year four of HP. Let me tell you that it's brilliant. Breaks every rule I ever learned, but it's so damn good, one gets over the many, many adverbs quickly. See, I just used one myself. "They're not that bad," he said pointedly.

But the Big Questions I have while reading Harry are the same questions I ask whenever I read something gripping. How the hell does it do that? How does it work? Why did it make me feel that way? And how can I do the same?

Harry Potter is worth studying if only for the Big Question--how does it work? J. K. Rowling has done something no one has ever done quite so well, has published hundreds of millions of copies, and has been paid HANDOMSLEY for doing what she loves--writing stories. She's "the only British woman to be ranked a dollar billionaire. She is also one of only five self-made female billionaires, and the first billion dollar author" (RIFF).

The only other billionaires on the Forbes list who made their bones in the entertainment industry are Spielberg, Lucas, and of course, Oprah.

Alright. What else?

Boston University sent some stuff. Amidst the Welcome! letter and course information was an interesting memo about a new option to stay on for a second year with the School of Education and get a Master's in Teaching and a teaching certificate for 44 states. Not bad. To sweeten the deal, they're offering everyone in the program $19,000 in tuition remission. Were I to do it, I don't know if I would be able to apply for another teaching fellowship and bring that cost down even further.

Something Laura and I have been keeping in close consideration: regardless of how generous this scholarship would be, BU tuition is usually around $35k, so I'd still need to come up with $16,000. Plus the cost of living in Boston is very high. I estimate $1,500 a month would be cutting it close, and not saving a penny. So figure a second year would cost $34,000. With a Master's, teaching at a high school would bring me a starting salary somewhere between $35k and $40k. So does it make sense? Keeping in mind that my professional goals are to a) publish novels, and b) teach at the college level, would four or five years teaching high school help, or delay? Still, it's something to think about. Part of my feels that my year at TMA was enough for me to realize that I could go that way and be successful. Another part feels that going back to high schools would be the wrong direction.

Not bad news, but heavy news worth considering.

Something lighter: after years of offering the MA in creative writing, I think BU is now moving (or maybe has already moved) towards offering the MFA degree. The MFA is the terminal degree in creative writing; one can not go further in academy; there is no PhD in creative writing. If this proves to be true, this is great news. It means that I won't necessarily have to attend another program to get the MFA credential, the degree needed to teach creative writing at the college level.

Off to LA to do a seminar at UCLA. I may post from there if I find the time, though historically, IHS summer seminars are so all-consuming, we often forget to sleep.

Apartment Hunt

2007-06-25T10:51:00.000-05:00

It's that time again. Finding a good apartment in Boston for less than a fortune is a herculean task. Such a pain.

Knocked Up

2007-06-03T00:18:00.000-05:00

The new movie Knocked-Up has been my favorite summer flick so far. Excellent characters, great lines, hilarious, and excellent economy of action. Screw Pirates. Get Knocked-Up.

On the horizon: http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif. Oh yeah!

A few things...

2007-05-09T01:50:00.000-05:00

First. I've been working on this biofuels essay contest, and making progress, writing something sharp and engaging to stand out in the crowd of other contestants, and then I read that the deadline has been extended from May 11th to May 31st. Great right? Maybe. The rules are specific: anyone under 25, or who is currently in school, can submit. I turn 26 on May 21st. I was going to just barely squeeze in, and now I'm not eligible. Ah, but you're going to be going to Boston University in the fall to study creative writing, Roman, what are you worrying about? Ah, I say, but I am not there yet. So what am I going to do? I'm going to lie about my age. Hell, if folks do it to sign up for the Army, I can do it to submit an essay on why government mandates of biofuels are a terrible idea.

Second. I worked a book signing today for Paula Deen. You know, the southern gal from Savannah whose food we would love to eat, but hate to love? All that wonderfully unhealthy, scrumptious stuff like fried chicken and red velvet cake and such. I found Paula to be very cheery, though I thought it was inconsiderate for her to arrive to our event late, especially after rescheduling. I made a vow to myself that if I ever get famous, I'll remember that it will only be for fifteen minutes, and that while I'm in the lime light, I'll do my very best to be gracious to my fans--which means spending time signing books, and showing up to events in my honor on time.

Third. On my way to the Paula Deen event, I got a call from Columbia College. Wouldn't you know, they moved me from the wait list. Good news: I can defer for up to two years, which means that Chicago may be an option. Bad news: It's damn expensive, and I don't think I'll be able to get the same totally sweet financial aid deal that BU offers. (But it still made me feel like a champ to get in.)

Fourth. Spoke to an IHS alumna today about podcasting stories/poetry online, as well as video journals, and the intellectual property rights of such things. Food and fashion came up. Why don't food and fashion have the same intellectual property rights as books, movies, and music? (See Kate Moss's new line, TopLine.) In the remix generation, why don't we have more tolerance for borrowing in media? My friend said something wonderful--she said, "fashion is the most recycled industry of all. I don't think it's powered by originality so much as creativity." I wish I had said that.

Spoke to an IHS Alumni

Quote of the Day:

2007-05-03T07:54:00.000-05:00

"Ever since Sani Abacha expired in the arms of two Indian prostitutes, possibly from an overdose of Viagra, in 1998, Nigerians supposed that their worst days were behind them."

"Big men, big fraud and big trouble", The Economist, 4/28-5/4-07.

I think I might use this sentence construction for a writing exercise. Start with something like:

"Ever since Richard Balls expired in the arms of two German prostitutes, possibly from an overdose of Viagra, in 1998, the Balls family supposed that their worst days were behind them."

...but it just doesn't have the same zing, does it?

Ted.com

2007-05-01T14:11:00.000-05:00

Recently I visited some friends in New York and one of them mentioned a website that he visits often, Ted.com.

Ted.com is a gallery of smart people talking about interesting things. For example, last night I listened to one of my favorite writers, Malcom Gladwell (Tipping Point, Blink), talk about how a new spaghetti sauce changed the world. Sort of...

The Island of Manhattan

2007-04-20T02:39:00.000-05:00

is not as scary as it used to be, for me. After spending so much time in (relatively) art-culture-defecient Pawleys Island, I've been soaking up as much of my NY experience as possible. I love the choices in New York. Today I went to a Yankees game, "Inherit the Wind" on Broadway, Corner Bistro in Chelsea, and Coffee Shop in Union Square. Ate a hot dog, and Nasi Goring somewhere near Hell's Kitchen, and walked on more pavement than I've seen in months. It's been a lovely trip.

Still waiting for paperwork to arrive from Boston University. (Was it all just a dream?)

So much to do. So much to see.

Also, re-read David Brudnoy's memoir, Life Is Not a Rehearsal, recently. I miss my friend, but I'm glad he left a book behind to visit with from time to time.

Current project: an essay competition on the cost/benefits of biofuels.

thank you

2007-04-01T17:23:00.000-05:00

Dear Loved Ones,

I’m writing to share some great news with you. As you know, I’ve spent much of the last year focused on researching graduate creative writing programs, gathering the necessary forms for eleven applications, and most time-consuming of all, developing a competitive writing portfolio. March is Decision Month, so the last few weeks have been full of excitement waiting for the postman—thin envelope, bad; thick envelope, good—or fateful phone calls.

On March 29th, I received such a call from Leslie Epstein, the director of the program at Boston University. You may remember that I have applied to the creative writing program at Boston University twice before, first in 2003, and again in 2004. Early in the conversation Leslie joked, “third time’s a charm, right?” He continued to say that he was pleased to offer me a spot in the next fiction class, and a teaching fellowship. We talked a bit about tuition and logistics of the program, but even though BU has been my first choice for several years, I asked Leslie for some time to process the information.

I shared the news with Laura and we talked about how this might fit into our plans for the future. At that point in time other options included a full residency MFA at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago and a low residency at University of Southern Maine. An MFA in creative writing is a terminal degree, and the qualification most often needed to teach creative writing at the college level. The program at BU is a one-year full residency that leads to an MA in creative writing, is not a terminal degree, and can lead to an MFA, or a PhD (in my case, probably in literature). Laura and I decided that BU made good sense beyond the satisfaction of finally getting an offer. The financial aid package is beyond generous, the program is only one year (versus two or three for an MFA), and leaves open the possibility of further study in creative writing or literature. But most of all, a teaching fellowship at BU means that I would be paid to teach my own section of college level creative writing. This has been one of my dreams for many years now.

On the morning of March 30th, I called Leslie Epstein and accepted the teaching fellowship and enrollment for this fall. I will move to Boston in late August and classes will start after Labor Day. Laura will finish her BA in English at Coastal Carolina University this December. She will join me in Boston in early 2008 and likely begin her graduate studies in contemporary literature.

During our initial phone conversation, Leslie Epstein told me that the BU faculty had noticed growth in my writing. He said my latest short story To Remember Me By was a major change from my past manuscripts, in that no one “was stabbed to death”. We talked about death being an easy solution for many conflicts, and then about some of the differences in story between the film Babel and The Departed. In The Departed, all problems are solved by killing someone. In Babel, some people die, but not all conflicts are solved with murder. To Remember Me By is a short story based on my even shorter career as a wilderness instructor at a therapeutic camp in the mountains of North Carolina. The story is about an instructor who must get a runaway student back to camp without using force. That is to say, the story could not end with murder or violence, which is a theme in much of my earlier work. It felt great to hear someone talking about my writing with meaningful insight. I imagine I will find that my professors can offer even greater insight to my work once I actually meet them face-to-face, and work with them in the classroom. A large part of my positive gut-feeling for BU is that I feel an intimate relationship has already begun to form. That this relationship has taken four years and three applications to form is inconsequential to me now. I feel that a larger writing lesson has already been learned: persistence pays. But for all I know, BU may deny every applicant a few times before offering an acceptance.

After working in restaurants for a bit, (standard apprenticeship for writers, I understand), my year of teaching in Southeast DC, my great American roadtrip, and several months of intense focus preparing for graduate study, I feel my current writing is markedly different from what I was doing in college. My next goal is to earn a master’s in creative writing at BU with a finished novel and to find a publisher. The former will not be easy, but I know I can do it. The later may not happen immediately, but I’ve learned that these things take time, and that maintaining my commitment increases my chances.

I’d like to acknowledge you, my friends and family, who have been so kind and generous with your love and support. Though I do spend many isolated hours in a dark room, staring at a computer screen, communicating with the outside world mostly thru phone lines, none of what I write could exist without the real life experiences that you are a part of. I want you to share in my happiness, because you are the root of it, and at the end of the day, my most important audience.

RS

No...really?

2007-03-29T18:46:00.000-05:00

Boston University called to say "Yes!"

I'm not even joking.

Money quote from the director of the program:

"Third time's a charm, right?"

Boo-yah.

FINALLY

2007-03-26T18:11:00.000-05:00

Some good news in the grad school department.

The School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC) sent a thin letter, which I opened today thinking was another rejection. But instead, I found a nice bit of news. "You're in!" Woo-hoo! My first acceptance to a full-res program.

(UT, btw, said no today as well.)

Now I'm wondering whether I should go with the low residency option thru University of Southern Maine, or seriously consider the full-residency option with SAIC. One of the major factors: SAIC does not offer a tuition waiver and stipend with their Graduate Teaching Assistant program, rather they pay $19.00/hr. and don't often choose first year students as TAs. The total cost of tuition+fees+estimated room and board living in Chicago is about $47k for two semesters. Yikes.

Whereas USM is about $5k a semester plus some living expenses during each ten-day residency. At USM, I would attend one ten day residency every six months, doing the majority of my work from home, and after four residencies (four semesters), graduate.

USM total cost: $22k plus travel expenses.

SAIC total cost: $23.5k/semester x 5 semesters = $117.5

Yowzers.

Branding and Virtual Worlds on PS3

2007-03-22T14:51:00.000-05:00

After a few conversations and some recent reflections on how I might move from a largely unknown writer to a wildly successful and widely read writer, I thought I'd take another look at three writers who I think have done a good job branding themselves:

William Gibson

Stephen King

Neil Gaiman

These writer's websites have in common the following:

1. The address is the writer's name, or in the case of Gibson, his name plus something obvious, "books".

2. Each website shows pictures of the writer.

3. Each website has a blog, or news section.

Now, these guys, they're older than me. They were published and known before the Internet. (Hell, William Gibson was writing about the Internet two decades before DARPA released it to the public.) Their sites do more to satisfy their existing fan base than to build their base.

I need something that will be nice for you, dear reader, to experience. Something easy to navigate, sexy, informative, and worth your time. AND, something that you might tell your friends about and link to.

While looking at Gibson's site, I saw this
. I tinkered with Second Life for a bit, but wasn't very impressed. The PS3 version looks a lot neater (at least in the trailer) and I wonder, how significant will this version of a virtual world be?

Houston says "No!", Zodiac the movie, Scary Spider? Or Good Omen?

2007-03-18T13:00:00.000-05:00

Today at 10:33 AM I received a call from my mother, who informed me that a letter from the University of Houston had arrived.

"Is it small or big?"

"Normal sized."

"Then it's probably a rejection. They usually call if you get in."

"Do you want me to open it?"

"Sure."

"...Uncommon amount of qualified applications this year...program looking for the best fit...regret to inform you that you have not been accepted..."

"Okay, that's enough."

Last night, I went to see Zodiac. Three hours of anxiety is not worth the anti-climatic ending.

Then, later that night, a brown recluse spider (male) scurried along the top of my headboard, from one end to the other, just inches from my face. A friend was bit a few months ago by a brown recluse and she was hospitalized with serious complications. She still isn't back to her normal energy level yet.

So this critter comes dancing along my headboard and I just about have a heart attack. Of course I didn't recognize it as a brown recluse till after I trapped him in an empty wine glass and released him outdoors, but after five minutes online I had the heebie-jeebies so bad it was hours before I could get to sleep.

Finally, I was able to convince myself that the spider was a good omen, and by not killing the animal out of fear, I passed some sort of cosmic test. Besides, you never know... there could be a spider MySpace or something, and now this guy might post on his blog:

"The human in 8C is not so bad after all. While I was taking a stroll last night looking for a quick bite to eat, he woke up and freaked out on me. But even though he kicked me out of a warm house and put me outdoors when it was 45 degrees--just in time to be hit by the sprinkler system, btw--it could be a lot worse. At least he offered me a drink.

Anybody see Kathleen on the web recently? I heard she got sucked up in a vacuum cleaner or flushed down a toilet or something."

Another one in...

2007-03-12T13:21:00.000-05:00

Got the thin envelope from University of Alabama. No Roll Tide for me.

Still waiting to hear from:
Boston University
Florida International University
Columbia College
School of the Art Institute of Chicago
University of Houston
University of Texas
University of North Carolina, Wilmington

I really hope one of these seven will give me an option of full-residency study to compare to the low-residency option at University of Southern Maine.

I have to remind myself that, yes, I have gotten into graduate school, and that yes, I will be making progress towards an MFA in creative writing, soon. If I go to USM, it will be for the winter residency which starts in Jan, 2008. Nine months. I would prefer to start in August at a full residency program, as I would likely have a graduate teaching assistantship, and my dream has been to teach at the college level while getting my degree. Funny, I know, considering most TAs I meet dislike the teaching experience.

In the meantime, I'm working on an application for a scholarship and when that's done, will go back to Slow Me Down full time.

Conversation with Self

2007-03-09T15:26:00.000-06:00

--Wouldn't it be cool if you recorded your stories and podcasted them, so all your friends could listen to you?

--Yeah! That WOULD be cool. How come you didn't think of that before?

--I don't know. Probably because you're a caveman and drink too much.

--Oh. Good point.

Useless to sleep...

2007-03-09T00:18:00.000-06:00

Too much on my mind.

Charlie Rose had the second part of his interview with Martha Raddatz (chief White House correspondent, ABC) to talk about her new book, The Long Road Home, a collection of stories from families and their soldiers in Iraq. I can't get her voice out of my head.

And then the grad school thing.

Cheryl's on my mind too... Maybe because Mimi recently had another post-breast cancer check-up.

Grad School News

2007-03-08T12:33:00.000-06:00

I got my letter from Iowa this week. No place for me. "This year, seven hundred forty-six people applied for twenty-five space. Thank you for your interest..."

But in better news, I've been selected as a finalist for a scholarship. I'm working on the last step of the application today and tomorrow...the potential prize could be as much as $10,000. That would pay for a full year of low-residency at University of Southern Maine, and perhaps even some traveling costs.

Still eight more schools to hear back from. I'm really hoping for some full-residency options to look at in addition to USM's low-res option.

Deep breath.

Off the mountain.

2007-02-25T12:49:00.000-06:00

Agenda:
1. Off the mountain.
2. First letters.
3. Bill Richardson.
4. Writing Desk.
5. Plot Against America--P. Roth.
6. New Favorite Drinks.

1. I am no longer working for SUWS. Too much responsibility for minimum wage pay. And the steps from apprentice to assistant to head instructor are $.20/hr. Considering each step comes with much, much more responsibility, especially at the head instructor level, keeping, giving, tracking meds...yeah. No thanks.

2. First grad school decisions in: U. Souther Maine called to say I've been accepted to their low residency program. Made my day. George Mason mailed to say thanks, but no thanks. This came as a tough pill to swallow, as I was really hoping to have GMU as an option. Considering I rank GMU in the middle half of the schools I've applied to--in terms of my chances of being accepted--this does not bode well. But we'll see.

3. I was catching up on my news and CSPAN and was poking around Bill Richardson's site, when I thought to Wiki him. Funny thing happened...On his picture profile on the right of the page, Bill Richardson was listed as the 44th President of the USA. I navigated to the page in a new window and he came up as Gov. of New Mexico. I navigated to other candidate's pages, thinking that the cause was some supporter who hacked the site, and that other supporters may have done the same for Obama or McCain or whoever. None had.

But besides that, Bill Richardson rocks. He is the most viable libertarian candidate that I've found so far, not to mention the most competent and humane candidate. While Hillary's team has issued a statement that has made it taboo to mention her husband's oral sex in the oval office, and Obama's latest book, though well-written and inspiring, leaves much to desire in terms of his energy policy, Richardson is, for me, THE democratic challenger, and the best candidate I've researched so far.

4. I've been doing a thousand words a day on my second novel attempt, Slow Me Down, a fiction story based on my time teaching in DC. I've also been working on another fiction story based on my short experience at SUWS, which is in its second draft. I'll be sending this to BU. That application is due on the first of March.

5. Right now I'm reading The Plot Against America by Phillip Roth, and it's awesome. Lindburg beats FDR in 1940 and changes the course of history. Incredible. Chilling. Totally cool.

6. Zero Cherry Libre: Cherry Zero Coke with Bacardi. Alpine: Hot Chocolate with Peppermint Schnapps.

Up the mountain. Down the mountain.

2007-02-18T11:21:00.000-06:00

Hello, from Dover, MA. After my first shift at SUWS, two days training, eight days in the field as an apprentice, I've come to MA to visit friends and family. Being in the Boston area reminds me how much I love this part of the world, and connecting with so many loved ones has made it hard not to make plans to move back up here. I feel more at home in Boston than any other place in the world outside of wherever my parents happen to be living when I visit them.

