Guided Tour

At the Tastee Treet, Home of the Space Burger, at the south end of Pocatello, ID:

Guy at the counter: Will this be to stay or to go?

Me: Actually, we're waiting for a friend, but can you explain some things on the menu?

Counter guy: Sure thing.

Me: What is a Space Burger?

Guy: You take a piece of white bread, then you put this burger, like, with potato and onion in it, and like lettuce and then [hand in cupping/capping motion] you put another piece of bread on it, and then you cut off the crusts and you [hands come together] grill it in the Space Burger Machine, and it looks kind of like a . . .

Me: . . . flying saucer.

Guy: . . . UFO.

Publication Studies class.

Condiment says:

Please file a report on your bookmaking class, please, and show examples, if copyright allows.

In lieu of a full report of the Publication Studies class, I offer this documentary, made by awesome students Megan Weiler and Jason McFarland, of the chapbook project:

At the movies.

It's been a banner weekend at the movies around these parts. With my aunt and cousin and son, I saw Source Code, on the one hand one of those generally well-made thrillers with a sci fi edge, on the other hand one of those movies where you're hitting your forehead with the heel of your hand, because they're all, "We don't have time for these questions, soldier! Keep your focus on the mission! We're wasting precious time!" and the soldier is all, "But can't I talk to my dad? But where am I?" And you know that, 30 minutes in, there's going to be a big exposition-y chunk, because they're going to have to explain things sometime. So why not just get that explaining out of the way, already? But that Jake Gyllenhaal, he's a cutie. And that's enough explanation for everyone, at least most of the time.

Then today, on the spur of the moment, my daughter and I saw Red Riding Hood, a fantastic hot mess of a movie, much in the vein of the first Twilight, and what do you know? The wolf is no wolf. No, the wolf is a WEREwolf. Of course. Amanda Seyfried looked very fetching in her cloak. Julie Christie was beautiful and a little scary as the grandmother.

And tonight, the historian and I saw Hanna, which I may or may not have wheedled him into. It was definitely more on the action side of the movie-going spectrum than he usually likes. (Last weekend we saw Win-Win, which I highly recommend for the non-action side of the movie-going spectrum. It was great.) But I kind of adored Hanna. I love that actress Saoirse Ronan, and she is beautiful and compelling beyond all reason in this movie.

The first part of Hanna is set somewhere in the north, sub-Arctic. The credits, which, inexplicably, we were the only viewers to stick around for, said that part of the film was shot in Finland. These sequences were exquisite. Beautiful. There's a fairy tale valence to the whole thing that really gets set up perfectly (not quite like the wacked out Red Riding Hood, which has a medieval slash Renaissance Faire slash Dungeons & Dragons vibe), with its house in the forest of tall, tall trees, and the fierce brilliant cold, and the snow sometimes drifting beautifully, lazily down.

"Standby Snow," is the credit one craftsman gets. Maybe it's not a coincidence that there was a fair amount of that going on in our neighborhood last night and this morning:

p.s. someday, someone should cut that grass. but it has to stop snowing first.

Here's the thing:

I got up at 6:30 to be at the Publication Center at 7:30 so some students could work on their stuff, and print, and bind. I was in the room with the hot glue and the sharp blade until 11:30. And then there was a meeting. And then there were e-mails and phone calls from students. And students who were all, "So basically you're saying I'm missing three or four things?" with a chagrined chuckle, and I was all, "yeah." And the grading hovering in the short distance.

And still, the people, it's Friday. FRIDAY. And it's also...the end, almost, of the semester. Let the unwinding commence. I said let it commence!

spring fever

:

a little sickness that comes with the more light, a little sleepy at five o'clock, a little worry that a crash might be coming upon the blessed release, but the blessed release nonetheless

a few daffodils sulphuring up the ground, a cutting back and a coming forth

bare legs and a little more snow

waking at six fifty, just before the seven o'clock alarm

a week and a week and

May

around

the corner

Things I love.

1. Finding a five-dollar bill in the pocket of a coat I haven't worn since last fall.

2. Discovering that the crazy leopard print canvas oxford shoes I bought two years ago are all of a sudden the cutest shoes in the whole wide world.

Before I sleep,

I am thinking rather obsessively of vegetables, Los Angeles, Idaho, northern California and my oldest darling friend, the desert, music, movies, writing, my manuscript, taking pictures, flowers, possibly digging up the front lawn, grandchildren and their delights, and cleaning out my closets.

But there are things I am treasuring in the moments, such as the conclusion of almost all the big events of this semester:

• our Writing and Social Justice Conference, with Nicholas Kristof in the front seat of my car! four separate times;
• the publication of the first SLCC Publication Center chapbook;
• a beautiful edition of Folio; and
• a trip with the Publication Studies Students to the Book Arts Program and Red Butte Press up at the Marriott Library.

This last happened on Friday, and again, in an academic year that has taken me just about to my limits and yet been filled with delights and amazements far more than I could have predicted, this visit was better than I'd ever dreamed. We made pieces of letter press, looked at elegant letter-press books, examined various presses, and made our own blank books. Here's a little video of the letter-pressing:

It was beyond.

Open letter to my blog.

Dear Hightouchmegastore,

Have I neglected you of late? I believe that I have, and I want you to know I'm aware of this fact, and it gnaws at me a little. I would offer you an explanation, or a series of explanations, but I think, honestly, you know: I overcommitted in a big, big way over--let's face it--the last two years. So this is the homestretch of my overcommitment.