On Friday I walked the city and did some errands, and while doing so, experienced Boston in a very different way, mostly due to my change in appearance. Though my new job as a wilderness instructor does not require me to grow a beard, most of my male collegues have, and the added layer of protection makes sense in the winter months. Add to this longer, shaggier hair than I've had in years, and the clothes I've been traveling with--freshly field tested in the Pisgah National forest and still smelling of woodsmoke, and the impression I must give at first might seem a bit out of place in provincial Boston. Especially at the Crane stationary store in Copley Mall, where I popped in to run an errand.

I've never been one for Hallmark cards, but as a writer and a marignal non-conformist, I take the buisness of writing real, honest-to-goodness letters seriously. In an age of digital mail, hand written letters resonate differently. They stand out. I like this, and I like the challenge of writing something by hand neatly, spelled correctly, and meaningful on the first try. And yes, there is a small (large?) part of me that hopes that one day, those letters I've sent that are worth anything, may be read again by the recipiant, saved, perhaps even cherished. And if I happen to be a greater writer than I probably will be, collecting them in some Rilke-esque edition might be useful for someone. Crane's stationary is 100% cotton, and when written upon with archival ink and stored in modest conditions, will last much longer than I will. Not to mention the feel of Crane's smacks of preppie New Englander, which I fully admit, I identify with at some level.

So I walked into the store, and immediatly felt a wave of warmth, not only from all the wonderful pens and pencils lined up neatly in sparkling display cases--the F. Scott Fitzgerald edition Mont Blanc fountain pen under crystal glass, especially--but from the hot air pumped through the store's ventilation. "Man, if I was homeless in Boston in the winter, this is EXACTLY where I'd want to hang out," I said to one of the associates who had quickly moved to intercept me at the door. His look of astonishement must have meant that he was thinking exactly the same thing. He tailed me to the wall of etiquette books Crane's has published--as if we need books on how and when to write letters and whether or not to include borders on our personal stationary, or where to put the return address on a correspondence card, and whether the fifteen extra cents per envelope is worth having the glossy liner on the inside or not--pfaw! I turned up my nose and moved to the counter at the center of the store to inquire of one of the neatly dressed associates.

"Excuse me. May I get your advice on some stationary?" I asked a nice looking college-aged man named Dave.

"Excuse me?"

"I'd like to talk to someone about stationary."

"YOU'D like to talk to someone about stationary?" He gave me the once over and when I looked down at my hands, which were clean, but are scuffed and now perpetually dirty with perma-dirt that has dyed the rough cracks along my knuckles and pointer finger, and my nails which are hopelessly stained black, and my cuticles--well, let's not even talk about my cuticles--I had a flash of insight as to what I might look like to the gentlemen standing before me. I caught a wiff of myself. I tend not to fly with any toiletries beyond a toothbrush and toothpaste when I fly, as I've outfitted, by my count, at least three different TSA bathrooms around the country. Have you ever wondered what they do with all those toilitries? The husbands and wives and girlfriends and boyfriends of thousands of TSA agents spend hours in the bathroom grooming themselves with confiscated shampoo and perfume. During the Christmas season, it's worst.

"I'm reminded of Malcome Gladwell's latest book," I said. "It's called Blink."

"What's it about?" the young man asked.

"What Gladwell calls 'thin-slicing', basically micro-first impressions that effect our decison-making process at an often sub-concious level."

"I see."

"I'm not homeless," I said. "I have a home."

"Where do you live?" he asked. Just being polite, I'm sure.

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Well, right now I'm kind of in-between places. I'm--"

"Traveling?"

Traveling. "Yes." That's a nice way to put it.

"I see."

"I'm not a bum. I live in South Carolina when I'm not--"

"Traveling?"

"Yes."

"South Carolina. Isn't that, like, a slave state?"

"Well, not anyMORE," I said.

"Why doesn't Brad help you?" he said with a smile. Brad was obviosuly the new guy.

"Why not you?" I felt a little hurt. Did I really smell THAT bad?

"I'm the manager. Brad?" Brad shuffled over obediently.

Too his credit, Brad took me seriosuly enough as to offer me a seat at a desk. He hefted a mammoth binder between us and opened it to the index. I like options. Crane's has options. But, because I'd been looking forward to this moment for almost a year, I had memorized exactly what I wanted.

"I'd like to do two things today, Brad."

"Yes, sir." Now that's more like it.

"Don't call me, sir, please." (But really, if you do, I won't mind that much.) "I need correspondence cards and letter head."

"Okay, let me show you here in the book..."

"That won't be neccessary. I'm thinking about a Times New Roman font, something that will match what I tend to type in. Regent blue. No border. I need your expertise in the spacing and the font size. Can we do that today?"

"Yes, sir. I'd be happy to help."

So I got my stationary, and let me tell you, it's going to look damn hot once it arrives in Pawleys. When you get a letter from me, it's going to look like it came from a president, or someone vastly more important than Roman R. S. Sturgis, (engraved in 12 point Times New Roman, just in case you were wondering).

I go back to the Carolinas on Tuesday. Another shift on Wednesday.

Until then.

up the mountain

2007-02-03T23:23:00.000-06:00

I'm leaving for Asheville tomorrow, and I will begin training on Monday. My first shift is on Wednesday. I'll be out of contact during this time. So if you want to rob my house, the alarm code is 7737894. But please don't take the plasma screen tv, or my kitchen knives. Thanks for all of the support that so many of you have given. If I freeze to death, my will is taped to the refrigerator.

Roman Update

2007-01-30T11:41:00.000-06:00

Greetings from Pawleys Island, South Carolina. The year has started well for me and I hope this letter finds you happy and healthy. I want to give you a sense of where my life is taking me these days, and if you've tried to contact me recently, why I may have been out of touch.

As you may know, my last two months have been focused on completing graduate school applications. I've also taken two trips to Sugar Land to spend time with my family. I have submitted ten applications to creative writing programs and the three last applications will be sent out by March 1. I hope to begin work on an MFA degree in fiction this fall. Do I have a preference where I study? Sure, but let's see what the letters look like, first. The list of schools is: Iowa, U Houston, U Texas at Austin, Columbia College, School at the Art Institute of Chicago, Boston U, U Southern Maine, George Mason U, U Alabama at Tuscaloosa, Florida International U, U North Carolina at Wilmington, Warren Wilson, Spalding.

Two days ago, I was hired as an apprentice field instructor at SUWS of the Carolinas. SUWS is a camp based in Fort North, NC. Fort North is east of Asheville in the Pisgah National Forest, between Black Mountain and the Blue Ridge Mountains. You may know of the area from the movie "Cold Mountain". SUWS is a wilderness program for adolescents with, as one student told me yesterday, "issues". This job echoes some of my experiences at Brantwood Camp, and I will draw heavily on lessons learned at Thurgood Marshall Academy. As an instructor, I will be teaching students basic wilderness survival skills such as making fire with natural materials, building shelters and traps, hiking, and cooking, while being the primary point of contact for care and mentorship during the student's stay at SUWS. Stays typically last two months and involve extensive professional counseling, psychological testing, and medical check-ups. I begin my first eight day shift next Monday and will work eight days on, six days off. During this time I will not have access to the outside world, so if you feel that I have disappeared, know that it is only on a temporary basis.

Western North Carolina is beautiful and I feel privileged to scoot back and forth between my favorite beach in the world and the mountains. As a whole, the Carolinas (with the exception of the coast) are some of the prettiest lands on the east coast, still undeveloped compared to New England and Florida, far less dense in terms of population and buildings, and generally comprised of kind, friendly people. The temperature in Pisgah National Forest has been about 20 degrees at night, 40 during the day. I froze my bippy off for the first few nights until I learned to fill my Nalgene water container with hot water and put it in a sock at the bottom of my sleeping bag. Our diet is very basic: oats for breakfast with dried fruit and maybe some cinnamon and brown sugar, brown tortillas with peanut butter for lunch, beans or lentils with rice and a tortilla for dinner. Instructors must wear the same clothes as students, maintain the same diet, and sleep in the same shelters. Therefor, no coffee, minimal sugar, no gum, chocolate, or snacks. We sleep on a plastic tarp under another tarp strung between two trees. We cook out of recycled cans with picture frame wire handles. Our only utensil is a spoon. I'm looking forward to sharing more experiences with you as they emerge. I hope to finish my apprenticeship by the end of February.

Last fall, I took two courses at Coastal Carolina University to get back into an academic setting and address scholastic weaknesses in literary theory and African American literature. I did well in my courses, learned much, and met a very special woman who will be finishing her BA in English this spring. These last five months have been thrilling for both of us.

How is the novel coming? Yes, yes. I know. The science fiction novel has been set aside to marinate for a time. In November of 2006, I began working on a second novel, "Slow Me Down", a story based on my time in DC. I am pleased with the first forty pages, but major work had been set aside for now. I do continue to write most days, usually short stories, but sometimes poetry and lyrics, too. Short stories are more conducive to my writing schedule these days than novel work. When I'm in the field, I understand that I will not have much personal time, though on my days off I sense that I will have a weeks worth of thoughts to work from. I've published two stories in the Coastal Carolina newspaper and will hear soon whether another story will be printed in their literary magazine. I've also sent out to Gulf Stream magazine at Florida International University, and will continue to send out. My hope is that graduate school will result in a completed novel which could end up being my first major publication. We'll see. If accepted to graduate school, I plan to be a graduate teacher. I am looking forward to my first college level teaching experience.

Wedding Weekend

2007-01-15T15:28:00.000-06:00

So C and S are married now. My first experience as a groomsman in a Christian wedding was very pleasant and it was exciting to be so close to the action. It occurred to me that the blocking of the ceremony in a church has the minister on display for all to see, with the background of the cross and alter, while the bride's side and groom's side are unable to see their respective loved one. In other words, I could not see C's facial expressions during the ceremony, nor could many of his family members sitting on the right side of the aisle. But we could see S and her reactions to the ceremony. And vice versa for S's brides maids and family. This makes sense as a presentation of loved ones, but as a spectator, I'd rather see the bride and groom in full, and the back of the minister.

A few observations on the traditional blocking of a Christian wedding.

1. Traditional blocking is functional for weddings without PA systems. A conductor has to be able to project the sermon across the crowd, and it makes sense to do that from a slightly elevated position, speaking over the heads of the bride and groom. The bride and groom don't say much and their words are semi-private (is intimate a better word?), though the ritual is transparent.

2. Weddings are about combining families and building strength. I can see how it is fitting to present one's family member at the front of the line, and to stand behind the loved one in an act of solidarity. We sit on bride's side, groom's side of the aisle before the marriage. We mingle together at the reception after the marriage.

3. C and S's minister, who I am very fond of, and who did the service for C's mom when she passed away, clearly stated her church's position on gay marriage when she said, "we believe that marriage is a sacred covenant between one man and one woman." If I had a male partner and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and I wanted to enjoy all the rights and privileges of a married couple, I don't know if I'd settle for a title of "civil union". If I had all the rights of a spouse, would the title matter? If I had a male partner, I'm sure I'd call him my husband. I'm sure I'd refer to our "marriage" not our "civil union". Why is the word so important? And should it be limited to one person and another? Why not allow one or more men to marry one or more women? What would be the harm? If everyone was married to each other in a sort of family tribe, with a principal patriarch and/or a principal matriarch, and ranked husbands and/or wives, family would begin to become a much more involved community. I've lived in places where polygamy is normal. It doesn't bother me. I have friends whose fathers have two or three wives. (Unfortunately, I don't know anyone whose mother has several husbands, for comparison.) I wonder why we have such an aversion to it in the United States, where so much of our identity is based on living our lives as we see best to live them.

4. What about flipping the blocking of a Christian-influenced wedding so that the minister stood in front, the couple slightly elevated behind. The minister could address the crowd when needed, and then turn to face the couple to perform the ritual. This way the couple is on display and the audience can see clearly their body language and faces as they go through the transformation of bride and groom to wife and husband.

It was a lovely weekend, nonetheless. And now my boy is sipping umbrella drinks on a warm beach with his wife. Congrats Mr. and Mrs. C.

An Inconvienent Truth, my turn

2007-01-11T00:14:00.000-06:00

Just finished watching Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth and boy, is it spiffy! There are heavy-handed doses of ideology, as one would expect from a salesman, but Gore's thesis "climate change IS a moral issue" rings true. I appreciate the huge amount of effort he's put into raising awareness of the issue, and agree with his most important conclusions: 1. we have a duty to be responsible stewards of our planet, 2. small changes in personal behavior can compound to produce big results, 3. global warming is happening, ice is melting, sea levels will rise to some extent.

But to what extent? Dad and JT and I did some very rough calculations this summer. What would happen if all ice above sea-level were to melt? We found it hard to predict how far seas would rise because not all coastline is the same (some land is more porous than others, for example) and we didn't know how to measure for atmospheric changes like increased water density in clouds. Clouds continue to be largely mysterious to climatologists and meteorologists will tell you that it's very tricky to precisely predict clouds. Arctic clouds, for instance, can have internal water temperatures of minus 70 degrees--water, not ice. How is that? Dunno. If ice melts, will there be more clouds, and if so, will there be enough to keep sea levels from rising the the extent that they've been predicted?

Gore doesn't touch on clouds or a lot of other things. He mentions carbon sequestration briefly, but not in a helpful way, that is to say, in depth. I know, only so much time in the movie. Well then allow me.

Considering how much coal we have, and how cheap it is, and how we'll be using more and more of it as cheap oil gets harder to find, I think Gore would have done his viewers a valuable service to recognize that clean coal can exist, for a price. But as an eco-politician, Gore won't mention a dirty word like coal, because Bush uses that word, and coal is kind of like oil, and oilmen are bad guys. Stupid, stupid. At least Gore didn't place all his bets on ethanol. Thank God he didn't even mention it. Probably the smartest part of the documentary--NOT lying about ethanol being the solution to our fossil fuel woes.

Gore's argument doesn't readily admit the unknowns of climate change science, or acknowledge some of the counter-arguments. To do so would make his debate stronger.

A point that I hear brought up often--the sample of scientific papers on climate change. 10% of the total pool of papers were sampled. Something close to a 1000% papers. Not a single one argued against climate change. Every paper said, in some way, that global warming was happening. Then, after it became a hot topic, only a little more than half of papers in the sample say global warming is happening, ice will melt, etc. How can we account for this? I took some science in college. Not a ton, I didn't major in it, but I took enough Ecology and biology and environmental science (big kid Earth science) to get a basic understanding, which is more than most, I reckon. When a zero shows up, that's very, very odd. Zeros are hard to come by. You're telling me, Mr. Gore, that when the sample was taken, not a SINGLE scientific paper argued against global warming? Not even some kooky professor whose off his rocker? Not a single one? That sounds fishy to me. There must have been some, even if they were a small majority, who were argue against it. The second sample taken showed that only a little more than half of the papers argued in favor of the realities of global warming. Gore attributes the papers that argue against global warming impacts as nebulous corporate interests similar to "Doctors Smoke Camels!" and Bush administration cronies censoring the whistle-blowers behind the scenes. The science of climate change is now the murkiest of sciences: politics.

I'm not a climate change denier. Climate changes. Humans have some impact on the environment. At this point, to deny this seems almost as ludicrous as denying the Holocaust. I just exhaled carbon dioxide. You did too. There, we just changed the environment in a measurable way.

I believe tides will rise within my lifetime. I believe unfettered release of carbon emissions will cause some wacky stuff to go down in the future. What happens beyond that, I have no idea. And I don't think anyone else really has a clear idea either. I'm not saying lets wait and see what happens and not change anything. I'm saying we should act responsibly, conservatively, now. Today. But let's be honest about this and not resort to scare tactics to push unrealistic goals like the US meeting the Kyoto protocol, which would require such a drastic change in our way of life, people would revolt.

Government, bless it, is best suited to get the ball rolling on this, not private enterprise. Yes, I said that. Quote me.

If I were king, I'd draw up sensible regulations for carbon sequestration now, so that investors can feel secure in starting new projects tomorrow. I'd follow the leads of Asia and Europe in regards to fuel efficiency standards and I'd require that the bar be raised every year or two. New cars simply must be more fuel efficient. I'd offer a fat billion dollar prize for the company that can make me a comfortable, marketable, usable, 200mpg passenger car that costs less than $25,000 for the buyer. I'd roll back EPA regulation on building new refineries and strip mining, and open up coal areas for development. I'd create incentives to build clean-coal power plants and coal-gasification refineries. I'd set a floor on the price of oil at $40 to encourage alternative energies to produce for less than the $40 a barrel equivalent.

Not all of these ideas fall in direct line with my "hard core libertarian" philosophy, but enough of them do, and the total package is in the spirit of classical liberal thought. And Mr. Gore shouldn't be afraid of these ideas. They make economic sense. The only way we're going to see changes is if we do things like what I've mentioned above. I don't have the heat on right now, and I'm wearing two pairs of socks as a result. That's fine and dandy. I'll go to the recycling center tomorrow. Great. I ride my bike when I get the chance. Cool. Government can't force me to do those things, but there are those who will say that we can only solve the problem through individual choices. Bullshit. Let government justify its existence and take the bull by the horns. Create the regulations that are needed to provide incentives, get rid of the regulations that get in the way of progress.

Party on, Garth.

2007-01-08T10:41:00.000-06:00

Feels like life is spinning faster and faster these days. In the middle of the crucial period of application deadlines...two sent already, working on four more this week. Also sent a story to Gulfstream magazine.

Have a new job prospect lined up for the end of the month. After a three day pre-hire seminar I'll find out if I have a chance of being hired. The job is with SUWS of the Carolinas. My roll would be that of a field instructor--see link. I love the bookshop, but maybe a change in scenery would be good. Field instructor shifts are eight days on (in the Blue Ridge mountains, west of Asheville, NC) six days off. I'd drive back to PI for those six days and write.

C and S are getting married in a week. I've got to pick up my tux on the day I fly back to Texas.

And finally, the bike shoes I've been saving for have been ordered. Soon I'll be one of the cool guys, taking advantage of all the energy in a full rotation of the pedal. It has been warm enough to walk on the beach and do yoga, but I've been off a bike since my Lasik surgery. My vision is now clear enough that I'm comfortable on a bike on the road with cars.

Party on, Wayne.

Closeness

2006-12-22T20:56:00.000-06:00

Just a thought:

One of the differences between northeastern cities and southern cities are public transportation systems.

For example, in Boston, most workers use public transportation, and as a result, are exposed to more strangers during their commute.

In Houston, where public transportation is minimal and most transportation happens by car, interaction with strangers happens mostly at point of sale.

Is there a benefit of rubbing shoulders with strangers on a regular basis? I think so. If only for the minute exchanges that result.

Grad School Inspiration

2006-12-19T14:08:00.000-06:00

I saw this and thought, "I want to do something--anything as good as that."

Hat tip to Meg.

Selfassessment for Columbia College

2006-12-19T00:00:00.000-06:00

“Talk is cheap,” a friend says. “Just words. Actions define us, not our words.” But speaking and writing are actions, and more than anything else, stories define us. This is what I think: stories tell us who we are and show us where we came from. And perhaps more important, stories influence where we’re going. Telling stories is one of the most important jobs in the world.

At some level, every story is fiction because stories require point of view and imagination. Stories are subjective. Stories change with time and memory. But as Tim O’Brein says, this doesn’t make a story untrue.

There’s an older guy that comes into the bookstore where I work. Mid-fifties, balding, so-so golfer. Voracious reader. I didn’t pick up on it at first, but he’s a very successful businessman and a Vietnam Vet. He’s also one of the smartest people I know in South Carolina. I value his opinion. We chat often. We like to talk about history and headlines. Recently he loaned me his copy of the Iraq Study Group Report. A month ago he lent me Cormac McCarthy’s new novel The Road, which we both loved, and previously he gave me a copy of Blood Meridian. Nice guy.

One day we were talking about the most important events in his life. Vietnam. His children. The Cuban missile crisis. The Civil Rights movement. We talked about what would be the most important events in my life. The Internet. September 11th.

Climate change. Iraq.

Stories maim. Stories kill. It’s that serious.

Stories also heal, and grow, and transform us.

A few examples:

I visited the Vatican last winter. Staring up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel I saw the story of a religion that is so influential it has its own country. L. Ron Hubbard told a story about Dianetics and created the church of Scientology. Joseph Smith told a story about praying in the woods of upstate New York and meeting an angel. Today two handsome young men in formal attire knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to talk about God and the Church of Latter Day Saints. Stories have lasting consequences.

The United States is another story. Europeans told each other a story about a fresh start and boarded tiny ships to sail across an ocean in search of something they couldn’t get at home. Africans were stolen from their homes and forced into slavery. Native Americans were decimated or pushed out of the way. A few hundred years later we are 300 million people, the third largest population in the world, and folks from every part of the earth are still coming, following the story. Stories destroy worlds. Stories are dreams.

I worked in the kitchen of a nice restaurant after I graduated from college. I was the only gringo without a culinary degree and I rented a 10’ x 8’ room from a young doctor. I had no money, a lot of debt, leftovers from the restaurant, and my computer. It was wonderful. In the kitchen I heard stories about coming to the US, traveling by whatever means available, car, bus, train, foot. Antonio and I cleaned the squid. He said, “My cousin tell me a story. How much better it is here.” From Bogotá to Boston took a month, time in three jails, and his left pinkie. But he made it. Stories inspire action.

It is clear to me that the desire to write and the practice of writing every day is not always enough. Writers need community. Young writers need mentorship. Writing alone is a lot like teaching alone, I’ve found. More about that later.

I intend to study fiction at the graduate level, publish novels, and continue my teaching career. I am open to returning to a secondary school classroom, but at this point in my life the thought of teaching college level courses is very exciting. I hold a BFA from Emerson College where I studied creative writing and received some acknowledgement, including an Emerson EVVY for best prose in 2003, and recognition in the 2002 Emerson Review for my short story Texas.

During the 2004-2005 school year I taught ninth grade English at a charter school in Washington, DC. Our school had not met its No Child Left Behind literacy goals in three years. I approached what first looked like a hopeless situation with passion and zeal despite not having textbooks or formal training, despite break-ins and vandalism and neighborhood rivalries. In college I was beat-up by a gang of teens about the same age as my students and the experience left me with strong feelings for poor, under-educated adolescents of color. In my classroom I engaged these ideas directly and approached my students with energy and enthusiasm. I sought to be part of the solution. I have never worked so hard in my life, or felt my work to be so meaningful.

I cared for my students more than I anticipated, but I often felt isolated from my colleagues and supervisors. I craved mentorship and I found many of my students sought the same. Nature has a way of filling a vacuum. My students and I created a community in my classroom where I was foremost a teacher and sometimes a counselor. This grew in large part from our involvement with The Shakespeare Theater’s Text Alive! program. Text Alive! culminated in the spring of 2005 with a full-scale student production of The Tempest. I had not intended to teach theater in addition to English when I signed my contract with Thurgood Marshal Academy, but this is what I found myself doing most days after school. The act of creating, whether on stage or on paper, was cathartic for my students, and I felt closer to them for sharing this experience. But my proudest teaching accomplishment from that year is this: when I receive an email from a student, which I still do from time to time, it is apparent that the sender has proofread for spelling and grammar mistakes. That’s powerful stuff.

I could not do what I needed to do then without community, and I can not do what I need to do now without community. Community is vital to me.

I did not pursue a second year at TMA because it was time to start writing my first novel. It was a difficult decision, but I left DC for South Carolina in order to focus on my writing and in some ways, to be closer to my grandmother. She and I have a nice arrangement—I’m close enough to pop in to change a light bulb or get Christmas ornaments down from the attic, but separate enough that I can lock myself up in my apartment and write for a few hours. I work at an independent bookstore where I have access to many fiction titles and take advantage of opportunities to schmooze with authors who come in for book signings.

This fall I signed up for two courses at Coastal Carolina University, in part to address academic weaknesses, in part to be in an academic setting again. With a new appreciation for being a student, I challenged myself to get as much out of the semester as possible. I attended bi-weekly foreign film screenings, monthly poetry and fiction readings, published my short fiction in the school newspaper, The Chanticleer, and submitted to the school literary magazine, Archarios, which will print in the summer. I have become close to several professors and earned the highest marks in my classes. These experiences have encouraged and motivated me to pursue the study of creative writing at the graduate level.

But why Columbia College?

This summer I helped move a friend from DC to Chicago and while in town, spent a day walking around the Columbia neighborhood. It felt right. Chicago’s energy is very different than sleepy Boston or bustling New York. I found that folks smile and say hello in elevators. Strangers on the street make eye-contact. That was a new experience for me and I was sucked in at once.

A vibrant, hard-working, friendly city is part of what I’m looking for. I’m also looking for a strong community of writers to work with for a few years on campus, and to be friends with for life. Your program is a perfect fit. I met one of your fiction students, C., at a seminar this past summer. When I learned that he was an MFA student at Columbia, I asked him many questions. C. helped me form a realistic picture of what I could expect if I was admitted. Our conversations dispelled some perceptions and clarified others. Later we collaborated on a play he wrote and our work was well received. He and I have been in touch since.

I love Chicago, have roots in the state, and would be able to set up and get to work at once. One of the greatest attractions to your program is the prospect of two or three years of productivity without the challenge of work-to-live with live-to-write.
What else? I’m guilty of wanting to do something that matters and gambling my job security on it. I have a tendency to over-analyze. I need to work on being more tactful. In writing, I often struggle to find my voice. I watch more movies than TV and together this is a fraction of the time I spend on my computer. Most days I enjoy writing more than reading, but I still try to read one book a week and stay on top of the news. Like writing, I’ll always seek to improve my reading skills. And like teaching, I’ll always pull out whatever I can to create my story.

My professional goals are basic. I seek admittance to your program in order to further develop my fiction. My goal is to improve as a writer and a teacher and my hope is that I am one day able to make a career of doing both well. When you read my application please know my commitment is total. Writing fiction and teaching is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

my xmas wish

2006-12-18T22:36:00.000-06:00

This is what I want for Christmas.

Ho, ho, ho! Arou?

Back from Boston. So much excitment. The end of the year.

2006-12-11T18:12:00.000-06:00

I have so much I want to tell you, but I have more application work to attend to.

The Iraq Study Group report refocused my position on the war as did this week's Economist. I don't dare check Andrew Sullivan's blog until I think about it on my own for a bit longer, though I'm eager to see what he's written.

The cliffnotes of the ISG report: send home most of the troops by the first quarter of 2008 to encourage Iraq to take responsibility for itself.

The cliffnotes from the Economist cover article: "Don't do it." No one else will hold the ring if the US leaves. Result: total civil war and many more dead. At 3,000 Iraqi deaths a month, how much worse could it get? Apparently, a lot more: the genocide of Sunnis at the hands of Al Sadar's Shi'ite militias. What a mess. Money quote: "getting out of Iraq is going to prove to be much harder than getting in."

I suspect Bush senior was correct in deciding NOT to invade further in Gulf War I and pulling back to a containment strategy. I suspect Bush was advised then to avoid what we find ourselves in now.

But enough about Iraq. It's not like we really care anyway. Right? How has Iraq impacted you, I'd like to know. Even while reading the ISG report, I was ashamed with myself with how EASY it is to forget about it. Denial is a powerful force. Out of sight, out of mind. Unless we know someone serving there, or someone who was injured or worse. I see folks get more worked up over $3 gas than dead bodied. So it goes.

Speaking of gas, I'm finishing Obama's second book tonight. I want to like him, but his energy policy is irresponsible. I'll post the letter I write to him here. Ethanol is not the answer, folks. Not at all. 200mpg is the answer. An ethanol-based economy is a myth for my lifetime and I plan on living another 100 years, so yeah...

Ah, but I need to get back to my personal statement. Turns out it needs to be more of a cover letter and not a memoir. Duh, Roman.

More! Later!

Deep Breath

2006-12-07T15:11:00.000-06:00

Exams are over. I housed both final essays and did well on my lit crit final. To Boston this weekend to celebrate David Brudnoy with some friends. David died on Dec 9th, 2004. I was listening to his last radio show on my way to the eye doctor and listening to Cary's statement, "When I was a kid I wanted to be a David Brudnoy when I grow up" got me--phew. Since LASIK I've had dry eyes. When I went in for my check-up my tear ducts were working fine! (The surgery went perfectly, btw and now I'm seeing 20/15.)

I've been reading the news about the Iraq Study Group and I'm looking forward to reading it tomorrow while I'm working at the bookstore. My money is on us pulling out of all but the embassy in Baghdad before the next election. And as much as I want to see that happen for the sake of my friends and family who serve, once we go the "real war starts" as Andrew Sullivan said on his blog today.

Can't help but wonder, twenty years later will we be threatened by Iraqi terrorists and Iraqi WMD? We thought they were a threat before and invaded. Turns out they weren't. But now it seems like some Iraqis, especially the wackos, have more reason than ever to do something bad to us in the homeland. The irony.

Hubris is terminal.

Statement of Purpose, Second Attempt

2006-12-03T21:08:00.000-06:00

Storytelling is the most important job in the world. Period. I have studied storytelling my entire adult life because I want to be someone important. Though I majored in creative writing at Emerson College and have published several short stories, there’s a lot about fiction writing that I still don’t know. But what I do know is this:

I know that when I write good fiction, I feel like I can write anything. Scribbling ideas on index cards is exciting to me. When I race home from work to get back to the story I’ve been thinking about all day and I sit at my desk and next thing I know it’s midnight and I haven’t eaten dinner yet—I feel like I’m doing something important. I taught in southeast DC at a charter school and that felt like important work, too, but when I’m writing or when I’m revising, tearing a story up with red ink, I feel strong inside. I feel like I’m growing, like I’m becoming a man. I feel like I’m getting closer to the gods. I feel I’m doing something that matters.

“Talk is cheap,” a friend used to tell me. “What is talk but words? Actions define us, not our words.” Sure, I said, but speaking and writing are actions too, and more than anything else, stories define us. Stories tell us who we are and show us where we came from. And perhaps more important, stories influence where we’re going.

“You don’t believe that?” I asked my friend. No, he shook his head. “Lock a man up, strip him naked, shave his head. Beat him and starve him and keep him from sleeping, and he’s still got his stories.” Plantation owners understood this and prevented African slaves from learning to read or write so they would forget their stories, so their stories could be bred out over generations. But even without paper and ink, stories survived. And new ones were made. Anansi, meet Bre’ Rabbit.

Stories maim. Stories kill. Stories destroy worlds. It’s that serious.

Stories also heal, and grow, and transform us.

I visited the Vatican last winter. Staring up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel I saw the story of a religion that was told with such confidence, the Holy See became its own country. L. Ron. Hubbard told a story about Dianetics and now there’s a church of Scientology. Joseph Smith told a story about praying in the woods of upstate New York and meeting an angel. Today two handsome young men in formal attire knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to talk about God and the Church of Latter Day Saints. Stories have consequences.

The United States is another story. Early settlers told each other a story so powerful they got on tiny ships and sailed across an ocean in search of something they couldn’t get at home. A few hundred years later we’re 300 million people and folks are still coming in, chasing the story. Stories are dreams.

I worked in the kitchen of a nice restaurant after I graduated from college. I was the only gringo without a culinary degree and I lived in a 10’ x 8’ room that a doctor rented out to me. I had no money, a lot of debt, left-overs from the restaurant, my computer, and a forty-hour work week. It was wonderful. In the kitchen I heard stories about coming to the United States, traveling by whatever means available, car, bus, train, foot. “My cousin told me a story. How much better it was here,” Antonio said while he cleaned the squid. From Bogotá to Boston took a month, including time in three jails, but he made it. Stories inspire action.

I lost two very important people while I was teaching in Washington: my mentor, David Brudnoy, who was a radio host on WBZ and a professor at Boston University, and a dear family friend, Cheryl Colman. My best writings from this period are the two eulogies I read at their services. Funerals, though not the ideal speaking engagement, do distill the storytelling process to bare bones. In front of me were the raw mourners, vulnerable and exposed. I felt a tremendous responsibility to tell a good story, and yes, part of me craved the opportunity to be on stage and address hundreds of people. Speaking at both services reminded me that words are not just ink and sound. Words can be incantations capable of causing powerful transformations and sometimes even altering the course of an individual’s life. It is my goal to pursue such words of transformation and influence and to use them in my stories and in my classroom.

Statement of Purpose

2006-12-01T11:13:00.000-06:00

I've been working on this statement of purpose for a week now. I think it's almost ready.

My goals are to improve as a writer and as a teacher and my hope is that I am one day able to make a career of doing both exceptionally well. Though I dream of several published novels and opened doors to other storytelling opportunities like film and theater, my expectations have been tempered by older, wiser writer friends. I know that making a living on fiction writing alone is rare, that writers often do other things to support their writing dreams, and that fame and fortune do not necessarily accompany successful publications. I plan for my future to include significant components of teaching at the college level and perhaps again someday at the secondary level, perhaps even in the creation of my own secondary school.

After graduating from Emerson in 2003 with my BFA in creative writing I worked as a cook at an expensive restaurant and lived in a ten by eight room that a young doctor rented to me. Though my income was meager, I never went hungry (by virtue of my generous employer) and applied myself to writing every day. During this time my mentor, David Brudnoy, a talk show radio host on WBZ and a professor at Boston University, was diagnosed with cancer. Previously HIV had motivated David to be as productive as possible and I had been impacted by that lesson often. Accompanying him to Mass General for early morning chemo rounds instilled an even greater sense of urgency in me. Carpe Diem continued to be our motto.

In 2004 I took a job as the ninth grade English teacher at Thurgood Marshall Academy, a charter school in Washington, DC and was challenged to my core. TMA was my first teaching job, paid well, and demanded all my time. I approached what first looked like a hopeless situation with passion and zeal despite not having textbooks or formal training, despite break-ins and vandalism and neighborhood rivalries. In college I was beat-up by a gang of teens about the same age as my students and the experience left me with strong feelings about ignorance and the culture of poverty. At TMA I engaged these ideas directly and approached my students with energy and enthusiasm. I sought to be part of the solution. I have never worked so hard in my life or felt my work to be so important.

During that year, I rarely had time to write. My best writing from this period are two eulogies, one for David, the other for a dear family friend, Cheryl Colman. Funerals, though not the ideal speaking engagement, do distill the storytelling process to bare bones. In front of me were raw individuals, vulnerable and emotionally exposed. I felt a tremendous responsibility to tell a good story, and yes, part of me deeply craved the opportunity--I hope you see that passion first, ego second. Speaking at both services reminded me that words are not just ink and sound, but capable of causing powerful transformations and sometimes even altering the course of an individual’s life. It is my goal to pursue such words of transformation and influence and to use them in my stories and in my classroom.

One of my greatest strengths is my ability to absorb and synthesize my surroundings and storytelling grows out of that. At Emerson I gravitated towards fiction, though I enjoyed my essay and poetry workshops. Fiction, for me, is the medium with the most flexibility and the broadest range. It can be highly-tuned craftsmanship that results in popular entertainment, or something potent that echoes inside for a time, perhaps even changing one’s course by a few degrees, as Cormac McCarthy’s tragic book The Road did for me recently.

At some level every story is fiction. Even history is the story agreed upon. But that doesn’t make it untrue. I believe in this, and I believe my purpose is to do what I do best: engage the world with an open mind and write stories that encourage others to do the same.

Comics. Burgers. College. Bond.

2006-11-21T23:32:00.000-06:00

I took my younger brothers to the comic shop today to pick up the first trade of The Runaways. Then we went to Whataburger and pigged out. It was rad. I've gotten old enough to realize that I can hang out with my brothers pretty much the same way I hang out with my other friends. Movies, board games, video games, soccer in the park, road trips, horsing around on the carpet until Mom yells at us not to break something. So cool. Go family time.

Speaking of family time, we are six, and it is not often that we're all able to be under the same roof. When it happens I've noticed that we all get a little bit more excited than usual and we tend to congregate in the same five square feet. Usually right under one another's armpit.

College applications are a total bore, though writing the essays is fun. I'm through 8 of 13 applications, my fifth attempt at a statement of purpose, and have my transcripts lined up for two of three schools. GRE's are to be ordered and I'm waiting on recs from two of three professors. What's left are checks and the portfolio. I'll put the portfolio off until the very last minute, so I am able to have the very best writing to choose from.

Tonight at dinner I was interviewing around the table to get a sense of what we want to put into our Holiday newsletter. I may take a hint from David Sedaris's Holidays on Ice and go WAY over the top. We'll see. Dinner was pretty much over and someone asked what time it was. There was a thought to go to a movie at some point.
Someone said, "Nine twenty-five."
Someone else, "When's the movie?"
Someone else, "Nine thirty."
"Can we make it?"
And then, as a family, we pushed out chairs back and left the table a dirty mess, running through the house for jackets and shoes.
"Where are the car keys?"
"I got them!"
"Do you have money?"
"I've got it."
"Where's the little one?"
"I'm right here!"
"Get in the car!"
"Okay!"
And so forth.

It was really cool. Felt like we were a team or something.

Oh, and the new Bond movie is...well, I don't know if I've made up my mind yet. Maybe later. I've got to go play video games with my brother now.

more PS3 thoughts

2006-11-18T09:39:00.000-06:00

This weekend is a bigger deal for gamers than I had realized. Evil Zug and DJ Oizys comment on their podcast EndGameRadioPrime.

On Thursday my Literary Theory professor gave me the floor to show some of BladeRunner and talk to the class about Baudrillard's Precessions of the Simulacra. It was pretty much my coolest college classroom experience I can think of. Last night I spoke to two friends about video games and tried to explain the significance of the PS3 release and the future of the video game world in general. I wonder if Baudrillard has kept up to date on video gaming. I got to find that guy's address and write him a letter.

Going to Texas for turkey.

Flipping a Playstation 3

2006-11-17T17:43:00.000-06:00

It all started last night in Japan.