I can see you waiting, hightouchmegastore, with your week-old post, and the lengthy intervals between the posts before that, and actually, rather than the afore-mentioned gnawing, I feel a little lift of my spirits. And that's because it's the middle of April, which is only a couple of weeks before the end of April. I wish I could show you my calendar for May, hightouchmegastore. It has vast creamy (that's the color of the paper) expanses of no commitments. It's maybe the most beautiful thing I've seen in quite some time.

I am looking forward to sitting down daily with you, hightouchmegastore, for a tidy little chat about what I'm reading, or viewing, or thinking about. For little gusts of complaining. For exhilarations and enthusiasms. We've had a good time doing that in the years before this, haven't we? Having a glass of iced tea or three and rambling on about nothing? I am looking forward to that. To doing it again and again.

sincerely,

lisa b

It's a book.

Words to live by.

The historian is proofreading a manuscript.

The historian: Don't ever do anything that requires footnotes.

Me: I won't. As God is my witness.

Not really, actually.

Running son drops my car off at school. At the curb:

Running son: Creo que tu choche necesita un poco de gasolina. [The gas gauge is flirting with the red dot that signifies "running on fumes."]

Me: [Shoulders sag with the weary weariness of disappointment and weariness. And disappointment. I have exactly one dollar, which will buy, like, a cubic centimeter of gasolina.]

Running son: ...I thought it wouldn't be as disappointing if I said it in Spanish.

Here is what I want to do:

1. go straight to Paris and stay there, in the meanwhile taking up Parisian habits and mores, like je ne sais quoi.

Or

2. put away my wintry wintry wardrobe and pull out the clothes of spring.

Instead of

3. working and working and going to meetings and working, obv.

Also, having just finished the last episode of VM (Veronica Mars, obv), and feeling, frankly, a little bit bereft, I might just want to

4. watch it all over again.

Do you think I'm kidding? Well I'm not. In fact, the only thing I can think of that I want to do more than item 4 (above), aside from items 1 & 2 (above), is

5. eat lots and lots of toast.

and maybe also

6. sleep.

But before that,

7. go to the fabric store and buy all the orange fabric in the world, and also

8. some yellow fabric, but only if it looks like silk or it is silk. And orange thread, and yellow thread.

The end.

Except I also kind of wanted to make this, so I did.


Make gif animation

[for FB readers--baby gif--click here]

Video: bag of Scottish treats, with explanatory remarks.

We discuss the news.

A conversation.

Me: ...and after tomorrow, Miriam and Evie will be out of school for two weeks for the Easter holidays.

The historian: Two weeks? Wow.

Me: I know! And then they get an extra day off, because of the royal wedding.

The historian: ...there's a royal wedding?

Me: Whaaa?

The historian: I'm serious--there's a royal wedding? Who's getting married?

Me: (laughing) It's Prince William and Kate Middleton.

The historian: First I've heard of it.

Me: I don't know what you read.

The historian: Will they get to watch it on TV? When I was a kid, when Queen Elizabeth got crowned, we got to stay home from school and watch it on TV.

In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, I believe that the royal wedding will be televised, but if not, I give you the royal wedding in Legos:

(click the link above for the whole slideshow)

Is it May yet?

It kind of feels like it, and I am in the process of checking out entirely of the current moment, except to notice the crocuses, sunshine, light, and also the trees leafing out.

I bought some fabric about an eon ago because I have another life, a secret life, possibly a life that only exists in my brain, where I sew. Why? I don't know. But this week, I sewed three skirts. By hand. With a needle and thread. Why? I don't know. It felt like the right thing to do.

Also, I bought a sack full of orange dye because I need orange pants. Orange-orange, not salmon or peach or coral. So look out for orange pants, coming to a theater near you.

Lately,

I have been using my awesome new phone and its awesome new camera apps to take pictures. (I've missed some salient occasions, too, such as when D came over to visit on Thursday evening and offered me a bit of his cookie. Alas. Soon I will remember the awesome camera/apps at every occasion, and make myself obnoxious thereby. Yay!)

Adventure.

We took a day off--from work, from school, from spring break, from recovery--to visit the Museum of Scottish Lighthouses. It was excellent.

Cultural advantages of the U.K.

1. More castles.

2. Ricky Gervais (they tell me this has strong language, so be forewarned. I just remember that it's hilarious.):

3. A truly spectacular array of crisp flavors.

4. Better cheddar cheese than I have eaten anywhere else in my life. In fact, they take all of their dairy products very seriously here.



5. Art to go with the castles. However, they have a strange idea of what constitutes "art season" (all year round? I'm just suggesting).

6. The people, my darlings.

Pictures.

In case you're wondering, whilst holding the baby and watercoloring lots of pictures and walking into the village once and picking the girls up at school, we have watched High School Musical 1, 2 & 3, as well as many episodes of Glee. I am developing many opinions about the signifier that is the musical, and in general having a swell time. Also, I am sampling the great wealth of UK flavors of crisps (read: potato chips). It is a culture-fest, I tell you!

In a French airport: a consideration.

Yesterday I got on the airplane. But first I stood in a really, really, really long line. And then I bought a heavy magazine, by which I mean a magazine full of pages. But before I bought the magazine, I packed a lot of things, like striped shirts and jeans, and two heavy books, by which I mean books full of pages. And I also charged batteries for things like my camera and my laptop. So, while I was standing in a really really really long line before I bought my magazine and before I got on the airplane, I was full of things: contemplations about whether I had packed the right things, and whether there would be internet on the airplane (no), and all the things I hadn't finished and whether I should worry about them, and the thought that I would be on an airplane facing an unknown dinner and many many many hours in a window seat.