I saw on the news today that buyers camped outside of Best Buy in Myrtle Beach for two days to buy a Playstation 3. The story indicated that most were not buying to keep, but buying to sell. A survey of YouTube shows spotdocs of campers around Best Buys throughout the country.

Yesterday I spoke with a college student who said that his fraternity had gone out in teams to Walmarts and Best Buys to try their luck at buying PS3's as they came out, retail value $500 - $600 depending on hardware. His organization's goal was to flip the PS3's on Ebay and donate the proceeds to their charity that treats sick children. Tonight I watched an auction close on Ebay. Final bid: $2,701.

$2,000 for two days of work, hanging out in the rain or cold or in some places perhaps nice weather, and shipping costs.

What does this mean?

A few observations:

There are gamers willing to pay $2,000 more than the cost of the system for the convenience of not waiting for the supply to meet demand and bragging rights to be one of the first on the block to play one.

There are buyers who are willing to spend two days waiting for a commodity so that they can flip it for a profit of 2k and "buy their Christmas" presents.

Sony can not possibly meet demand for these first few months, especially after stalling so long on the release date which has been pushed back twice. We saw this with XBox 360, and previous generation releases, though I don't recall the excitement being more than it is today.

Sony perhaps wants this hype to continue.

Video games are a very important aspect of some people's lives.

Someone with $500 of liquid capital can invest it for a quick return of 400%. It does not require hundreds of thousands of dollars or even tens of thousands of dollars to beat the market. Even someone with no liquid capital could borrow with interest of 100% and still make a profit.

NaNoWriMo 2

2006-10-31T22:11:00.000-06:00

I'm cheating and starting a few hours ahead of time.

Here's the begining of my second shitty novel attempt:

“Debauchery.” I said, pointing to the word written on the far right of my white board under the heading: Vocab List 12. My students, most of them, scratched a copy into their binders. “Debauchery.”
Deshanté lifted her head. Pink eyeliner. Green extensions, recent. Glitter on her cheeks. “Ewe, that name sound pretty! I gun name my baby that!”
“Deshanté.”
“What?”
“Have you been paying attention?”
“Yes I have! It sound pretty. It sound French or something.”
“Do you know what debauchery means, Deshanté?”
“What?” She clucked her tongue at me.
“Extreme indulgence in sensuality.”
“Huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do extreme indulgence in sexuality mean?”
“Sensuality.”
“Whatever.”
“Your homework is to look it up.”
The bell rang and my classroom became a clatter. Binders, zippers, clicking pens. Khaki Dickies rubbing against blue plastic seats as round bottoms removed themselves from their desk chairs. The jangle of tarnished jewelry from mall kiosk venders. The smell of bees wax and hair grease.
“Don’t forget to double space and show me noun, verb, adjective. Due Thursday, no lates, please.” I stood by the door saying my goodbyes. A pat on the shoulder, a smile, a tease. Sometimes the love inside me felt so heavy I had to clear my throat.

October Poem

2006-10-24T18:24:00.000-05:00

October. Transitions. Pumpkins. Red wine. Cancer. The end of it all.

It is the hardest month, statistically speaking.
A big transition.
In high school, soccer to wrestling. Second helpings to toast and tea.
After college, student to cook. Trash duty. Potatoes and onions. Mop the cooler. Shell the shrimps.
“I want to cook on the line.”
“You can’t cook on the line.”
“Why not?”
“Because we said so.”
After that, cooking to teaching. Breaking up my first fist-fight. My first student in my face. My first sit-down with the principal, “You can’t keep giving detentions to students who say ‘nigga’. It’s a cultural thing.”

It is the darkest month. The month it starts to get dark.
The lonesome month. The acclimation to Seasonal Affectedness Disorder month.
The chapped hands and hangnails, stiff in the joints, cold toes month.
The bad times month.

It was the month we carved pumpkins, drunk on red wine and each other.
The month our cat, our child, got beat up by the Tom next door.
Midnight on Halloween at the Animal Hospital month.

October is the cancer month.
The 6am with David, breakfast chemo month.
The skinnier-than-usual, coughing, jaundiced, Veteran’s Day weekend month.
The end of it all month.

Back again. Writer's words. The next step. Vice. Eyes. Post office.

2006-10-23T09:51:00.000-05:00

Dear friends,

I returned from Key West yesterday after thirteen hours of travel which began at 4:00am. I would have been better off driving my own car and not flying to Miami via Atlanta and renting a car from an off-off airport rental, plus when I slept in the car the first night because the hostel was closed, I would have been far more comfortable. Hell, I could have slept in my own car the entire time and done alright. I met plenty of people at the writer's conference who would have lent me a shower.

But despite the expense of time and money for this trip, it was a worthy investment.

In addition to five days of exposure to the faculty and writers of Florida International University's (FIU) creative writing program (MFA) I learned from other published writers, editors, literary agents, and professors from other schools. I also met many other aspiring writers and was able to gague myself against them in terms of what are they doing that I'm not, and what am I doing that's ahead of the group's curve.

The strongest thing I have going for me is that I'm still young, I've dedicated myself to the craft early, and I'm making time to write every day. Many of the participants are challenged to fit writing into their day. I feel blessed to have figured this out early on.

I felt very positive energy from the FIU folks, to the point that by the end of the conference the MFA students spoke to me with whens not ifs. Many of you know how reasonalbe (pessimestic) I am about my chances for acceptance. I feel that my application for FIU has better chances than any other school thus far.

Another concern recently has been that back pulling monkey screaming in my ear, "Publish! Publish!" Several opportunities have arrisen from this conference which I'm pursuing.

FIU students live and study in the Miami area. What's Miami like? It's near the ocean, the weather is great, and it would be difficult not to improve one's Spanish. There are of course Miami vices.

Today I go for a Lasik consultation. I'm tired of contacts. Make me better with a machine.

Today I will be trained in running our bookstore's post office. This will be the focus of my job at Litchfield Books now and may turn into something more full time, as I probably won't be pursuing any classes at Coastal in the spring.

I was thrilled to hear how many writers knew of Litchfield Books at the conference. I totally underestimated how important small independant bookstores are in the writing world. Kudos to Mrs. Patrick and Mom for really pressing me to apply for a job there.

Coffee Vignette

2006-10-08T13:00:00.000-05:00

Tom, who reads two books a week and whose opinions I value, ordered his usual today. I told him I was reading two new books, Tim O’Brien’s THE THINGS THEY CARRIED, and Bukowski’s WOMEN.

“I’ve read that one, and that one, too,” Tom said. “You know, I was in Vietnam when O’Brien was there. He talks about a place called ________ that I’ve been to.”

“I didn’t know you were a Vet,” I said.

Nod. “You know, I think O’Brien really did a good job telling that story for those of us who were there.” Later he would say: “the scene with the guy whose girlfriend comes out to be with him, and she goes out on patrol with them, fantasy of course, but it makes the point. She’s never been there, and then afterwards she’s changed. The transformation.” “That’s what did it for you?” I ask. Nod.

I ask Tom, “I wonder what my generation will write about. I’m trying to figure that out. What’s my job.”

Tom says, “the environment, I’m afraid.” And then, “Terrorism. Technology.” I think so, yes. “You know, we used to be the Good Guys, even after Vietnam. The second half of the century, we were the Good Guys. Now we’re just the Big Guys.”

“I think you’re right.” I serve him his drink. “For me, the two big things are the Internet and Nine-Eleven. My little brother never knew a world without the Internet. My kids will never know a world pre Nine-Eleven.” Tom nods. “So that’s my job.”

Tom pays for his coffee, says, “Yeah, well good luck with that.”

Two Murders in Rome -- The Comic!

2006-10-07T13:34:00.000-05:00

This is a rough sketch of page one of "Two Murders in Rome" that Joey Kan is drawing.

The Terrorist

2006-09-29T11:46:00.000-05:00

The Terrorist

Seif Shieshakly wanted very much to teach Americans. He had come from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia two years ago and would return when his work in the United States of America was done, God willing, Inshalla.

It was Friday, the holy day, and Seif had begun his mission. He bought a ticket to Sea World and stood close to the open-air wild dolphin exhibit, a glass-walled tank four feet above ground, waiting for his mark. The sun beat down on the crowds of mostly pale, mostly over-weight Americans, cooking their substantial backs and making them sweat through their “#1 Dad” tee-shirts. They stunk like pigs.

A small mob of irritated parents driven by the whines of their spoiled children jostled for position around a group of concession carts. One cart sold raw fish, six inches long, smooth silk scales and silver. The fish were to be fed to the dolphins and Seif marveled at this idea. They pay to feed the animals. They even pay for the food to feed the animals. They do not see what is important to Allah. Only spend, acquire, consume. Seif took a deep breath, regained his composure and walked closer to the dolphin tank.

The child leaned against the tank, his nose pressed to the glass, arms gripping the top edge. His hair was soft and blonde and fell to his chin. Boy or girl? Seif did not know—he guessed boy, but it could be either. It did not matter. The excited child turned around to smile at his parents, but they were not looking. A knot formed in Seif’s throat. He often felt this in the beginning. He felt this was a sign from Allah--the Compassionate, the Merciful--that he was truly executing His will as dictated through the teachings of the last true prophet, Mohamed.

Seif watched the child’s parents and the knot in his throat tightened. Such a beautiful moment missed. Wasted. This child, still so clean, so pure. But given a few years he would be corrupt like the rest of them. Tainted. Taught the excessive ways of America and turned into another close-minded, self-righteous infidel. He prayed to Allah, “I will teach these Americans,” and approached the child.

Seif could see that it was a boy now. He wore a black shirt printed with small stars and galaxies and green shorts. One of his sneakers was untied. Seif clenched his fists. These parents! Damn them! How could they not pay closer attention to their child! Such a beautiful thing and they ignore it!

He stopped within arms reach and reached inside his pocket to finger the metal casing that was the crux of his mission. “Forgive me Allah for my weakness,” he prayed.
The dolphins were frenzied, tearing fish from the hands of the Americans who squealed in delight as the dolphins chattered and chirped. The Americans believed that the animals were close to them because they were the only mammal known to have sex for pleasure. This excited the Americans. Their shrieks of laughter hurt Seif’s ears but he composed himself with prayer and soon feelings of peace filled his heart. His mission had begun. There was no stopping now. It was Allah’s will, not his.

He stood behind the child and touched a wisp of fine blonde hair that moved in the breeze. Seif looked over his shoulder. The parents were arguing over their two other children. The children wanted pizzas, but only hotdogs were for sale.

Seif moved to the child’s side and knelt down. The child’s attention was still fixed on the feeding dolphins. One of the animals shot past the glass and as the boy turned to follow the moving blur of grey he bumped into Seif. The smile came easy now. Such a beautiful child.

“They are pretty, no?”

The child nodded, solemn, his blue eyes large and trusting. Seif looked at his skin, pure and clean but for some freckles on his nose.

“I like your shirt, child. My son has a telescope that he watches the stars with.”

“My daddy bought me a telescope for Christmas.”

Seif chuckled. “Did he?”

The child nodded.

“What is your name, child?”

“Robert.”

“Robert. Robert what?”

“Robert Seipel.”

“That is a very strong name, Robert Seipel. Are you a strong boy?”

The child nodded carefully.

“And how old are you, Robert Seipel?”

“I am six.”

Seif held out his hand and the child looked down at it, contemplating the brown of his skin and the white of his palms.

“Have you seen the seals?”

Robert shook his head. Seif turned over his shoulder to point, “They’re right over there. Would you like to learn something?”

Robert nodded.

“Well then come with me, Robert Seipel. Take my hand and I will show you the seals.”

Obediently the child took Seif’s hand and they walked away from the dolphin exhibit.

* * *

“Just buy them the damn hotdogs!” Mother was annoyed.

“They don’t want them,” Father said behind clenched teeth.

“Where’s Robby?”

“He was with you.”

“No he wasn’t.” Panic spread over both their faces. “Robby!”

The two younger children began to cry. Mother rushed to the security desk with the children and Father raced through the crowd calling his son’s name.

* * *

“You see, they are like dogs, no?”

“Yeah.” Robby stared in fascination as two of the seals tumbled together underwater as one. Such an intelligent, curious child!

“And their flippers, like flat paws.” Seif put his arms out to his side, fingers spread wide, and made a comical attempt at swimming like a seal. Robby laughed.

“Where did you learn about seals, Mr. Seif?”

“In university, child. It’s very important to go to school. You like school, don’t you?”

“Yeah. But not Nick. He’s mean.”

Seif frowned. “This child is cruel to you?”

“He’s just a bully. My mom says.” Robby looked at the ground and nudged the glass of the seal tank with the toe of his sneaker.

“In the Koran, Mohamed says the righteous will be rewarded in paradise with gardens and fountains. This bully-“

“-ROBBY!”

The child looked up with a start and froze as his father pushed his way towards him. The father swooped down and crushed his son in his arms as he scolded him, “don’t EVER do that again, young man! Who was that man talking to you?” Robby’s eyes welled up with tears as he pointed to Mr. Seif, but Mr. Seif was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Seif Shieshakly watched from behind a cart that sold inflatable Shamu dolls as the father berated his son for running away. And as he watched the creator of something so beautiful accuse the son for the father’s mistake, Seif prayed.

“Good-bye, Robby Seipel. May you be better than your father before you.”

Seif reached into his pocket again and fingered the tiny tin-bound Koran. He clenched the holy book as he prayed until the sharp metal corners cut into his palms and when he was through, he left the park.

Rachael Ray, you've disappointed me...

2006-09-21T16:40:00.000-05:00

I'm sick in bed and I catch my first episode of Rachael Ray's new talk show which yeah, sure, okay, I was kind of excited about. I love 40 Dollars a Day and I cook Ray's 30 Minute Meals often.

Today's episode had a Q&A bit. A woman asks Ray re: meals/house chores: "My husband is a perfectionist and I just want to get it done. What should I do?"

Rachael Ray says, "Convienently forget something and send him across town for it." This will get him out of your way for two or three hours.

Oh, no she didn't.

Rachael, dear. Not cool. Though I did enjoy your female guest who said the only tool single women need is a power drill.

Define threat...

2006-09-13T14:52:00.000-05:00

Wired online has this great article about threats Americans faced between Oklahoma City, 1995 through 2005. Yes it's bad when crazy Saudi Arabians hijack our planes, kill us and destroy our property, but who is appropriating billions from Congress to better prevent the more than 250,000 deaths resulting from "driving off the road," by far the most severe threat facing Americans during that same time. I wish the article showed how many people were talking on their cell phone when they died...

A terrorist steals all your choices, including the choice to engage in risky behavior. I'm not saying we shouldn't give-up on fighting terrorists, but are they really as much of a threat as we're told they are? Are we REALLY in the fight of our lives? Do they really have much impact on our way of living? I'm starting to think, no...and yes kudos to our government for being a part of preventing another attack on the Homeland since 9-11, but really, does anybody know how much they had to do with it?

Dems love to talk about how great times were when Clinton was in office. They give Clinton credit for everything from less unemployment to a smashing economy. Republicans crow about how safe we are because of the wonderful job Bush has done preventing another attack. I'm not sure how much either man, party, or government had to do with either outcome.

The Cool Conservatives Won't Vote Republican in 06 or 08.

2006-09-12T12:52:00.000-05:00

I've spoken with many of you about this. Republican politicians USED to stand for small government. Now our spending is fatter than anything Dems ever thought up in my lifetime. What's the solution? Time-out for the Republican congress. Sit on the stairs and think about what you've done and send us some new faces in 2010 and '12 who know how to be fiscally conservative.

Chris Buckley says it much better than that. Read what the other cool kids have to say here.

A sample from Joe Scarborough:

But compare Clinton’s 3.4 percent growth rate to the spending orgy that has dominated Washington since Bush moved into town. With Republicans in charge of both sides of Pennsylvania Avenue, spending growth has averaged 10.4 percent per year. And the GOP’s reckless record goes well beyond runaway defense costs. The federal education bureaucracy has exploded by 101 percent since Republicans started running Congress. Spending in the Justice Department over the same period has shot up 131 percent, the Commerce Department 82 percent, the Department of Health and Human Services 81 percent, the State Department 80 percent, the Department of Transportation 65 percent, and the Department of Housing and Urban Development 59 percent. Incredibly, the four bureaucracies once targeted for elimination by the GOP Congress—Commerce, Energy, Education, and Housing and Urban Development—have enjoyed spending increases of an average of 85 percent.

(I first read this on Andrew Sullivan's blog.) http://time.blogs.com/daily_dish/

You Can't Say That At Boston University

2006-09-12T12:42:00.000-05:00

BU censors crowds at hockey games.

In high school I got pulled into the Sports Director's office with several dozen other St. Markers. Our women's hockey team had just won over our rival, Groton, and we felt we had been a part of it because we had heckled the shit out of Groton's goalie...whose father happened to be a trustee of our school. Oops.

We got chewed out, and rightfully so, and signed a piece of paper that was later attached to a letter of apology.

We were out of hand. We got caught up in the moment. What we did was inappropriate and as young adults our scolding was proper and instructive. I felt ashamed afterwards and remember the incident vividly when I see especially harsh heckling at sporting events.

That being said, there is a first amendment that protects the right of free speech. Rather than censor students by threatening to throw them out of a game, administrators at BU might consider a different tactic. Full disclosure: I do not know if they have already, and seen it fail. Still, it is heavy-handed and equally inappropriate to fight rude speech with censorship. The folks at BU are a creative bunch. I know they can do better than this. Censorship is the easy way out and ultimatly will cause more of a problem.

Hat tip to Abby and the Retarded Terriers for the link.

Correction

2006-09-10T20:47:00.000-05:00

This from an Italian friend re: Two Murders in Rome:

Roman,

Just because the story is to be published: "Carabinieri", not "Caribinari"! ;-)

Best,

M

(Thanks again, M.)

Sunday Service

2006-09-10T10:48:00.000-05:00

Just back from two hours at church. I attend the Litchfield beach non-denominational, non-religious, non-ministering church and today our waves were phenomenal.

With the help of favorable weather conditions, I rode the biggest waves of my life (head high to head +3) and only wiped out half the time--a huge improvement. My nose still stings from several saline treatments and my left knee is having some problems (maybe from last night's bike ride?) but I'm sure this is only one of my minor deities playing a joke on me.

Right now the tummy god is anxious for an offering of breakfast.

Ebb Tide Loons

2006-09-09T12:26:00.000-05:00

The moon is so FAT and HEAVY
I can still see it at 10:00 AM
And the salt marsh is swollen
Beyond capcity
Only green tips protruding above the water
so great the pull of close proximity.

At this latittude
Autumn blue smells like
The air on an October Thursday in Arabia
But Qatar is further south than South Carolina
So maybe it's not the weather
Just my excitement that I don't have class
Or work til two
And the tide is VERY HIGH.

Come to think of it--
It feels like that morning in Galveston
When Bud and I skipped 8:00 AM Bio
Because the waves were SO pretty
We just couldn't resist.

There was a thought that Dr. Stern MIGHT cancel class
For something unexpected.
We hoped. Just maybe.
But when we got out of the truck to unstrap our boards
We him there--at OUR beach
Beat us to it.

Ebb tide.

2006-09-07T19:47:00.000-05:00

Last night the tide was so high it crept into the backyard.

Stationary, Food, Labor Day Weekend

2006-09-01T22:16:00.000-05:00

I've become fixated on stationary. After much thought, I think I've narrowed it down to Crane's SD7116 Ecruwhite Monarch (7 1/4 x 10 1/2) with my name, Roman R. S. Sturgis in Light French Roman font, Regent Blue ink, with no address (because I'm a nomad) and no liner on the envelops. Only problem is 100 sheets and envelops are $206. Yikes.

Might stick to the unpersonlized ones for now.

Tonight I made one of Rachel Ray's 30 minute meals. It was very yummy. I like her. Her TV presence annoys the hell out of me--it seems so forced, but I got to admit, her ideas are right on. I empathize with the whole "I'm a cook not a chef" thing, too.

Working this weekend at my new job: coffee-maker at Litchfield books. I've calculated the cost at which point it makes sense to have a robot do my job, and according to Popular Mechanics, it won't be that long before that's a reality.

Ernesto Arrives

2006-08-31T14:24:00.000-05:00

Classes after 3:00pm were canceled today because of Ernesto. I was miffed already that we're watching a movie in my AALit course for the next two classes, so there's three classes down the drain. Awesome. Brought my roadbike to school today to take to the shop inbetween classes to be serviced--Mr. C's bike store was empty, apparantly scared of the rain. Tried to salvage my day by looking on the bright side--tide's still up, let's take a look at the surf.

No way. Undertow isn't bad, but the wave action is very strong. The surfers I observed were using all their energy just to paddle out. Saw one guy being interviewed by a news station afterwards.

I'm waiting for tomorrow morning when it won't be quite as rough.

So now it's time to catch up on work.

Publication

2006-08-30T18:43:00.000-05:00

The story below, "Two Deaths in Rome" will be published in the Coastal Carolina University newspaper next week.

Wo-hoo!

Two Deaths in Rome

2006-08-29T22:59:00.000-05:00

I killed a man in Rome. He was North African, I think. Black-faced like volcanic glass. He grabbed my arm and said, “Mon-ee, mon-ee!” I was on the path that follows the northern side of the Tiber. I was going to take a right at the next bridge to cross into Testraverde for dinner. If I’d left my hotel one minute earlier, I’d be in Testraverde, not a murderer. He grabbed my arm and I pushed him to the edge of the path without thinking. I pushed him to the short wall above the river.

He went over easily and I heard him scream for a moment. There was no sound of a splash. I looked over the edge and saw him on a cement path that followed the river at least to the next bridge. His legs were on either side of his ears; stopped in the middle of a somersault. His arms stretched out, fingers on both hands splayed. He looked like a clown. I almost laughed. He did not look like a dead man.

A moment later I felt it. The sickening drop of internal temperature. The awakening from a dream that never happened. I walked to the bridge and crossed into Testraverde.

The lady at the hotel desk said that the trattorias in Testraverde were the best in Italy. I had gotten used to hearing things of this nature, but I had also grown accustomed to believing them. It did not hurt to believe. Until one found a better trattoria, why not?

I walked on the slick cobblestone and was mindful of my steps. It had rained off and on all week and two days ago I had seen a woman in a red dress slip in her high heels. She had dropped her bags and a man had bent down to help her up. She rubbed her hands together and spoke in Italian. Her face was very red. She rubbed her hands together as if they were dirty, but I saw a little blood. She had scraped them on the edge of the curb where she slipped. I wanted to tell her that she should wash them well with soap and a disinfectant, because I had done the same once when I was a child and hadn’t thought it to be serious matter. The next morning my palms were bright pink, and the next day, red, as each tiny scrape filled with infection. I was very little. Maybe four or five. My mother took me to the hospital on the second day and I was very lucky. I had contracted a very bad blood disease. Had we waited much longer, the doctor said they would have had to amputate both hands at the wrists.

I did not know how to communicate this to the woman, but I was sure that she would not have the same problem I did. Still, it had worried me that entire day. Now I had something else to worry about while I looked for a trattoria with a suitable menu.

I did not know if anyone had seen me push the man. I did not know if anyone had seen me look over the edge, either. An ambulance siren startled me. It drove past, going in the direction I had come, but not five minutes had passed since the event. This was far too quick for an ambulance response. Unless there was a hospital nearby. Unless someone had found the body.

I reasoned again, I’m only going this way once, and if I am arrested for murder and taken to jail, even if I am executed, it will happen when it happens and there is nothing I can do about it now, so I might as well find a suitable trattoria and eat some dinner.

I did find a trattoria and I ate a large plate of pesto spaghetti, a cheese pizza, and a mista salad. I drank one bottle of wine and two small bottles of water (with gas). I ate bread with cheese and oil and olives. At the end, I drank an espresso with a shot of grappa that smelled like roses. I paid my bill and waddled past the smiling waiter, burping, “ciao” as I left. I had left him a large tip for Italians, 2 euros. If I am arrested, which I fully expected to be just as soon as I left the restaurant, I wanted to go having tipped my waiter well, so that if someone asked him, he might say, “he was a nice American who ordered in Italian and left me a nice tip.”

I did not encounter any police as I walked back the way I had come. When I passed the place where I pushed the man over the edge, I saw that he was still there in the same funny position. This time I did laugh and suddenly wished for a cigarette. I crossed the street and bought a package of Marlboro Golds at a tobacco shop.

When I came out of the tobacco shop it had begun to drizzle. “Shit,” I said around my cigarette. I turned up my collar and began walking to the hotel.

In the morning, I decided to leave Rome a day early and packed my bag. I checked out of the hotel and said to the woman at the desk that I really enjoyed my stay and would be back again. She smiled. She was quite pretty. Her name was Sylvia.

At the train station I watched two Caribinari in spotless uniforms drink their espressos and grappa at a café, Uzis slung over their shoulders. I felt foolish for ever thinking that I would go to jail for killing a man, but on the train to Brussels I heard a woman talking in French to a man reading a newspaper. She asked him, “Did you hear of the woman who died of blood poisoning yesterday? She slipped on the cobblestones and scraped her hands.”

The Israel Lobby

2006-08-28T20:05:00.000-05:00

This is a link to a new paper published through Harvard from John Mearsheimer and Stephen Walt. Last night I was responding to a comment on my Good News/Bad News post re: a potential peace accord for Sunnis and Shias in Iraq and whether or not the US had the credibility to do so. Today, on my way to work, I heard a press conference on CSPAN for the Council on American-Islamic Relations explaining the new paper which argues that the Israel Lobby in the US does not help us meet our aims and objectives in fighting the global war on terror.

Deep breath.

I have many Jewish friends. Many. Many of my closest friends are American Jews. I've been pro-Israel as long as I've been interested in current events and politics. I didn't catch the whole program, so I googled it after work and started to read the paper I linked above. I got to tell you, much of it makes a lot of sense to me. The US does give Israel favoritism. Maybe it's because we know that if Israel isn't supported, groups like Hamas and Hezzbolla and states like Iran and Saudi Arabia will attempt what they've promised many times: to wipe the state of Israel off the map. Surely part of it is that there are many Jewish interests in the USA and surely our politicians are effected by this. In the recent Lebanon/Israel war Dems and Republicans couldn't say enough about their support for Israel.

The other night I argued for a quick withdrawl from Iraq. I still believe that. I don't think Iraq is helping meet our objective: to fight the global war on terror. It's clear now that 9-11 and Iraq are not connected. Afghanistan and Pakistan are where we need to be. Not Iraq.

Is Israel helping us fight the global war on terror? Ennn....

Is Israel helping us fight the axis of evil, ie. Iran? Yes. Absolutly. And I think that's what this is about.

As a civilian and a private citizen, it seems to me that our involvement with Iraq and our refusal to speak to Iran and our super-support of Israel has escalated our threats, not diminished them. Woulda, coulda, shoulda, I don't feel we're investing in the right areas, ie better transportation safety and development of our own fossil fuels.

Please read the first few pages of the paper linked above. I'm interested to know what you think.

Daily Exercise

2006-08-28T18:00:00.000-05:00

Little Miss Aubrey

Aubrey, twelve, braces, enters a coffee shop of a bookstore with mom, dad, grandma, grandpa. Grandpa has a painful curve in his neck. He walks head bent to the ground.

Aubrey: What do they have? Oh! Wow! Smoothies! What kind of smoothies do they have?

Dad: (parenting) Look at the board. Raspberry. Wildberry. Banana. Pina Colada.

Aubrey: Oh! Pina colada! Can you make one without alcohol?

Bar: All of them come without alcohol.

Mom: Haha! All of them come without alcohol. Did you hear that?

Bar: Is that what you would like? A pina colada?

Aubrey: Yes, please! Thank you.

Bar: You’re very welcome.

Bar makes drink for Aubrey, takes other orders, makes three more smoothies. Blender is very loud.

Aubrey: This is a very nice store. How long had the coffee shop been here?

Bar: I don’t know. I’ve only been here a week. I think it’s a few year’s younger than the bookstore. Uh. Maybe two years? I know the bookstore’s been here four years. You can ask the gentleman at the front.

Aubrey sees grandpa struggling to get up. Grandmas is pulling his arm slowly.

Aubrey: Excuse me.

Bar reads book.

Aubrey returns to the bar. Grandparents slowly exit.

Aubrey: (Pointing to empty display case) What usually goes in here?

Bar: I think they used to put pastries in there. My understanding is that they’re going to take it out soon and put in a little post-office mailing center for buying stamps and stuff.

Aubrey: Oh, a post office!

Bar: Yep.

Aubrey: Thanks for the drink. It’s very good.

Bar: (glowing) Thanks! Be well.

Aubrey: Goodbye!

More Great Pics from CTB3

2006-08-24T20:47:00.000-05:00

Totally sweet.

Good News and Bad News

2006-08-22T19:29:00.000-05:00

Which do you want first?

Okay, the bad news.

Ted Carpenter's excellent opinion from the Aug 8 SF Chronicle re: our "masochistic" policy in Iraq.
You can find it here.

I used to buy the "we can't cut and run" and show weakness argument. The "we have to stay on the offense to keep them on the defense" argument. Numbers have swayed me.

I don't think we can turn Iraq into a peaceful keystone of democracy that will cure the Middle East of its ailes, despite how bad our President wants that to be true. It's noble of him to think so, but absurd. Best to focus on Afghanistan for a few more years and move more resources there to help with the reconstruction of basic infrastructure and then peace out.

Whether we leave or not, Iraq will move to full blown civil war, and this is acceptable in my mind. Saddam, to his credit, kept this from happening. Maybe the bad guys will set up shop in Iraq. Maybe Sunnis and Shias fight until they figure some basic boundries and then fight some more over the oil. Whatever. It sucks that we went there and caused a big mess, but we'll cause a bigger mess, I think, by staying. Drawing down over the next twelve months seems like the best course of action to me. Ten more years of fighting and a trillion dollars (figured at $80b a year) isn't worth longshot odds to turn Iraq into a workable ally. Call me an asshole, but my tax dollars shouldn't be used for that. And my buddys and family members who are in the armed forces--their lives most DEFINITLY shouldn't be put at stake for that.

Read the article. It's very good.

So what's the good news?

I saw loggerheads hatching on my afternoon walk on the beach today. The last four of a nest of 147 eggs. Only three didn't make it, I was told by a volunteer. The numbers are important. Only 1:1000 loggerhead hatchlings make it to breeding age (20). Mother's lay every two or three years as many as 3 nests totaling about 400 eggs. So figure three moms have to lay three nests each to have the numbers needed to get ONE female turtle to survive to breeding age. I was told that if 70% of the hatchlings make it to the water and are protected from birds and dogs and foxes while they're in their nest and on the way to the water, it's reasonable to expect that the breeding population can be sustained. So, despite how bad the news is today around the world, the Loggerheads are having a good day.

They were SO cute, btw.

College Boy

2006-08-22T08:40:00.000-05:00

I got up early with the same dizzying headache and bubbles in my belly that I remember from teaching at TMA. The shower and coffee will fix it, I know, but the crucial moment is deciding "I will go forward" or "I will hit snooze." I go forward and review my homework at the diner where it's cheaper to eat than cook for myself. Economies of scale, I say to my budget. They've got them--I don't.

At school and it's still wicked early. Low country August is hot and humid but not too bad yet. Fog is seeping up from the dew and it's hazy across campus; the red brick buildings, outlined in green, blurry from one end to the other.

White Castle

2006-08-21T22:46:00.000-05:00

This is one of the things Marty and I did in Chicagoland. This was my first experience with White Castle. It was the bomb.

I am a student again.

2006-08-15T10:39:00.000-05:00

I'll be taking Theories of Literary Criticism and African American Literature this semester. Classes begin tomorrow.

Geeking out over climate change

2006-08-08T11:57:00.000-05:00

This summer I had a great discussion with a new friend I met at the IHS seminar at Chapman. We talked about climate change, ice melting, sea levels rising, and what this means for a long-term approach to survival on the planet.

On the graph paper above you see calculations I, my brother, and my father made to answer a simple question: how high would a seawall have to be to protect every current coastline in the world from loss due to ice melt.

When I have conversations with folks about climate change I tend to take the position that we're due for another ice age anyway and better it be warmer than cooler. When talk turns to ocean levels rising from ice cap melt, I ask for data. I want to see numbers.

No one I've spoken to has ever been able to give me numbers.

This morning, on the heels of a converation with Trev and Dad about coal gasification and nuclear power and how both of these could end our dependance on totalitarian petro-states like Saudi Arabia and Iran and Venezeula, and how investing in these technologies would be much, much cheaper than the cost of dicking around in the Middle East, we decided to work out the icemelt problem.

Thus, I give you numbers, and our rough calculation that the seawall would need to be 80m high.

Sources:
Volume
Area
Antarctica
Antarctica Warnings

And just for giggles, we tried to figure out how many oil-tankers retrofitted to carry fresh water (melted with oil drilled from Antarctica, of course) the USA would need on a daily basis if all of our fresh water supplies were poluted or dried up. A big tanker carries 400m barrels of oil x 52 gallons per barrel = 20,800,000,000 gallons of fresh water per tanker.

Considering USA water consumption is 5,000 liters per capita (in 1994) per day (includes industrial and agricultural usage) the resulting daily shipments of melted and purified Antarctic ice melt needed would be in the range of 28,000 tankers a day. Considering there are probably less than 10,000 tankers in the world (dad's guess--no citation here) one can imagine a totally sweet new Hollywood natural disaster script.

I hope this is starting to feel pretty ridiculous for you.

Final conclusion:
Sea-levels will rise as ice continues to melt. How far sea levels will rise is not yet clear to me, and I wager it's not totally clear to the bobble-heads in congress and the scientists they listen to. The 80m figure I calculated is not too far from the figures I found here just a moment ago googling: "how much will sea level rise" "ice"

What these calculations don't take into consideration are the really important things like what happens when all that ice weight on Antarctica isn't pressing the rock into the magma anymore and how will that change the shape of the planet as it squishes out around the equater. Or, how will all that fresh water in the oceans screw with oceanlife, especially fish that I like to eat. Or, if the temperature rises and melts more ice, will the temperature of the ocean rise? If so, will the total temperature rise, or just the first 100 feet? How will thermal expansion of the warmer water effect the rise of sealevels? And is the ice that accumulates on Antarctia every winter enough to combat the total loss of ice, if not, by how much does it lack?

I argue that these factors are much, much more important in finding a real number to toss around in the debate. I argue that until someone can explain to you with graphs and data as I have (preferably someone much smarter and whose life work has been dedicated to solving this issue) you should take the figures we hear in the news with two grains of salt. Maybe three.

And on that note, I leave for the beach to build a sandcastle at low tide to further demonstrate the immediate effects of rising sealevels to civilization.

What I've been up to

2006-08-08T09:21:00.000-05:00

This is a map of my roadtrip that started in August of 2005 and ended yesterday when I returned from DC, via Providence and Chicagoland. Classes at Coastal begin on the 16th. The gears are switching now from travel to scholarship and (gasp!) employment.

dc/journey home/driving/etc

2006-08-07T00:14:00.000-05:00

First, C. whose PowerBook G4 is MUCH cooler than my ibook and from whose PowerBook I now write, took this of us tonight. C. used his new digital camera (big deal, as he recently made the switch from film) and achieved these effects with a lighter and two cell phones, not photoshop.

I broke a new personal record yesterday--1000 miles in one day. 16 hours total travel time.

Tomorrow I return to SC for the semester. Anxious to see what classes I'll get at Coastal.

More pictures to come.

Surf's up

2006-07-23T18:39:00.000-05:00

Huge day on the water today. Huge. Trev and I went out for two hours and even though the rip current was tough and the wind like Frodo when he puts on the ring, we had a blast. More than head high surf. At times head high plus two. For me, excellent surfing for Pawleys Island. A real treat. My arms are jello.

Thule or Yakima?

2006-07-22T13:38:00.000-05:00

After traveling more than 6000 miles with my mountain bike hooked on to the back of my car with a trailer hitch bike rack I've decided to invest in a roof-top rack that can be used for my bikes, snow equipment, surfboards, kayaks, whatever. Maybe even just lashing down more STUFF. The two major problems with the trailer hitch bike rack is that 1) it interferes with opening the hatch of my car and 2) my bike collects a lot of road dust. I wince when I think about how dirty those gears got before I cleaned them up.

My research has drawn me to two companies that provide roof rack solutions, Thule (pronounced Tool-ee) and Yakima. Thule is a Swedish brand, but there is enough interest in the US that there is a division in CT where they manufacture the products.

Yakima is an American brand, but the products are made in Mexico. The costs are close, but Yakima cuts slightly under Thule by seven or eight percent. (For my purposes the difference will be about fifty bucks.)

Yakima uses round load bars (the bars that cross the car roof from left to right), Thule, square. A sales representative at my local surf shop that carries Thule believed that Thule was stronger because of this and believed that adapters (a bike rack, or surfboard rack) attached to round load bars might rotate, though I am skeptical of this when the adapters are attached at two ends. Movement left and right, sure, but the same problem could exist for Thule products. The solution is the same for both: make sure the adapters are fastened tightly. Duh.

So in the end, I think I'm going to buy the Swedish brand that employees American factory workers over the American brand that employees Mexican factory workers. Everything else being close to equal, this was the major selling point for Thule.

Flikr-fied

2006-07-22T13:13:00.000-05:00

I can't believe how good the designers of Blogger and Flikr are. I have zero understanding of HTML yet I was able to add this niffty little Flikr badge thing on the sidebar. Magic.

Iraq Headed for Civil War?

2006-07-16T11:09:00.000-05:00

fighting in Iraq has caused Iraqis to form the world's largest current group of refugees?

Quote that caught my eye:

"A local journalist told me bitterly this week that Iraqis find it ironic that Saddam Hussein is on trial for killing 148 people 24 years ago, while militias loyal to political parties now in government kill that many people every few days. But it is not an irony that anyone here has time to laugh about. They are too busy packing their bags and wondering how they can get out alive."