All this precedes my arrival this morning at the French hour of onze heures in Charles DeGaulle Airport. Whereupon I had to figure out precisely where my connecting flight was, but then had several hours to cool my heels. But first I had to stand in a really, really, really long line with my laptop and two heavy books and not my heavy magazine which I left on the first flight, but even so, all that stuff had attained a specific gravity that was somehow heavier than when I left Salt Lake City. Maybe because of the hours on the long flight in a window seat.

Well, when the heel-cooling started, I was able to obtain for you the following observations:

• airport food is expensive, but there is some good airport food in a French airport. But it is expensive. I had a baguette with crevettes et pamplemousse et epinards and some spreadable fromage. And that, ladies and gents, mesdames et messieurs, was a pretty good airport sandwich. But the exchange rate!
• the French--speaking now about the entire culture, history, arts and design and economy --have some pretty impressive luxury goods. Some of which you can buy at the airport, but whoa. The exchange rate! not to mention the original cost of things!
• pastries.
• macarons. (I am not a fan of eating the macaron, but I think they are adorable and very, very pretty.)

It is possible to lose track of what's going on in a French airport when you have hours to cool your heels and you've previously spent many many many hours on a trans-Atlantic flight in a window seat and--I think this goes without saying--not enough sleep, plus the steward guy kind of woke you up by shoving a heated-up bagel in your face because you have the special, aka ovolactovegetarian, meal. For instance, you might think your flight is leaving from one gate because that's what the kiosk robot told you when you got off your trans-Atlantic flight at onze heures, French time.

But then, after the heel-cooling and the light dozing in fits and starts you did because of all the aforementioned, you might drag your heavy bag and your heavy self to another display to decipher that your heel-cooling locale is, in fact, not your actual gate. So then you depeche-toi to your actual gate, and get on your airplane, and despite the fact that they're speaking French over the airplane's intercom and that the crew seems to be, in fact, bona fide French, the flight is sans amenites. Nary a pastry nor a baguette with jambon, nor a macaron (I think this goes without saying).

But this is, paradoxically, not so bad. Because the lack of amenities means that, for the first time on this trip, you sleep. For the whole flight. Two hours of excellent airplane French-inflected sleep.

Pardon me, I have only just discovered Paint.

And soon I will meet Elijah James Elliot Davies, 9 lb. 6 oz., just a week overdue and beloved already of his sisters, mother and father.

Let the people decide.

I am sick again.

It's the same, or a similar, old cold/sinus thing. Today is day 2, technically, because day 1 began on Sunday, middle of the day. I canceled my morning appointments, thinking that if I slept, I'd feel good enough to go into work for the latter half of the day. Then I canceled my afternoon appointments. I slept, I sniffed, I blew my nose. I made tea. I ate toast. I took off my work outfit and saved it for tomorrow. I thought about doing work, but honestly: my head hurt. And who can give good feedback to students when her head hurts? With a sinus-esque ferocity?

Anyway. I really want to know, the people:

I think it might be curative for me to know the answer.

And in xtranormal form: (I think my avatar has a little problem with air quotes--)

I am ready for a movie and also I would like to put away my heavy sweaters.

Something new.

just like a print essay, a video essay is a way to explore an idea, but with sound and image adding dimension.

A few resources--

Peter Thompson, "The Cinematic Essay: the Cine What?"
Claudia Gorbman, "Places and Play in Agnes Varda's Cinecriture"
Jonathan Dawson, on "Letter to Jane"
Ze Frank (the video that gets cut off at the end is here)

gifbirds.

Make your own animation

A little tragic.

Brief statements concerning the movies.

1. In our preparations for the Academy Awards, we have been unstinting. We have seen the documentary shorts, the people. THE SHORTS.

However, we have not viewed 127 Hours, citing the little-known "I am not required to watch movies where guys saw off their own arms" clause of the Movie Enthusiast's Commitment Contract. Nor have we seen Javier Bardem in Biutiful. Javier Bardem is, indeed, biutiful, but I understand from my "sources" (two young women we talked to in the lobby at the movies last week) that the movie is hella depressing.

Therefore, we ate Mexican food and I watched episodes of Veronica Mars.

[brief aria on Veronica Mars:] O! Veronica! Had I known how very good you were, I would not have said, "Who in the hell is this Kristen Bell?" when I first saw Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Instead, I would have basked in the glow Veronica Mars cast forever upon Kristen Bell, kind of like the glow The Man Who Would Be King and, let's be honest, all the James Bonds, cast forever upon Sean Connery, even though he mostly made crap for most of his career. I love Veronica Mars, and that is all.

Also, we watched the 30 Rock episode we missed last night because we went to a poetry reading. High culture! It is so distracting from important television!

2. There are certain people whose performances was robbed in terms of Oscar nominations. As if you care, right, but in case you do:

• Leonardo DiCaprio, for Shutter Island;
• Pierce Brosnan, for The Ghost Writer;
• Greta Gerwig, for Greenberg;
• Andrew Garfield for every single thing he was in this year;
• Noomi Rapace, for all those Girl With movies;
• Catherine Keener, for Please Give;
• Russell Brand, for Get Him to the Greek;
• Bill Murray, Robert Duvall, and Sissy Spacek, for Get Low;
• Matt Damon, for True Grit.