Okay, now what?

Slow Me Down

2006-07-15T23:41:00.000-05:00

This is what I've been working on recently... Let me know what you think, please.

Slow Me Down
A Memoir
By Roman Sturgis

John is not doing his grammar warm-up and this is unacceptable. It is apparent that something is bothering him. That’s too bad. Pick up your pencil, I say. Right now.

John makes a noise that is intentionally rude and animal. It is the sound of an infant expressing discontent forced through the adult lungs of a sixteen-year-old young man. Nnnnn!

“Excuse me? I do not understand.”

“Outta my face, motherfucker,” John says under his breath in a way only teenagers can speak. I remember I could speak that way once. I remember calling my mother a “fucking cow” and telling my father to “kiss my ass” under my breath. My father smashed a broomstick to splinters; my mother wrestled me to the ground and held me on my back until I cried--she had three older brothers. What I wouldn’t give to wrestle John to the ground and sit on his chest until he cried. But as I am his ninth grade English teacher, that would be inappropriate. If I were his wrestling coach, this would be a different story.

I went to a very nice New England boarding school. My family moved to the Middle East for Dad’s job and compound life didn’t agree with my puberty. I started to get into trouble. I agreed to be sent away.

In 1994, I was fourteen years old and I got on an airplane in Doha, Qatar. When the cabin lights were turned off for our night time departure, I cried, quiet as I could, holding the letter my mother wrote me. I flew halfway across the world and was received in Boston by my aunt. The night before school started, my uncle taught me how to tie a tie, something we had not covered at home in the great rush to leave. The following day I started what felt like summer camp with books. Though I had taken a tour of the school a month before, I had very little understanding of what I was going into, other than I would be in class six days a week and there would be sports every day after class.

Our high school curriculum sought to form renaissance men (and women), strong in mind and body. Idle hands do the Devil’s work was the understood Episcopalian motto, though Age Qoud Ages, “do what you do” or as we joked, “just do it”, was emblazoned on the school seal. I imagine Age Qoud Ages meant something different in 1864 when the school was founded. Probably something hard assed in a New England way along the lines of put up and shut up, or as my wrestling coach drilled into our heads: “hang tough when it sucks.”

This is what I want to tell John, but I know that John is not in a place where listening to a white man not from the neighborhood telling him to suck it up and be a man is going to work. So I go through my discipline routine: This is your friendly reminder to follow instructions. This is your reminder to follow instructions. This is your warning that you are not following instructions. This is your detention for not following instructions. This is your detention for cursing. This is your detention for cursing again. This is your phone call home. This is your in school suspension.

For John, like many of my male students who have a hard time following instructions, knowing the limit is very important. The detention doesn’t mean anything to John. Nor does the ISS. John’s been in detention every day since school started. He misses more class for ISS than he does from skipping. He is a shining example of a smart kid who is falling through the cracks because he’s gotten a whiff of the streets and the relative freedom it offers. Had he involved parents or an involved parent, he might be guided through this challenging time when his new male body and all the chemical changes that come with it are pulling him away from things like school. How can John understand that he needs to do well now so he can do well later? College is an abstract concept and means nothing to him. The Newports he smokes in the morning before school and the crew he runs with from his neighborhood and the music he listens to on the bus are much more concrete. My investment in John is a failing investment and I argue for his expulsion. Our school is not equipped to meet his needs, I argue. He is a drain on resources and kids who are willing to learn are being punished for John’s indolence. JDC, the juvenile detention center is much better equipped to put in concrete terms how important John’s success in school is, I argue. No, Mr. Sturgis, here at Thurgood Marshall we are better equipped to accommodate John’s needs. How dare you suggest that we abandon him? In my experience, this is the essential truth behind the ignorance of public education. Where attention is the reward, in our current system we reward the losers and punish the winners. It’s what every kid wants: attention. And if they’re so starved for it at home…well I think you get the picture.

I think I can trace the path that led me to my year of teaching at Thurgood Marshall Public Charter High School in Southeast DC, one of the lowest achieving public school districts in the country. In high school I knew a guy named Duane. We had wrestled on the same squad before I left the team my junior year, so we knew each other through wrestling, but not as anything more. I would not have considered Duane a friend, though he was a friend of a close friend, Alex. I was a senior and had taken on many responsibilities--I enjoyed the sense of being a leader. I enjoyed the feeling of managing groups and getting things done. One of my projects was the Green Team, a club that advocated school-wide recycling. Mostly we put boxes in dorms for kids to recycle their soda cans and bottles. Alex was a member of the club and I approached him one early evening, after dinner, before study hall, in the student center. Alex and Duane were having a conversation. I interrupted the conversation in a way that I felt was appropriate at the time and gave Alex some information about our next collection date. Duane was very offended by this and spoke very aggressively to me. He spoke in a way that I’d seen gangsters do on TV, in music videos and in the movies. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but at some point I threatened him with slate, a senior privilege that equates to a transgression resulting in one hour of community service to the school. Duane was further incensed and raised his level of aggression. I don’t know why, but in retrospect it felt as if I was mirroring his aggression in a way that I felt communicated at the same level his thick urban NYC dialect was working on me. I pushed his forehead away from my face and he blew up. He pushed me back and was screaming now, threatening to kick my ass. I retreated and sat on a couch with some friends, crying quietly under my hat. I remember saying to my friend Kat: “I don’t understand. I try so hard to do the right thing. Why did this happen?” And later I remember admitting to myself that pushing Duane in the forehead was absolutely inappropriate and that my feeling that this was equal to the way he was talking to me was entirely racist and demeaning. A black boy speaks to me in ebonix and I push his face to communicate with him. Clearly this is not equal. But I did, and Duane, in his own way, lead me to learning a valuable lesson in racism.

The following summer I was a “shackie”, a camp counselor, at Brantwood Camp for Boys, a camp my high school had endowed almost a hundred years previously. It was tradition for the fortunate kids who went to SM to work at the camp, pro bono, for a term or two during the summer. The separate boys and girls camps at Brantwood serve mostly urban kids from the Northeast, many of whom are “at risk”. Decoded, this means, poor kids without good role models. I enjoyed my time at Brantwood, though it was a huge challenge, and though I lost two campers over the course of the term--one to discipline, another to sickness. We did not win many of our sports competitions, and the campers were bummed about this because the major focus of the camp is sports competition. We did however put on the best skit and this was talked about for years afterwards. Alex, who was a shackie at Brantwood for several full summers vs. my one term (there are three terms per summer) told me recently that he was asked several times to convince me to come back, and that the campers asked about me often. I took this to be a great compliment.

At Brantwood my campers were a mix of races. This was my first hands-on experience mentoring minority kids from lower income families. Regardless of race, I was shocked with many of the stories my campers confided in me. Abuse. Drugs. Alcohol. Neglect. The things I saw in the papers or watched on TV programs, but didn’t have any personal experience with. I left Brantwood with valuable lessons in confronting my own stereotypes and serving the needs of kids who were dealt a bad hand.

Fast-forward through college. No, stop. Go back to freshman year. I’m studying at Texas A&M Galveston. I’m doing Meals on Wheels. I visit the low-income retirement center twice a week and deliver lunch. I am surprised at how few white people I am serving. Later, after reading an article in Newsweek about how America takes care of its elderly, I write a paper for my English class about how Galveston takes care of its elderly, and a large part of my research is focused on the low-income retirees that I’d started to develop relationships with and the high-income retirees at an expensive nursing home. My most powerful memory of the nursing home is the community center. I sat in on a social hour to observe and felt very awkward. The residents, old, frail, shaking, were collected and seated in a circle around an old piano. They sat comatose, if not sleeping, drooling, staring off into space. Very few looked clear of mind. A woman next to me was convinced that I was her son, and she was upset that I hadn’t visited more often. I tried my best to explain that I wasn’t her son, but she was not in a place to understand this logic. Our encounter ended with her crying and me escaping to look for tissues, finding some, returning them to her, and then hastily exiting the building. My paper observed that the low-income retirees seemed to be more capable, on average, but that I didn’t have enough information about every individual’s needs and various ailments. What stood out to me was the difference in facilities for rich and poor, and that the nursing home was entirely white and staffed by blacks, and that the low-income retirement facility was mostly black.

I transferred to Emerson College in Boston after that year and studied creative writing. During the summer between sophomore and junior year, I was walking through the Boston Common late at night, after work at the pub I bar-backed at, when I was attacked. There were at least six of them, perhaps eight, I don’t recall clearly, and they were carrying sticks—left over construction material, most likely. In retrospect it was some sort of initiation—one member of the group walked up to my right side carrying his stick and after much encouragement from his peers, hit me along side the head.

I did not stop. I continued to walk. I think now, looking back on it, that I made a decision to continue walking no matter what happened. I had deluded myself into thinking that it was my Common too and that no punk gang was going to scare me out of walking at my own pace. I suffered 16 stitches for my pride, and yes, every member of the group of boys were black. When I went to the police station later, gauze wrapped thick around my head, I sat through 771 mug shots of arrestees who fit my attackers description, and these were arrests made on the Boston Common alone during the previous three years. The ER doctor who stitched me up said he was sure I’d heal fine, but that he was worried about what effect it might have on me in the long term. I wish I had his number now to tell him.

I graduated and after a brief stint at Barnes and Noble, worked in restaurants. During this time I met Amanda who planned to move to DC several months later to pursue her painting career. She was a waitress, I was a cook. When I told her I would move with her, I immediately began to think about what type of job I would need to support myself, and possibly her, as she would be pursuing her art career fulltime.

After determining that I had no future in restaurants except to make money, I worked a mind-numbing, cubicle job at John Hancock. There, I did my very best to do only slightly more than what was expected and to maximize my personal productivity using company resources. In this capacity I researched and applied to every charter school in DC that was still hiring. Three days before Amanda and I were to move to Annapolis to live with her folks until we got settled, I got a call. A high school in SE had just lost its ninth grade English teacher. Would I be available for an interview?

We drove down to Maryland on Sept. 1. I interviewed at TMA on the 3rd. I signed a contract on the 4th. I began teaching the following Monday, the 7th of September.

I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. What I didn’t know was how I was going to do my job. Innovation became my mantra.

That first semester, the kids deserved better. But by the second semester, I felt I had a solid grasp of basic classroom management and that I was teaching kids skills that would stick. My syllabus went through major triage. My expectations, I was told, were too high. I disagreed with this. I disagreed that my students could not handle Catcher in the Rye--I was told that this was more junior and senior level reading. I read Catcher in eighth grade. Yes, the average reading level of my students was seventh grade. Yes, the school in its four years had never met its No Child Left Behind standard for literacy. But I was convinced that most students could grasp a text if it was taught in the right way. I proved this point when my department head offered me her slot in Text Alive!, a program with the Shakespeare Theater in DC. My department head was totally over-whelmed with responsibilities beyond teaching and the TA! program demands even more from a teacher. I accepted the gift and immediately went about finding a way to get 100 copies of The Tempest (one of my favorites). I had been provided with copies of Romeo and Juliet, which many of the kids were not keen to read, as many of them had read it last year in ninth grade, or in eighth grade. For some, this would be their fourth time reading Romeo and Juliet. We needed something fresh, and the support I’d get through the TA program would strengthen the learning experience even more.

One of the catches of the TA! program is that only one section can participate. I taught five sections. I chose the section that fit the TA! actor’s schedule the best and pushed that section one week ahead of the other sections. This allowed me to learn the new techniques a week in advance and utilize them on the other four sections. In my mind I was sharing the experience as best I could with the other classes, though only the one section participated in the big event.

I could talk about how great it was to teach kids Shakespeare through acting, and how thrilling it was to see them perform on one of the greatest Shakespeare stages in the world, and how they were one of the best groups in the entire program, but that would really require an entirely different story. They did great. I proved to myself and to my bosses that our kids could exceed expectations, and through the process I rethought my entire set of beliefs regarding poor minority kids and what they are capable of.

This is what I did today...

2006-07-15T20:50:00.000-05:00

This is a sandcastle. We built it.

Me and my little brah. (7/13//06)

Teddy and I in Charleston

2006-07-13T14:24:00.000-05:00

Teddy and I at the Battery in Charleston earlier this week. Note that I have not yet been de-furred from my roadtrip.

Interface

2006-07-13T14:18:00.000-05:00

This was taken during my drive back to South Carolina on July 6th, 2006. This is the eastern edge (east New Mexico near the Texas border) of a massive storm front moving over the southwest. I outran the storm only to be drenched in Houston by another system.

Why blog about the weather? This picture is a metaphor for what I've been trying to do for the last year -- ride the interface. All the interesting things in life happen at the point of conflict between two or more forces. This is true at the micro level, such as the interface between virus and cell, or the macro level, such as a cold weather front hitting a warm front. That, and I think this is a great picture of what the edge of a weather system looks like from the ground.

Other news: New writing project: "Slow Me Down", MFA applications are arriving in the mail (deep breath), I've been learning Tai Chi basics to amplify my yoga practice and improve my movement for dance (and yes, part of me likes Tai Chi for the self-defense aspect that might eventually evolve), and surfing and ocean kayaking have replaced cycling as my current major sport (safer than negotiating logger trucks on highway 17).

Sugar Land Weigh Station

2006-07-08T00:21:00.000-05:00

Sante Fe to Sugar Land was a full day on the road and about 880 miles, the farthest I've driven yet. Somewhere along the way I learned to have fun hanging out with myself and to pee into empty water bottles en route. The two are not mutually exclusive.

Still not smoking cigarettes, which is a pretty big deal to me.
Still working towards getting into graduate school. Ditto.

Leaving for South Carolina tomorrow. I'm ready for this road trip to be over so I can be at a desk on a regular basis and take care of my business. And yeah, being at the beach again will be rad, too.

Would you believe I drank milk straight from a goat yesterday? I did. Promise.

Slow me down

2006-07-02T04:10:00.000-05:00

On the last night of the seminar we performed for each other. I told the group “Why There Are No Tigers In Borneo” with the help of some drummers who played a great intro to set the stage and several transitions inside the story. We knocked it out of the park. I also performed with a few other participants in a play that another participant wrote on the fly and directed. The audience was in stitches and I couldn’t have been more thrilled. I haven’t been on stage in a long time and I’ve missed the good feelings of rehearsing and performing.

After the seminar I returned to West Hollywood to crash with the boys. D and I went for a run. It’d been awhile for him, five years for me, and I feel I need the conditioning before my first ever backcountry hiking trip with DW and finance A in Escalante, UT. After our run/walk I went to a PEN event with K and we listened to two different panels speak on the memoir process and getting published.

The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent hanging out with several brothers at the LA Museum of Contemporary Art where a series of free concerts has been playing all summer. LA is incredible to me now that I’m experiencing more than freeways, cell phones, and excessive drinking. Still not sure I could live here, but like New York, I am no longer afraid of LA and actually find it quite pleasant…to visit. The best part of LA, though, is the people. I feel so welcome when I visit with my friends here. It feels wonderful to receive so much love from so many great people.

I’m a little nervous about my next hiking/camping trip. This will be my first legitimate hiking trip in that I will be carrying everything I need for two days on my back. My heels are not thick enough yet from wearing my new boots and I was quite tired after two miles of running this morning. We will be hiking ten miles down and eight miles out of a canyon. Over the course of a whole day, this doesn’t seem like much, but considering I’ll be carrying a fifty pound pack…I am approaching this with all the necessary prudence it deserves.

Today has brought much reflection. Around this time last year, Cheryl’s death was still fresh on my mind. I had just finished my first IHS seminar and things with A were deteriorating rapidly. This time last year I moved to South Carolina and started making a plan on what to do next. I bought a car. I wrote a novel. I rewrote a novel. It still sucked. I put the novel down. I wrote some short stories. I read comics. I read history books. I quit smoking. I started doing yoga. I started cycling. I moved. I drove and I flew and I walked and I haven’t stayed in one place longer than three weeks since this time last year.

In August I’m moving two friends to Chicago and then I’m going back to South Carolina to take classes at Coastal Carolina University to prepare for graduate school. That’s when the road trip will end. I am ready for the road trip to end. I am ready to get back to work. I am ready to start over.

My Anti-War Story

2006-06-25T19:53:00.000-05:00

This is directed more towards my fellow seminar participants than veteran readers. Our afternoon lecture has been a discussion of war as seen through artists. The big question we're asking is: how would Picasso, Twain, Orwell, and Goya feel about the war in Iraq.

I can't help but direct you to the way I feel about the war in Iraq by directing you to a story I wrote in late 2001 and have worked on until late last year. I remember distinctly a conversation with my BFA advisor in early 2003. I was concerned about publishing the story quickly because I wanted it to be relevant and current. My advisor said I didn't need to worry about that because the war would be a current event for a long time. How right he was.

Here, linked for your enjoyment, "A Bottle of Water" from this blog's archives.

Why Smoking Bans Don't Work

2006-06-25T13:09:00.000-05:00

This is an essay I wrote for an IHS competition.

Why Smoking Bans Don’t Work
Roman Sturgis

Government must protect its people from harm, but perhaps more importantly, government must also exercise self-restraint and allow citizens to suffer the consequences of risky behaviors. Smoking bans are blunt responses to a nuanced problem, and they don’t achieve their goal: to prevent smoking. Smoking bans are appropriate in some instances, but a blanket policy negatively impacts a smoker’s right to exercise his own autonomy. Hostile armies should be defended against. Natural disasters should be prepared for. Illness that might effect many indiscriminately, such as an influenza pandemic, should be prevented. But government has no responsibility to dictate what consenting adults do to their own bodies, so long as the action does not infringe on the rights of others. Despite the health risks, all adults should reserve the right to light up and even become addicted, just as we have the choice to drink, or eat, or work-out to excess. Liberty is rooted in the freedom to pursue one’s goals as one chooses. Without liberty, we can not make progress; without progress, we stagnate and die.

Smoking bans are passed primarily to protect the non-smoking majority. It is appropriate for government to ban smoking in confined, public areas that are maintained with tax payer’s dollars. Public transportation, libraries, and schools, for example, should remain smoke free. These are the realms government has a right to interfere in. The jury is still out on whether second hand smoke outdoors—in a park or at the entrance to a building—is any more harmful than the exhaust one inhales crossing a busy intersection. These areas should be addressed when sufficient empirical data are found. Meantime, rather than pushing to ban smoking in public outdoor areas, anti-smokers would do more public good by campaigning to combat litterbug smokers who do not properly dispose of their butts, or smokers who start roadside fires when they toss their lit cigarettes out the window while driving. Private companies, though, should reserve the right to decide for themselves whether or not to ban smoking on their property. This is particularly important for bar owners and workers, whose cliental includes many smokers. Having a choice would split the market into smoking environments and non-smoking environments. This would allow workers and customers to choose what is best for them.

Politicians say they are concerned about public health and argue truthfully that a smoker raises his risk of lung cancer with every pack. It is also true that if the smoker draws a government check for his medical coverage, he burdens the system disproportionately. Tax payers should not be forced to take responsibility for anyone’s health but their own and those they choose to be responsible for, such as one’s children. Private health care should be the norm. Government health care redistributes wealth unfairly and encourages dependence on mediocre care. The market has already begun to adapt: private medical insurance is moving in the direction of life insurance and now smokers pay more for coverage than non-smokers. The market is solving this problem better than government, and politicians should accept that sometimes the free market is a better hero than government.

The most challenging aspect of wielding power is knowing when enough is enough.
Warning labels on cigarettes are appropriate. Removing advertising from morning cartoons is appropriate. Banning smoking outright is not. Ironically, the consequences of the government’s involvement have been the creation of a four-company tobacco cartel who control the majority of sales, the misuse of settlement monies for pork barrel projects, and the punishment of small-business owners who have smoking clients. As the kudzu of a total smoking ban grows, smokeless tobacco sales increase. One dip of snuff delivers more nicotine than one cigarette, and the health consequences of long-term use of chewing tobacco are also risky. Smoking bans do not prevent smoking, or addiction to nicotine, or tobacco related cancer. Smoking bans are convenient for the non-smoking majority, but just as we remember that African Americans are not 3/5ths of a man and indeed equal in the eyes of the law, we must also remember a smoker’s right to the freedom of choice.

The cost of the tobacco settlements are funded by smokers who now pay even more for their cigarettes, plus increased tax. This might be acceptable if the extra revenue went directly to government health care programs, as it does in New Zealand. However, though raising taxes on cigarettes in New Zealand has decreased the amount of cigarettes purchased, the sales of more potent tobacco--cigars and roll-your-own tobacco--has increased. But at least the tax monies go directly to treating the sick, and not to pork spending, as we see in the United States. The current US policy towards smoke prevention does little to reach the goal of helping people make healthy decisions, and more to redistribute wealth from smokers to politicians. Increasing the cost of smoking by raising prices and taxes will further encourage the illegal sale of tobacco and increase crime as a result. The dismal failure of the war on drugs offers countless examples of what happens when products are sold on the black market.

A fair, rational policy would be to allow private businesses like bars or clubs to chose whether or not to have a smoking environment, and to preserve confined, public areas as non-smoking. The health insurance market has begun to discriminate as the life insurance market does by charging higher premiums to those who engage in risky behavior, such as smoking. This will do more to prevent smoking than anti-smoking ads and smoking bans could ever do. Government can help prevent smoking by communicating that one is ultimately responsible for one’s own life, and that includes paying one’s medical bills.

The government is critical of “bad habits” like smoking, but the government has many
bad habits of its own, among them: poor fiscal responsibility, making promises it can’t keep, promoting dependence on hand-outs, and telling folks what they ought not to do. It would be wise of our government to develop good habits of restraint, just as anti-smokers preach smokers should practice restraint from their smoking habit.
What then, should the government do to help protect the public, as it should. Government can fund research that studies the consequences of behaviors like smoking, and share those findings with the public. Government can encourage private health insurance, which will more accurately pass the costs of risky behavior onto those that take the risk. Government can crack down on pork spending and more appropriately spend its tobacco settlement money on projects that make sense rather than morgues or dinosaur museums. This would be useful. Limiting our freedom is not.

The smoking bans continue to spread. Smokers continue to be ostracized. As the government gets fatter and pushes its nose deeper into the lives of its citizens, politicians are empowered to suck harder on the tits of the pig. Penalizing McDonalds for serving Big Macs to food addicts, or Budweiser for making a product that caused a driver to crash into a school bus, or Winchester for the bullet that murdered a cop, or Big Tobacco for selling an adult product that increases the risk of cancer, is absurd, but clearly not unrealistic. Smokers, drinkers, shooters and meat eaters should work with vegetarians and yogis, MADD and AA members to preserve the freedom to choose and encourage people to take responsibility for their own actions, because the one thing our current government is not telling us to do is to think for ourselves.

Sources:

Levy, Robert. Global Tobacco Settlement. Committee on the Judiciary, United States Senate: CATO, July 16, 1997

Sullum, Jacob. For Your Own Good. New York: The Free Press, 1998

Walker, Jesse; Patrick McMenamin, Britigne Shaffer. Talking Butts: A Smoking Documentary

Buckley, Christopher. Thank You For Smoking. New York: Random House, 1994

Tobacco in New Zealand; Published April, 2005, accessed on-line
http://www.euromonitor.com/reportsummary.aspx?folder=Tobacco_in_New_Zealand&industryfolder=Tobacco

Chapman College. Orange County, CA -- Day 1

2006-06-25T10:59:00.000-05:00

Woke up this morning in LA after a surprise birthday party for L. The house still asleep, D and I had a nice chat on the porch before he took a call. I brought back IHOP for breakfast and as the guys slowly came back to life, we congregated in the living room to eat and catch up. I enjoyed a pleasant drive to the OC and checked-in with enough time to be where I needed, but not enough to unpack.

The mood at the seminar is energetic. I found that I was quite jittery during the cursory introductory speeches, bouncing my feet and shaking my hands. The majority of the participants this year are women. Last summer, the distribution was even. I’m looking forward to experiencing the increased female perspective at this seminar.

New friendships have been made already. My fellow participants hail from all around the globe. It seems that about half of the participants are from overseas. Have not met my roommate yet. Have not taken a shower yet.

Not as many writers and film makers at the seminar as I expected. Most of us are in the arts, but not all. We have some hard science. Some soft science. Predominantly liberal arts, though, unlike last summer which was dominated by economics majors and business types.

Looking forward to getting cleaned up. Maybe even cutting the wool from my face which is getting to be quite itchy. Blisters have healed. D suggested we go for a bike ride at the end of the seminar. L suggested we go to the Apple Pan. I’m keen for both.

Blogging on the fly is still new to me. Most of my blog entries sit overnight before publication. At Chapman, I will have to learn to publish quicker.

Yellowstone, Cancer Scare, Personal Health, Portland, Beyond

2006-06-21T11:57:00.000-05:00

My second day in Yellowstone, I woke at 5:30 and listened to the woods for an hour or so before taking a piss and starting a fire. I cooked a rib-sticking meal of refried beans and eggs, cleaned camp, and left for LoneStar geyser, my goal being to be at the trailhead by 9:00am in order to arrive by bike at the 9:20 show. LoneStar is the park’s second largest geyser, six miles from Old Faithful, and removed from the crowds. Previously, in Grand Teton, after my 30 mile bike ride along the Snake River (new personal record), I treated myself to a nice steak dinner at Signal Mountain Lodge. My server, D, was very good, and even though she wasn’t slammed, I was very impressed with the twenty or so minutes she spent with me chatting about this that and the other over the course of the meal. She recommended I do LoneStar instead of Old Faithful, and that I see the canyons, and walk the lower geyser basin. When pretty women suggest I do something, I have a difficult time saying no. So I made D’s recs my goals for Yellowstone, and on my second day, accomplished them all.

After the LoneStar show, which I watched with two backcountry hikers who I’d bumped into the day before, I biked back to the car and left for the lower geyser basin. Yellowstone is named for the yellow minerals found in the soil and rock that line the Yellowstone Grand Canyon. Yellowstone is the site of a caldera around the continental divide, essentially an area of volcanic activity at the interface between two tectonic plates. There are three geyser basins. I went to the furthest north, called the Lower Basin. There, I walked two miles on a boardwalk and experienced more than a dozen steam vents, mud pots, and hot springs. The vents I saw gave off constant steam, like giant teakettles. The steam pushes through cracks in the rocks and makes a sound not unlike opening one window in the car at high speed (wumpa-wumpa-wumpa). Hot springs are essentially steam vents under a pool of water. The springs are multi-colored, depending on what minerals are being pushed out from the earth, and what algae and microbes are living in the water. At 200F life exists in these extreme environments, and one can see where the algae starts and microbes begin from the different colors. Mud pots are steam vents that push up through mud. A constant gloop sound is made, like simmering soupy refried beans, and the area around the mouth is smooth with glistening mud, cracked at the edges. There is an ever present stink of sulphur and other volcanic smells, and after awhile one begins to notice nuances in the smell, from burnt pork chop to rotten egg. The geyser basin is beautiful, for sure, and exciting from a earth science field trip perspective, but the entire visit was overshadowed with a very powerful feeling that if there is a hell, this is what it looks like. A desert of stinking vents and boiling mud and cracked earth and water poisoned with microbes that can not be used, and no green except for the sludge in the pools, which are too hot to touch, and no shade, except from severe, prickly pine trees. In this hell, progress is backwards, such that in order to survive, one must devolve back towards a microbe that can withstand the extreme environment. That is truly hellish to me: going backwards, devolving, losing my humanity, and so the experience, though interesting, was revolting as well.

I left the basin with a sense that something was very wrong. So I drove through the canyons to take some pictures and get some perspective, and still, after an hour, still felt that there was something very wrong.

Turns out there was.

I called M when I found a place that had reception, and in the course of conversation it was explained that M was presenting classic symptoms of testicular cancer. I listened to his plan, made some suggestions, offered what comfort I could, and at the end of the conversation resolved that I needed to get the hell out of Yellowstone post-haste.

I drove back to my camp site, struck camp, and left in less than 30 minutes. During this time I resolved that if I ever have a family, we will have annual spontaneous family camping trips which will serve the dual purpose of exciting fun family time away from the grind, and training ourselves to work as a team and respond quickly to an evacuation. The ability for a family to work together to pack essentials and evacuate, clearly is a valuable skill set to have. I feel my parents, through all the travel we’ve done, though we haven’t camped as a family, have bred in me an appreciation and basic level in this skill. So thanks Mom and Dad.

I decided I was going to Portland. Immediately. But 10 hours into it, after crossing Idaho and the first quarter of Oregon, realized that the far western mountain passes with high winds at 3am on unfamiliar roads was not prudent. I stayed at a motel and in the morning enjoyed my drive much better in the daylight.

Oregon is very green and very friendly. The appearance of things seems to be very important to locals. The McDonalds near my friend’s house in Tigar, a suburb, is very modern and green, for instance. When one orders at the counter, one is flanked by a wall fountain and a massive, clean, children’s play area. One can sit at a counter to eat, tables, or plush chairs similar to what we find in coffee shops. The floors are beige tile. I saw McDonalds like this throughout the west.

I’m staying with S, who moved out here a year ago and is working at a local hotel bar as a bar back. Over the course of a few days, I’ve met several of his co-workers from the service industry. The common similarity seems to be a spontaneous decision to migrate to the Pacific north west. This is compared to the habit of whales and butterflies and birds and other animal life that make the north west coast a stop on their travels hither and yon, often to mate, as it were. It seems that pioneers have often felt the draw of this place, though I would not readily classify the friendly, happy neo-hippies I’ve met as rugged pioneers, they do express a love for the outdoors and maintaining a clean, sustainable environment. I just wish they didn’t drive such fuel inefficient cars.

The Oregonion mindset of many people I’ve met seems to be quite socialist, though oddly, the smoking ban Nazis are not in power here as they are in, say, Boulder, Colorado. State taxes are equal to federal taxes. One can not pump one’s own gas; as in New Jersey, full service only. Bike lanes everywhere (yes!) and handicap ramps abound. Greater attention seems to be paid to things like recycling and where food comes from, though SUVs and pickup trucks are plentiful here as they are in Houston.

I spoke to M to check-in. In the time between calls, I’d allowed myself to worry about the situation for five minutes, and then cut myself off from the negative fantasy—how would my social agenda be effected by M going into the hospital, or getting cancer? Answer—not in a positive way. I envisioned these events would be a profound nuisance, totally inconvenient, and a big distraction from what I feel I need to be doing to make myself the best grad school candidate possible. In other words, if M was getting cancer, it could not come at a worse time. Cancer is the Queen of Bad Timing.

I was thrilled to hear that M didn’t have ball cancer, and a hernia instead. Though this does raise issues re: M’s move from DC to Chicago, I am much happier with a hernia than I am with cancer.

Health has been on my mind a lot these past few days in Oregon. I’ve successfully avoided even a single drag of a cigarette though I have been constantly surrounded by friends who are smoking. After a night in a smoking bar, I’ve started to look at my stance on second hand smoke with a different perspective. I am open now to the possibility that second hand smoke in confined areas can have an effect on non-smokers, though I still believe in giving owners, clients, and employees choices between smoking and non-smoking. Let the people decide.

S and I played Frisbee with his friend The Massage Therapist on the first day, and I injured myself in three ways: my right ham, my left knee, and my left toe, which I believed was broken. I felt like a total wimp, a geeky clutz, and very unfit next to these two friends who were throwing the bee with cigarettes in their mouths. On the second day, S’s birthday, we played Frisbee again, and I took it a little slower. S went up for a catch, down a small hill, and rolled his ankle. It swelled badly and we wondered whether we should take him to the doctor. Problem is, his new job hasn’t sorted out his health insurance yet. I was reminded of my experience at TMA, where I was without employer-provided health insurance for the entirety of my contract, so time-consuming, backwards, and inefficient was the process. And then immediately I thought of M, too, who, had we found cancer, would have been leveled a second time by the cost of treatment. S and I speak often about our political views, and discuss at length what government should be responsible for. We are both third party, but he leans socialist, while I obviously lean towards ration and liberty. Still, deluded as my socialist friend is (he believes socialist health care works—I challenged him to name a country where it did), we agree on much. But not health care, though I am expanding my thoughts now that two friends in a matter of days have been in potential need of health insurance, and do not have adequate coverage. It is worth mentioning that I am no longer insured, either.

Today, my injuries have healed well. I am convinced this is because of the exercises I’ve been doing for the last year or so: biking, yoga, lots of walking, and now, Tai Chi. I am very pleased that by investing in flexibility and endurance, I seem to have healed more quickly than if I’d invested in other ways.

I have engaged S and The Massage Therapist in conversation about smoking as non-judgmentally as I can by focusing on their freedom to chose what they do to their own bodies and reminding them, perhaps backhandedly, that they smoke because they choose to. S claims that he is addicted and thanks me when I challenge him to put off smoking for fifteen minutes. I tell him this was the hardest part for me: to get past the craving. Tobacco can be used in moderation, I am convinced, even if nicotine is the most addictive substance we know of.

From these conversations with S, I’ve come to a new understanding of my liberty-centric view of government: so often we look at government as the cause of our problems, or we look to government for a solution to our problems. Big government is for those who chose not to govern themselves, while smaller governments are for those who live in a culture where groups and individuals can effectively govern themselves. S agreed with me that he should be responsible for governing his own tobacco use, and that he did not want the government to govern it for him. A small step towards liberty was made.

Bottom line, I can best serve the libertarian movement by encouraging people to do it for themselves and take responsibility for their own actions. I think this neatly fits into a teaching philosophy, without being overtly political.

LA seminar in 3 days. Tonight I camp on the beach. Tomorrow I drive the coast.

Roman's Big Adventure

2006-06-08T10:04:00.000-05:00

I'm leaving this afternoon. I'm going to be away for awhile. I don't know if I'll have access to the OuterWeb until I get to California.

I don't know what else to write.

Sucks to 666, I rescued a turtle today.

2006-06-07T00:32:00.000-05:00

My 12 inch apple laptop is hungry because the plug does not work. I am concerned that I won’t be able to take my computer with me on my road trip. This may actually turn out to be a good thing—I don’t write by hand nearly enough. But when something is wrong with my computer, it feels as if a close family member is in the hospital. So important is this piece of technology to my happiness. I’ve had the adapter changed through warranty, but the problem is in the removable plug, not the adapter itself. I’ve read online that many, many people have this problem. This is my first complaint about my Apple which is the best computer I’ve ever owned. I’ve had her since summer 2004.

Speaking of material possessions, after my contacts and my computer, my car is probably the next most important THING in my life. The left turn signal bulb has been dead for a few days. I went to the local Chevy dealer to get a new one, and an oil change, and my tires rotated. This was at 11:30. I was told to come back in a few hours because everyone was on lunch break. Bill Heard is a HUGE dealership in the Houston area. I was surprised that everyone took lunch at the same time. I would think that at such a big place, the lunch breaks would be staggered. Apparently Houstonians NEED their lunch by 12:00, or they get cranky. Not too many skinny folks at Bill Heard, I observed.

So I come back at 2:00 and I buy my light bulb. $3.47 plus tax. Totally reasonable. I ask the service guy what the cost of labor for installing the bulb will be. He asks what type of car. I tell him. He pokes his computer and then he tells me with a totally straight face, “About thirty dollars.”

Clearly he’s telling a joke. Haha. That’s really funny. You almost got me. Okay, really, how much.

“About thirty dollars.”

Haha. That’s really funny. No, seriously.

“Thirty dollars.”

You’re serious?

Oh my God. You’re serious. Thanks for your time.

Up until that point, I was willing to pay $25 for an oil change—five bucks more than JiffyLube, and a fair $20 for a tire rotation. I figured, I have a GM car, GM is an American brand, they’re in a tough spot, I’ll pay five extra bucks to support the company that gave me the car I love. But THIRTY dollars to change a light bulb? That wouldn’t even be a funny JOKE.

I call my buddy up. He works in a car shop. I ask if thirty dollars is normal. Oh yeah, I learn, because all jobs are done in 30 minute increments, and the base pay for a big shop like Bill Heard’s service department is probably 30 bucks a half hour. A buck a minute. For something more complicated, maybe 60 or even 90 an hour. All labor is billed by the hour, not by the job, and the more complicated the procedure, the more expertise is needed, the more expensive the hourly rate. I ask my buddy if this is something I can handle. He says, yes. So I go home and open the hood and spend more time looking for the right socket wrench (six minutes) than it takes me to change the damn bulb (about two minutes).

So sucks to Bill Heard and his dumb ass business model which cost him $45 bucks for wanting to charge me $30 to change a friggin light bulb. Asshole.

In other news, here is my traveling schedule starting this Thursday:

Watch the MAVs game with RD in Dallas.
Catch up with A in Manhattan (Kansas) before he goes back to Iraq.
Chill with K in Boulder and buy hiking boots from salespeople that know what they’re talking about.
Camp in Rocky Mountain National Park for two nights.
Meet up with D in Grand Teton. Mountain bike the Snake River.
Camp in Yellowstone with D.
Camp overnight in the Blue Mountains (Hell’s Canyon, Idaho) on my way to Oregon.
See S in Portland. Drink lots of Pinot. Eat lots of fish.
See San Francisco with P. Ask lots of questions about P’s graduate creative writing program at SFSU. Meet with the dean.
IHS seminar in the OC, June 24-30.
Drive to Grand Canyon and meet D and fiancé A for backcountry camping.
Take a shower in Sugar Land.
Drive through TN and Smokey Mountains on the way to SC for the rest of July.
Move M and B to Chicago via DC and NY.
Walk around Chicago School of the Arts.
Attend Wizards Comic Con.
Make pilgrimage to Metropolis, IL.
Take care of some business in Texas.
Visit Vicksburg.
Classes at Coastal Carolina start on Aug 16th.
Writing conference with Dennis Lehane in Key West, Oct 19-22.
See the everglades.
Submit applications to graduate school.
Return to TX in Dec.