Also, are we sure we didn't find Andrew Garfield's to be a likable character in The Social Network? I am pretty sure that he was.

3. We will be watching the Academy Awards with family. There will be food and there will be friendly wagering. And probably loud talking and some arguing. It will be great.

4. I was so tired tonight, at the end of a looooong four-day week, that I didn't want to go see a worthy movie. And there weren't any unworthy ones I wanted to see. That is a little tragic, in my own personal opinion, if you want to know.

But I did find out that the lead guy from The Dandy Warhols, Courtney Taylor-Taylor, has a series of one sentence movie reviews on the official The Dandy Warhols website. Sample review: Of the 1967 Lee Marvin Point Blank, Taylor-Taylor says this: "This movie is so totally fuggin cool that I didnt really mind the little bit of bad acting and editing which included some real ham-fisting by Star Trek’s very own Dr Roger Corby whose name it took me going to sleep and waking up to fully recall without any help from imdb."

Oh, okay, another one: of the aforementioned 2008 Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Taylor-Taylor says, "Don’t let the lame-ass “Something-ing Someone” title fool you, this flick is only about twelve lines shy of being the perfect gutbusting break up comedy of all time."

(I don't think I could get sick of writing "Taylor-Taylor" for a very long time.)

(Also, the reason I am listening to The Dandy Warhols and going on their website and reading their one-sentence movie reviews and all is not because of one of the greatest songs of all time, "The Last High," but because the theme song for Veronica Mars is a The Dandy Warhols song. And it is good. The people, I am in the grip of a small obsession.)

the progress.

Here is a list of things I forgot to do this week:

but I did



so I think that's mostly a win.

FAQ.

Q: Whatsoever did happen to the three little dogs?

A: Well, it was high drama. Online, on the website for the animal shelter of my city, it said that they (a) were not open on Saturdays, (b) were closed before we could get home on the worky-work days of last week, (c) were possibly scary and disheartening to visit (not on the website), (d) whatsoever would we do, and whatsoever would become of the three little dogs?

Well, after said dogs had been at our house for a week, cozily ensconced in our laundry room/enclosed porch, we decided we really needed to take them to the shelter, since we were getting no action from our flyers/sign/newspaper ad. So running son and I (with a heavy heart) took the dogs to the shelter.

Where the shelter folks were, of course, very nice, but only after interrogating me as to whether I found said dogs, and to wit, within the city limits. And where the young woman working the desk said, "I know who those dogs belong to." And lo! the heavens did sing, for there was within the city limits of my city a man who has four (FOUR) Shih Tzu dogs, and he had picked up one of them (not one we found), and had said these magic words to the young woman: "I am still missing three (THREE) Shih Tzus."

And the young woman did remember these words, and did repeat them unto us after which she rang the gent whose Shih Tzus we had in our wriggle-filled arms, so that she could deliver the message. BAM.

Q: Where have you been, hightouchmegastore?

A: At an undisclosed location.

Q: And what did you eat there?

A: Tacos pescados. Shrimp and fries. Salmon hash. Mussels and frites. Gougeres. Pear tartlet with honey ice cream.

Q: And what awaited you upon your return home?

A: The kids and grandkids came over for lasagne and gelato. We took down the Christmas decor. High spirits and merriment. Three fewer alien dogs in the house.

Q: And are you rested and ready to fight another day?

A: Boy howdy.

Open letter to the word "indefatigable."

Dear the word "indefatigable,"

I just spelled you for my husband, the historian, who is copy-editing a manuscript he has worked on for many, many years, because it is about to be published. There's a certain justice to that. He has worked without fail, without complaint, and with great dedication on that manuscript. He spent countless hours in archives, looking at microfiche, and then scouring old newspapers online for mention of socialists, anarchists, and other assorted radicals in the back hallways and alcoves of Utah history. He is an exemplum of you, the word "indefatigable." In the dictionary by your entry, the picture is of him. I'm just guessing.

Apparently, the word "indefatigable," it was about the 17th century when people started to to experience tirelessness, wearilessness. It might have coincided with the rise of coffee-drinking in Europe, which also coincided, roughly, with the rise of capitalism, and that nexus of coincidences, the word "indefatigable," is the crux of my small disagreement with you.

We are not machines, the word "indefatigable." We are only human. We come home from a day of meetings and workshops and online grading and ordinary fretting, a week of e-mails and worries and small stray dogs, and we feel weary. We feel, rather than indefatigable, tired, flagging, weary and exhaustible.

I admire you, the word "indefatigable." And I admire what you stand for. I like your energy. Most days, I resemble you quite a bit. You are my target, my goal and my guide. But tonight I am tired. I have descended and I have reclined. I am on my bed and I am watching television. The word "indefatigable," I will speak to you tomorrow, but for tonight, let's call it a day.

Sincerely,

htms

A cohort of dogs.

The people, what is it with us and dogs?

1. It is the historian, whose deep compassion for a lost dog knows practically no limits. NO LIMITS, the people. And the dogs sense this about him.

I believe I have already mentioned that three small dogs--three little ewoks, if you will, for they are that very variety of small dog that resemble ewoks--were roaming our neighborhood like an ultra small gang. We were out walking Bruiser (Prince of Dogs) and they espied us, and fell upon us like wolves upon the fold, except that they were, y'know, really small, so actually they just swirled around our feet and ran figure eights around us and, in general, followed us home.

I spoke to them sternly. "Go home," I said, sternly. To no avail.

We took Bruiser in the house and did not allow the dogs to go inside. We got in the car to see if perhaps there were fliers crying about three lost ewoks. Alas. We returned home, and there were three dogs, sitting on our porch, waiting for us.

Reader, we took them in. We have an enclosed porch out back. We fed them, we gave them water, we made a bed for them. Meanwhile, we made a sign for our front yard: "We Found These Dogs," with pictures of the dogs. We made a flier: "Found: Three Dogs!" with pictures of the dogs. We posted this hither and yon. We put an ad in the paper. With pictures.

Has anyone claimed the dogs? No.

Yesterday, we took the dogs to our vet for a scan, to see if they had microchips embedded. No. I called the animal shelters--had anyone been asking for three ewoks? How should we know? said the woman I spoke to at the county (she didn't really use those words). We don't keep a log. (So confidence-inspiring, this interchange was. This may be why we haven't taken them to the shelter yet.)

But we need to take the dogs to the shelter.

The people, the shelter makes me so sad.

A few things I have been thinking about.

1. The Jazz and Jerry Sloan. I have opinions. And I have thoughts. To sum up: I wish it had happened either last summer or this upcoming summer, it was probably just about time, and I think I will scream--SCREAM--if the fans of the Utah Jazz put undue blame on a certain point guard. To sum up: I will SCREAM.

2. The fact that I am going to Scotland in March! to see everyone who lives there.

3. This summer. In fact, I almost can't stop thinking about this summer. (summary: Los Angeles/Idaho/my backyard/quiet/iced tea/make some movies/write some poems)

4. The mouse who possibly still lives in my house. And its possible brethren. We caught one in the humane trap (released, probably made its way immediately back to the house. In fact, I think we are ourselves making the mice in the field smarter as we speak.), and today I said to the historian, "I am indulging in the fantasy that there was just one mouse, and it's running all over the house, and now we've caught it, they're all gone." The historian chuckled, knowingly. As in, he knows I'm on crack and he also knows that the mice have, like, established a condominium in the dark places of this house, stealing out only to feast upon toast crumbs. Also, to flaunt their mousy intelligence and wiliness.

5. The sparkly shirt I plan to wear tomorrow.

6. The fact that I keep leaving my headset and mic in my office, rendering my intention to record audio comments for my students moot until I fetch it. (Freudian forgetting? Possibly.)

7. Veronica Mars. Currently streaming on Netflix. Seriously, how did I not know that this show was awesome? And set in SoCal? And full of class resentment? in other words, right up my alley? (thanks to college daughter for the heads up, and for watching countless episodes with me.)

8. The three little dogs who followed us home on Saturday, despite my sternest efforts to get them to go home. They are living in our laundry room while the posters advertising the fact that we found them flutter forlornly on the lampposts of the neighborhood.

envious? or resourceful?

I saw theorris's instagrams, and thought: why can't I have that? (an unattractive yet persistent thought in my noggin, it must be acknowledged. by me. and my noggin.)

So I googled it to confirm I couldn't have it (not without a smartphone), but I can have this:



Poladroid (screenshot with poladroids)
...and it's kind of fun, too.

It's funnier the further west you get.

While we were in Washington, D.C., a few friends gathered at a pretty fabulous restaurant. It is one of those restaurants where the provenance of everything is specified on the menu. Order the food, receive the genealogy of the food.

And let me be the first to say, I was grateful for the information. The food was fantastic and the whole affair was just lovely. But I personally found it hilarious that the veal, the duck, and the pork were of Amish derivation.

(The pig never drove anywhere. The duck paddled by candlelight.)

Apparently I'm the only one who finds this so funny. I mentioned to one of my D.C.-located friends that we'd eaten at this place.

"You went to Fabulous Restaurant Name?" he said. Indeed, I said. Lucky us.

And then I sprang my "now let me tell you the one about the Amish duck!" on him, and he was all serious: "There's a lot of Amish people around."

And I was all: "But the meat! The MEAT is Amish? No, that's funny."

And he was all: [to himself] Nope, not all that funny.

The next day, I told this story to my cousin who lives in D.C. He was all, "No, that Amish veal thing, that's pretty funny." You know, the kind of funny that's by decree, but doesn't actually make you laugh?

Oh, I can deconstruct it. The savory soberness of Amish. The very alternativeness, the refusal of high-tech, the humility of it all. The plainness. Surely this must translate into . . . what? More righteous meat? I think that's how it works.

But I am still amused by it. Amish! Amish duck!

Our compatriot, at dinner, orders:

Maitre d'host: And for you sir?

Compatriot: I'll have the pork. (pauses--glances at me, the source of the Amish-themed merriment) The Amish pork.

Maitre d'host: Sir? (severe pause, so that the compatriot may reflect on his inappropriate jest) How would you like that cooked?

I'll take my Amish pork medium well done, thank you.

Short thank you notes.

Dear Monday,

Thank you for the little things. The canceled meeting, the quiet morning. The peach turnover, which, though it doesn't scream "February breakfast," was warm and delicious.

Sincerely,

Lisa B.

*

Dear Camel Colored Sweater,

Thanks for looking so good today. Even though I bought you from the Victoria's Secret Catalog, thanks for being so versatile, since there was actually no way I was going to wear you as a very short dress/sexy nightgown? Especially not to work.