DB's Bday

2006-06-05T23:36:00.000-05:00

Today is David's birthday. I celebrated by spending an awesome weekend with friends and family, getting organized for my roadtrip, and taking a three hour dance lesson at Fred Astair Dance Studios in Houston. My instructor says I'm improving. I began to believe her during the group lesson when I had the chance to dance with new partners who are also beginners.

One of the hardest things for me to get used to is the idea that the man has to control the woman's movements by leading her. I find that I wimp out at times and dance passivly. It's a challenge to stay focused on not only one's own footwork, but where one wants to place one's partner. Turns. Man, turns are so difficult sometimes. But it's a ton of fun. And when I have a nice run with a few turns that I don't mess up--that is the studliest feeling ever. Ever. DB would be proud, I think.

Memorial Day Post

2006-05-29T12:07:00.000-05:00

When I got on my bike this morning to ride to my yoga class, I saw two guys in a pick-up truck driving down our street, placing flags in the yards of some houses. On my way to the gym and then later in the steam room, I got to thinking about Memorial Day, and went through the list of my close friends who are serving.

Alex is stationed in Kansas with the Army. He’s a sergeant now and word is he’s going back to Iraq later this year.

Dave is stationed in Wyoming with the Air Force. Several times a week, Dave climbs deep underground, sits in a pod with a bunch of computers, and waits for the nightmare scenario.

John is somewhere in the Pacific. He’s a nuke on a submarine and last I heard he was looking forward to teaching new nukes what he’s learned patrolling the world underwater.

Mike is on the mend after an injury during Marine OCS. He’s making excellent progress with his healing and is looking forward to completing his OCS training and going on to flight school. See Mike’s blog, openbah.com

Adrienne is an officer in the Navy. When she completes med school she’ll continue to serve by healing and comforting the wounded.

Danny is a veteran, though he’s only a few years older than me. He served in the Navy. Currently he is working in the music industry in LA.

I’m very thankful for these friends and for the jobs they do. At this stage in my life, I would not choose to do their job. In some cases, I do not think I could do their job. Though I have served in my own ways, through teaching and community service, I am very happy that others are brave enough to do that which I would not.

Thanks guys. You’re awesome.

Graduation and Birthday

2006-05-20T23:06:00.000-05:00

L’s graduation ceremony took place at the Reliant Center in Houston. The 2006 class president surprised us by reciting the pledge of allegiance first in Spanish and then in English. Bad form, I thought. Graduation ceremonies are not appropriate venues for politics, yet so often we see them become so. At my graduation, Joe Biden ranted about neo-cons. Had I a tomato, I would have thrown it. Not because I’m a fan of neo-cons, but because graduation ceremonies shouldn’t be hijacked by politicians with hard-ons for a captive audience of potential voters. L’s keynote speaker did much better than mine, though he was also forgettable.

Were I a graduation speaker, I would focus on pumping my audience up for a bright future of success, and I would encourage them to continue their pursuit of knowledge using the tools of learning that they had acquired. Then I’d tell a few stories to entertain them for a bit and maybe get some laughs. A short story with a good punch line and easy to re-tell, so they could take it with them. Enough about boring keynote speakers. The party was a success. L was happy. I’m happy.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I’ve survived twenty-five years. I hope to get another hundred out of this make before trading in for a new one. This afternoon I celebrated this goal with a bike ride and a yoga challenge: to maintain a downward facing dog pose for two full minutes. Success, and then immediately following, a plank pose (push-up position) for another minute, feels good.

Event Planning

2006-05-19T23:50:00.000-05:00

My sister is graduating tomorrow and my gift to her is the party. My goal has been for her not to have to think about anything other than exams and what to wear. I'm hoping that the decreased level of stress will better allow her to experience the graduation process. L finished her exams and she's trying on outfits as we speak, so maybe it's working. It's ten to midnight and I've just finished all the prep I can do. The chicken satay is marinating and the spicy peanut sauce is cooling on the stove. The lettuce is washed and the drinks are on ice in coolers. Flowers are cut and arranged and so forth.

The menu for tomorrow's party is "all of L's favorite foods." We're expecting 35 friends and family members. This will be the biggest, most complex party I've ever cooked for, and I'm very excited to see it go well.

Two of our guests will be C and his bride S; my friends who recently became engaged. I spent the last two days with C and S assisting with their move to Dallas. It is interesting to see my buddy go through the process of becoming a married man, and has been the cause of much reflection.

To Dallas We Go

2006-05-17T15:18:00.000-05:00

Bouncing out of H-town in moments to rally with C. from College Station. We leave for Dallas at ridiculous o'clock tomorrow morning. Back on Friday. Like you care.

My June roadtrip map is starting to come together. The major cities in Texas; Oklahoma; Manhattan, Kansas; Denver; Rocky Mountain National Park; Yellowstone; Hells Canyon; Eugene, Oregon; Redwood National Park; Wine Country; San Fransisco; Big Sur; Yosemite; Seqoia National Park; Josuha Tree National Park; LA for the seminar.

That's a basic road map. If you are going to be near any of these areas in June, and would like to do some exploring and adventuring, please contact me.

Dancing again

2006-05-16T23:37:00.000-05:00

I had another lesson today at Fred Astair Dance Studio.
I learned that my previous instructor had returned to New York. I have a new instructor now. She taught me the basic steps for Salsa and East Coast Swing. I’ve started to get an idea of the dances I want to focus on. I understand that waltzing and foxtrotting might be useful if I ever find myself at a very formal event, but the latin dances are the most appealing. I’ve been thinking that maybe this comes from the guys in the kitchen I worked with? I saw some of them dance once at a company party and it was pretty darn cool. Much cooler than anything else I’ve seen live other than Joey break dancing, but we decided a long time ago that breaking wasn’t my thing. Salsa…I think I can do salsa.

I watched Mad Hot Ballroom the other night. Before you tease, let me tell you about it. It’s a documentary about ballroom dance programs and a competition amongst New York Public School elementary students. What these teachers do with their kids—how they teach them life skills through ballroom dancing—is similar to what I experienced with my students at the Shakespeare Theater in Washington, DC. I taught ninth grade English at Thurgood Marshall Public Charter High School and one of my sections was selected to work with a professional actor and teaching artist (it WAS artful the way this guy taught kids), who guided me in managing a student-run production of a scene from The Tempest. The kids came up with their own interpretation and performed with thirteen other schools (each doing their own scene) on the same stage the Shakespeare Theater was using for THEIR production of The Tempest. I wish I could have done it with all of my sections. The point of this is really to say that I watched Mad Hot Ballroom and it got me thinking about what dances I want to know best, and those are Salsa, Meringue, Rhumba, and Tango. The latin dances.

Today I had one of those Desperate Housewives of Orange County days. Except I’m not a housewife. Or in Orange County.

I woke up, rode my bike to the club, took an intense yoga class, rode to the coffee shop for a cappuccino while I figured out my day, rode home, took a shower, went to my ballroom dance lesson, came home, planned the menu and shopping list for a party of 30 for my sister’s graduation, made dinner, brought dinner to my sister who is babysitting, went for another bike ride, then walked the dog. Living in the suburbs is so weird.

In other news, I’m looking forward to planning my roadtrip west, which looks like a June 7th start.

Try this one, and tell me what you think...

2006-05-16T00:04:00.000-05:00

Below is my writing for the day. Nonfiction has been on my mind a lot recently. I'm going to try writing nonfiction for awhile to assemble a cache of stories, and from that, pull out parts that might make a good fiction story. This is about 1600 words and covers some of my most vivid memories of living in Doha, Qatar. Enjoy. -RS

Babu George was my father’s driver; a big smiling Indian with a round belly and bright white teeth. His eyes were yellowed from working in the sun as a boy on his father’s farm. He had a farm of his own now, and it was productive and made him a wealthy man at home. Every year he went back to India for a month to check up on things, make new plans, and get his wife pregnant again.

Babu wouldn’t leave the car when he was waiting for Dad, and he wouldn’t leave the car running when he was waiting. We lived in Doha, the capital of Qatar, and in the summer it was 110 in the shade. I asked Babu why he didn’t run the AC and he told me that it would reflect badly if someone were to see him. He sat in the driver’s seat, sweating with his eyes closed, trying to conserve energy.

We had a Land Cruiser and Mom drove that. Babu drove Dad’s company car, a black Explorer. It was an Eddie Bauer edition and it had a tiny fridge in the center counsel which I thought was the neatest thing ever. Babu kept glass bottles of Coca Cola in the counsel, or sometimes Fanta, and always a few bottles of water. I would sit with him in the car sometimes and drink a soda and talk to him about his family back home. Once, Mom let me go with him to the souk and I bought ten rials of salted sunflower seeds. These were not the same as the little bags of heb that Khalid brought to school everyday, along with an assortment of gum. At one point in eighth grade, Khalid wanted to beat me up and take my girlfriend. I didn’t know if this was a typical rite of passage through puberty, the Arab way, or the spoiled Arab bourgeoisie way. I know now it was the later. When Khalid came knocking on my door, dressed in black, wielding a can of black spray paint to “draw the circle in the sand,” I told him I was grounded and wouldn’t be able to make it and that was the end of that. No, the sunflowers I got at the souk with Babu George were in a grocery bag. Half a kilo of sunflowers. I don’t even remember if I finished all of them.

We lived on a compound in a white block house that looked like every other house on the block. We all had the same company furniture and the same drapes and even though it was nice to move into a furnished house, we all did our best to change what we could about the place to make it our own.

Some of the houses were still empty of tenants. They were furnished, but empty. Waiting. Living on a walled compound with armed guards at the gates, we got bored easily. Some of my friends and I were really into NERF at the time. Bows with foam arrows and guns that shot foam balls with a loud pop. Later, they came out with foam darts. Partly because it was too hot to play outside in the summer, and partly because no mom would let us have a proper NERF war inside, we found ways to enter the unused houses. This was naughty on a number of levels, not the least of which was that if the Sheik who built the compound and owned everything inside of it found out that his guest’s children were breaking into his properties, all of our father’s would be in big trouble. But we didn’t think about that at the time. We thought: it’s hot, we want to play, there’s a perfectly good furnished house with no one in it and we can do what we like. The worst we ever did was tag the white stucco walls around the compound with flower heads, and criticize the compound manager who kept making rules that ruined our fun.

Were we older with access to drugs and alcohol, no doubt in my mind we would have gotten out of hand and turned one of those houses into our own personal club of sin. Some of the older kids who were interested in experimenting with sex had already broken ground in that area, usually in the smaller, more accessible, but more removed pool houses that accompanied the larger houses on the compound.

We walked the walls. They were eight feet high and a foot wide and walking them was easy after you got over the fact that if you fell, you’d probably break an arm. The walls were white and the pavement bricks were brown and red, and in the summer, walking barefoot on the pavement was painful. All of our feet were thick with calluses by the end of our stay. We had names for all the walls. Our own system of streets and corners. We did this until the compound filled up and neighbors complained. The compound, Al Jazi Gardens, named after the Sheik’s daughter, Jazi, went through three or four building phases. My family was one of the first families to arrive and I was at boarding school before phase three was completed.

We stole candy from the compound grocery store sometimes, and hid it in boxes buried in the dirt next to the soccer pitch. But more often, we snuck onto the roof of the store to make out with our sweethearts. There were many AC units up there, so several couples could do their thing at once in relative privacy.

Harassing girls. I was notorious in this respect. I had the ugly, embarrassing, head-shaking and flinching title of being the boy who had more conversations with angry fathers about daughters coming home crying. I never acted on my own. I always acted with a group, but for some reason, I tended to be the guy who got stuck with it in the end. Like when the sheik invited all the families to his farm in the desert.

Sheik had a large collection of cars, a whole garage full of them. Old classics and new sporty things. And he had several ATVs also. We were instructed to take what we wanted and have fun. So we did. My friends and I got on the biggest four wheeler, after waiting our turn like everyone else, and we took off. I was the last to drive, and had the misfortune of exiting a stand of trees with three friends hanging onto the back of the ATV, right into a herd of endangered gazelle that the sheik kept as private pets. As luck would have it, he was showing all the parents the herd. At that moment, he was telling them not to get any closer, or to talk loudly, or the gazelle would spook and run. This happened as we arrived in our ATV. The herd spooked and galloped en mass directly towards the sheik. Thankfully the herd did not trample or gore any of our parents (or the sheik). I drove away quickly. When we arrived back at the main building, I looked behind me to see that all my friends had jumped off and had conveniently disappeared. It didn’t matter much to me. I was thirteen or fourteen and didn’t give a snot what some other parent had to tell me. I had gone to boarding school by this point, and was back on spring break. I was one of the first to get out and everyone else was a sucker for thinking boarding school would be a bad idea.

We’re almost getting to the boarding school part, but before I go there, I want to talk about one other low point in my adolescence in Doha. As I’ve eluded to already, we were not many, and we were often bored. Social lives were everything and we focused on this intently. There were more boys than girls and the women enjoyed a certain reversal on our western island in Arabia: one girl to many men.

I was going with this girl. Kind of. She was the reason Khalid wanted to beat me up. In another instance, a British lad named Colin, who I’d known from the Doha College—the British school I had first attended in seventh grade before transferring to the American International School—offered me a wager. We’d play a game of 21, a basketball game, and the winner would take all. He bet his Land Rover against my girlfriend, and I took the bet and have the keys to prove it. Unfortunately I neither knew how to drive, nor the appropriate way to tell my parents I had won a car by betting my girlfriend. She never knew about this, for the record, and I’m not sure she ever did find out.

By the time I got to boarding school, I felt I was on the verge of new changes. I remember sitting in my first chapel service and trying to experience penance in the uncomfortable straight backed pew. I needed to repent and I told myself I would be a good Christian and made many, many promises about how I would change my habits. This lasted for about a semester.

Bikes and brides and fireflies

2006-05-15T18:43:00.000-05:00

I'm back in Texas now.

C. proposed to S. under the Century Tree and she said yes. T. and I suprised them later with a champagne toast at the graduation/engagement party.

I returned to my family home in Sugar Land, Sunday afternoon, 1,500 miles after leaving South Carolina on Friday morning. I feel much more confident in my driving now that I've put about 20k miles on my car since I bought it last October. This is easily twice the number of miles I'd ever driven since getting my permit in 1997.

Today I took my roadbike out. Sugar Land has excellent riding conditions. Smooth, wide roads, and mostly flat. Texas, especially the Houston area, isn't exactly thriving with cyclists, but paths are being built in the new subdivisions. Folks over fifteen tend to drive trucks or SUVs or sportscars around here, not Schwinns.

This is one of the best times of the year in Houston. It's not oppresivly hot and cool enough that the humidity isn't a big deal. It's beyond green. The grass grows faster than we can cut it and the trees are laden down with leaves. It is the weather I remember from little league when we lived here in the early ninties.

Last night I took the dog for a walk and we saw deer, rabbits, toads, ducks, and fireflies. So it's firefly season now.

L. graduates next weekend, and then we're going on a family trip to celebrate. More about that later. I'll be catering her graduation BBQ. She has invited 35 people. This will be the biggest event I've cooked for and I'm eager to impress her with my manly cooking skills.

Gone to Texas

2006-05-11T14:27:00.000-05:00

This week I was accepted to Coastal Carolina University as a non-degree student. I'll be taking literature and theory classes this fall to help prepare for graduate school. All the creative writing classes are full--suprise, suprise--so I'm hoping to squeeze in if a spot opens up.

This week I was also accepted to an IHS seminar. (My second.) The Institute for Humane Studies is a based out of George Mason University. I was a participant last year and had a fantastic time. I'm looking forward to the seminar, which will be held at Chapman University, because it most of the participants will be creative writers and film makers. The focus of the seminar will be exploring liberty in writing and film. My personal focus, besides learning as much as I did at last year's seminar, will be to make new friends in my field, and hopefully get some good direction about MFA programs.

I'm heading to Mississippi tomorrow morning to see S. and C. who have just celebrated their first year of being married. Woah.

I'll be in Texas this weekend for graduations and all that goes with that. Looking forward to Shiner Boc beer and grilling meat on a fire.

In other news, I have been reading a lot of newsprint re: oil. There are many elected idiots on CSPAN and other news stations presenting many terrible solutions. The only government solutions that make sense to me involve deregulating environmental red-tape, so we can build new refineries, drill in more of Alaska, and explore/drill off the east and west coasts. Encouraging clean coal would be swell too, seeing as we have a few hundred years supply of the stuff between us and Canada.

I drove to Wal-Mart today to return a product and it cost me less than $3.00 in gas, roundtrip. I bought gas at $2.85/gallon. I get 30 mpg on highway, thus about .10 a mile if gas is $3.

I ride my bike a lot. I ride my bike to the store. I ride my bike for exercise. I'm funny like that. But 30+ miles on a bike would have really hurt my knees, not to mention taken me three hours and a shower afterwards (which would also have cost me water--thankfully THAT'S still cheap).

I'm so happy gas is so cheap. Gas saves me so much time, which is much more valuable than money.

The latest developments in the Road to the MFA are:

2006-05-02T12:08:00.000-05:00

I’ve applied to Coastal Carolina University as a non-degree seeking student. I’ve been corresponding with professors to get a better idea of the courses I should take. This fall I’m hoping to squeeze into the multi-genre workshop, which is already booked. We’ll see. There are some other courses that would be instructive. I’m much stronger in my writing than I am in theory and criticism, so Contemporary Fiction or Modern American Writers would be useful.

I’ve made more progress with the short story I’ve been working on for another manuscript option. I’ll post it when I have a working first draft. I don’t know how to finish it yet. Times like this it would be useful to have a class of writers to bounce ideas off of.

So we go.

Oh! I bought a mountain bike this past weekend and yesterday accomplished a long-standing goal – to bike from Middle Inlet on Litchfield Beach to Murrel’s Inlet, seven miles north. I went through Huntington State Park afterwards and did a little nature walk and some more riding. It was awesome. The day before, friend J. who helped me select the bike, took me to the North Carolina/South Carolina border and we did some trails through the woods. Mountain biking is much different than road biking. Changing gears is much more important, and one must pay attention in a different way. I’ll tell you though, it is a bad ass thrill to weave through trees, bouncing over tree roots, and then hit a steep hill and power over it. Much more of an adrenaline sport than road biking.

Finally! Sanity!

2006-04-28T15:31:00.000-05:00

Charles Krauthammer of the Washington Post became my new hero for the week with his article on gasoline supply and demand.

Please read this and ignore anyone on TV with a blue or red tie talking about gasoline.

Spammers Need Not Apply

2006-04-25T08:51:00.000-05:00

Sorry folks, but as usual, a few jerks are ruining it for the rest of us. Because I've received spam in my comments, I've turned on comment moderation, which means that I will approve all comments before they are posted to the blog.

I want you all to know that freedom of speech is very important to me and that I will not censor your comments that are relative to this website. However, spammers will be harshly discriminated against.

I once had a history prof who called it limited democracy in a benevolant dictatorship. The crime of spamming will henceforth be punished with censorship. If you feel you have been unjustly censored, please engage me in dialogue, and we'll see if I was in the wrong.