Sincerely,

Lisa B.

*

Dear Tomorrow,

I would like to postpone you.

Thank you,

Lisa B.

*

Dear Chile Verde Burritos,

Thank you for being my dinner and thank you also for, in your flexible way, being not averse to being styrofoamed and taken out. Also, thank you for revealing your capacity to be a leftover.

Sincerely,

Lisa B.

Pictures, mostly of art.

So: home. This entailed getting up at 4:30 a.m. and venturing forth, showerless and inadequately rested (this goes without saying), still with the sick, ready to go home but unready for the journey.

Glad to be here. We got to see a baby blessing this afternoon, the historian's son's tiny daughter. Then we had cake, and then we came home. There are boys in my basement playing Super Smash Brothers, and why not? It's a night of games.

I confess that I felt good for almost nothing but downloading my pictures and uploading them to Flickr. They are pictures I took yesterday, when Dr. Write and I had a quick but sensational tour of three museums and a tapas restaurant, along with a quick smash & grab at an H&M. It was great.

This is not a good genre, the photograph of art, but I kind of can't help myself. Also, I love the light in museums. There was one room (you'll know it when you get there--) where whoever lit the place was a genius, maybe as much of a genius as the sculptor whose work was displayed there.

Anyway, consider yourself warned. Here are my photographs, of art:

Dear Flight Across the Continent,

Dear Flight Across the Continent,

First of all, I want to express my gratitude for the conditions under which I undertook you: the plane was not full, and therefore there was a seat between me and the guy in my row. There was wireless, and that meant I could do a little internet teaching. Thirdly, pretzels. Fourthly, ginger ale. Also, couple of pre-teenage girls who were singing together, softly, before takeoff.

I was not amused by the alarming sound that went on for a good ten minutes while we were sauntering out to the runway. It was a cross between grinding and shrieking and perhaps droning. I came to believe that it was the landing gear, although technically we were using the landing gear, weren't we, before we took off. This sound did not inspire confidence. I add this uininspiring sound to the fact that the pilot made an announcement about a sensor that was malfunctioning but was merely "informational" and therefore was going to be "disengaged" before we took off.

Call me sensitive, Flight across the continent, but I think an informational sensor might not, optimally, be optional. Especially when flying across a continent.

Which, I will now boringly remind everyone, is a long way. Although it is technically not across the entire continent (2442 air miles from San Francisco to Washington, D.C.), it is still a lot of miles. One thousand eight hundred and forty eight, to be exact. And four hours, another measure of distance. And knowing this, I still did board you, Flight across the continent, I boarded you with my very headcold and my laptop, and my belief that DayQuil, Advil, and time would get me through.

Headcold + cabin pressure = not delightful.

But we did make it, Flight across the continent. As in, I am here, and functioning, with DayQuil/Advil and time on my side. I do not like to contemplate that soon we will greet each other again, Flight &c.: at 7 a.m. Sunday morning. See if you can't arrange that not-quite-full situation again. That made the whole deal more bearable, and that might make us friends, kind of. At least occasional acquaintances that don't quail when they spot each other, say, at the airport.

sincerely yours,

htms

little blessing.

Even though I was sick enough to stay at home, work at home, fall into a sick afternoon nap wherein I dreamed that a mouse ran across the covers and flicked my cheek with its tail, and even though my getting through the day required copious amounts of tea and DayQuil, this afternoon I looked up from adding files to my post-tenure review portfolio to see this:

Untitled from lisab on Vimeo.

This weekend I

had a beautiful dinner with the historian and his children to belatedly celebrate his birthday (happy belated birthday to the historian!); took the dog for several walks; faded into a nap or so; did a crossword or two; read some of my novel; read some of my book of poems; spent plenty of time with my bff the internet; (not really my bff); went to Target twice; wore some tall shoes out on a date; saw Blue Valentine and cried a little; did some laundry for the good of all mankind; made some killer linguine; watched the SAG awards while I whittled away at work-y stuff; rescued college daughter whose car would not start; ate Mexican food; wished someone would finish putting my post-tenure review file together; taught a little online; wished my son-in-law a happy birthday; wondered at the bad air; thought perhaps that I might be coming down with another cold, which seemed vastly unfair; saw Megamind with a son, a daughter, and a grandson; had another son and another grandson over tonight for some rousing conversation and the aforementioned linguine; wrote the phrase "the aforementioned linguine" and liked it, quite a bit; and went to bed (wrote the phrase "went to bed" and wished it were so--and so it will be).

Open letter to Los Angeles.

Dear Greater Los Angeles Area,

I know that you hogged up all the water and that you are pocked with areas of shocking blight. When we drove through Watts, for instance, trying to find the Watts Towers, we counted liquor stores and storefront churches. Over and over. Also, payday loan shops.

There is no way to make sense of you, Greater Los Angeles Area. Are you a city? or are you a hegemonic force? Even so, when we drove up Western Avenue, all the way to Griffith Park, there was Koreatown and Little Armenia. I can never know the half of you.

When I think of the place I'd most like to go to recoup my losses or gather my wits or retrieve some long-lost part of myself, you are what comes to mind.

Dear Los Angeles, I think of you as radiating out in waves from the port, and so I include the San Bernardino mountains and the Coachella Valley, the Salton Sea and Indio and all the deserts beyond. These are the places people go to escape you, to get beyond you, but for me all of it retains the tang of you.

As for your vaunted fake shine: it is something I have seen on television and read about in magazines, more a story than anything I really know. I think this is because what I think of as Los Angeles--you--is not really. Once, an old friend said, "We never ventured into L.A.," meaning, I think, that we from the South Bay were a kind of provincial--our beaches, our malls, our peninsula were not Los Angeles proper.

But I never knew that. I had come from Tucson, Arizona, and before that, from Japan. The South Bay was L.A., it was that simple. It took years for me to parse that geography. I am parsing it still.

So out in the desert, it is still, somehow, L.A. Somehow you. At Point Vicente, where we know the earth shifted and shifts still, where there is evidence of the Tongva people. In the great ports to the south of that. Even the Port of Los Angeles--it's in Long Beach, in San Pedro. Even what you are, you aren't.

Or something like that, but it doesn't really matter. I want, I long for you. I want to stand on the ground where the wind turbines whirl at the San Gorgonio Pass. I want to drive on the Twenty Nine Palms Highway again and eat Mexican food at your not-illustrious cafes. I want to see the Salton Sea. And I will call it all by your name.

Yours,

Lisa B.

My prognostication skillz are purty good.

I made this list on January 19.

* indicates I thought the film would probably get nominated

X = the film did get nominated. 8/10. Plus a few outliers.

The weekend: a flow chart.

The ideal weekend by lisa b.

A little elation at midnight.

Or: fraudulence has its moments.

How did it happen that I am teaching a Publication Studies class this semester? I can trace the genealogy of that decision, which goes a little something like this:

• Scotland daughter did a master's degree in Publication Studies at a university in Aberdeen.
• I thought, Publication Studies? That sounds awesome.
• I asked my daughter to send me a list of her courses which I wrote on a Post It note and stuck it on my credenza at work for several years.
• Meanwhile, I said to this and that person, "Wouldn't it be cool if we had a Publication Studies class?" When asked what this course might comprise, I said, "Well, we'd make books, and talk about the production and circulation of books, and stuff."
• Meanwhile meanwhile, our department developed a writing certificate program. Perfect opportunity for a Publication Studies class!
• So, Dr. Write and I, along with another of our colleagues, developed a Publication Studies course, with a sample syllabus.
• Et voila! I am teaching a Publication Studies course!

Am I an expert in anything whatsoever related to publication? Hmmm. I guess not.

Yet tonight, I figured out how to make this little layout in InDesign:

--which will enable me and my class to make little instant books tomorrow, in which we will write short "autobiographies in four books" (a thing I just now made up), and frankly, I could not be happier if I actually did know something about publication and books and circulation and stuff.

The things I happen to be reading.

"When plain pancakes no longer thrill." was the headline for an article in today's New York Times, by Mark Bittman, The Minimalist. These words, of course, gave me pause. I am generally always thrilled with a pancake, plain or otherwise, although mainly when I am doing the cooking--other people's pancakes are dubious.

This inflammatory headline was in the print version. The online version was less provocative:



I have a well-documented swoony crush on pancakes. I remember back when I used to subscribe to Cuisine, the late, still-lamented Cuisine, there was a whole article about pancakes. Oh! the pancakes of my young wife- and motherhood! I still have the handwritten copies I made of those recipes for Johnnycake and Flannel Cakes, the latter of which required extensive and perhaps obsessive beating of eggs, leading to a velvety batter and lovely, light pancakes. Also, I am quite fond of a pancake made from cottage cheese and separated eggs, the whites of which are beaten until light and the whole affair scented with freshly grated nutmeg. If I could, I would eat pancakes every single day of my life for breakfast, and sometimes for dinner and occasionally for lunch. With jam, with syrup, even sometimes by their charming selves. Bittman's recipes, particularly for an oat pancake with cardamom, inspire optimism.

Coincidentally, tonight, while we were eating a sturdy and, it must be said, uninspiring dinner of a Boca burger and oven fries, I happened to glance at the mail, and there was the alumni magazine for my alma mater. Oh, all right, BYU. The first article, by the university president Cecil O. Samuelson, took me right back--it was the absolute quintessence of my BYU experience. At least some aspects of it.

I have tried to find an actual screen shot of the T of C, but alas, in vain, so it will have to suffice to give you the title--

"Appropriate Zeal"

--and the blurb:

"If we are not careful, our zeal for good things can exceed proper boundaries, and we may miss the mark."

Let me pause to add that among the other things BYU gave me are a working acquaintance with classical rhetorical devices and the OED, love of a university library, and an appreciation for basketball. And let us also pause to note that when BYU has a good basketball team, there is much rejoicing in the land. I cannot help myself in the rejoicing.

Also, I used to play the piano for four hours a day when I was at BYU, and that's no joke.

Anyway, back to the magazine: I am happy to report that on the very same Table of Contents page, the one with the cautionary message from my BYU past, there was also a picture of a waffle, with berries on it, with the promise of a recipe inside. Promised and delivered: and, the people, that waffle did comfort my very soul, and it did not miss the mark.

Dinner.

Son: What's for dinner?

Me: Thought I'd make soup. (chopping)

Son: . . . soup seems so . . . 50s to me.

Me: (laugh/chop)

Son: . . . like, it just seems kind of old-fashioned.

Me: (now sauteing/laughing)

Son: . . . when I hear "soup," I think of one word: Depression.

The week.

It starts on Tuesday, so there's that.

Only one stressful meeting--a bunch of non-stressful ones--and my poetry group at the end of it. So there's that.

My goals are:

• relax already.
• play the piano and sing every day.
• have a great class on Friday.
• make a little progress on a big outstanding issue for the faculty.

Also wrest a poem from my notes for the poetry group.

Also: relax already. Maybe if I keep saying it, I will.

And now I am off to record the narration for a little presentation for my online class. Good times! (relax already!)

Wonderful things.

1. Last night, my son celebrated his birthday by inviting friends and family to his house to re-create Bridge Over Troubled Water. There were a bunch of us--maybe 14 or 15--and lots and lots of instruments: a Kurzweil keyboard that was pretty awesome, a 6- and 12-string guitar, a bass, a drum kit, lots of congas and other small percussion instruments, mics, and a recording set up. (I'm forgetting other things, I'm sure. Tambourines.) Everyone prepared by listening to the original recording, then we all contributed to almost every song. Most of my kids, save Scotland daughter and soccer coach son, were there, and many of my son's musician and musically-inclined friends. It was so much fun. I have come away with the resolve that I (a) must find a way to sing more this year, because I love to sing, and (b) I must play the piano every day. Why not? There it sits, waiting for me.

2. We went to a wonderful concert at the Cathedral of the Madeleine yesterday afternoon, part of a collaboration of my employer and the Cathedral to celebrate the Martin Luther King, Jr holiday. A baritone, Robert Sims, performed a wonderful recital of American songs--protest and civil rights era songs, spirituals, and hymns. He was accompanied by a terrific pianist, Paul Hamilton, and, on a handful of songs, Michael Lucarelli, a local guitarist. It was uplifting and inspiring. The acoustics of that place give everything an almost otherworldly feeling.

3. Over the past week, I had the chance to hang out with two of my grandsons, one at a time. What a joy! Listening to them talk their way through drawings and paintings and building with blocks and Lincoln Logs--they're happy to be at my house, and when their parents return, they're happy to see their parents. This takes me out of my usual worries and it is entrancing.

4. My brand new Publication Studies class? Full of great students with creative project ideas, and I am completely thrilled, optimistic and thrilled.

Whoa, kids, busy already.

So, back to school.

I have met with the literary magazine class once. It was great. I love them. My other class, I have not met with yet--that's tomorrow, for three hours. Good times! Excited about it!

Just in case you were worried that, based upon the previous evidence, I, a public servant, am not really working, I shall now fill you in on my activities for the week:

a. finishing and fine-tuning syllabi (of course).

b. meeting with senior administrators.

c. meeting with a group of faculty on another campus.

d. Board of Trustees meeting.

e. Discussion Team meeting.

f. meeting with the Teaching and Learning Center director

g. conversation with faculty member on another another campus.

h. conversation with faculty member in my office.

i. meeting with chair, dean, and colleague.

j. meeting of the Faculty Association Executive Board

k. meeting with the Provost.

(for items c, d, e, f, j, and k, Middlebrow was also in attendance, the lucky bastard.)

Personally, I like to slide into the semester unannounced and browse for a little while before it notices me and grips me in the iron grip of its grippy paws and squeezes the life out of me.

But no.

And now, a few last touches on the syllabus for tomorrow.

I am going to try to keep this in mind for the next 16 weeks.

My daughter called last night.

"Hello?" I said. Croaked.

"You're still sick?" she said, alarmed.

It has lasted and lasted, the sick. I think now I'm definitely better. Except that "better" still requires some ibuprofen. On a regular basis.

We had a two-birthday dinner to celebrate tonight. (Happy Birthday to I. and S.! and while I'm at it--happy birthday to all my December and January birthday kids!)

Actually, it was pretty easy, as two-birthday dinners go. One pasta dish, one green salad, a couple of vegetables, store-bought (but excellent) bread. Pineapples, cut up. And cake. Still, that croaky voice put the whole celebratory gig in doubt.

"No, I'm fine," I reassured.

I wish it hadn't been such a long day on Friday. I wish I hadn't left my purse at this one store on Saturday, which added another half hour to my appointed rounds. I wish there were about three more grace days before school starts. I wish I were about an hour deep into a very restful sleep right now.

But it starts tomorrow.

(Luckily, at least one of my syllabi is finished.)

Unfinished 2010 business.

Tonight, we saw I Love You Phillip Morris, which I quite enjoyed. But enjoying it isn't the reason I mention it here. It's because it's a 2010 film, and I have now seen it . . . in 2011.

Frankly, I finished a couple of things for my last-semester class (2010), like, two days ago (2011), and I have a bunch more stuff I thought I would finish before the calendar turned (2010), but did not (2011). Here is the laughable list I composed before I even started grading (2010). I called it "big fat Christmas list":

The things that aren't crossed off are things I have not yet done (2011). Also must

• read a little Dickens for my book club,
• finish another book,
• see a bunch of 2010 movies, like maybe that arm-losing 127 Hours, even though the prospect makes me nauseated,
• clean some more stuff in my house (go ahead, just laugh),
• and plan the training/workshop agenda for the Publication Center,
• and organize my sock drawer (just kidding, already organized),
• and listen to the music I bought in 2010,
• AND finish those syllabi omG.

As long as it takes.

is how long it is taking me to write a syllabus. I am in the stage, right now, where my mind and what is about to "happen" in the new "semester" have an opposite electrical charge, so they basically repel each other.

Let me illustrate:

In other news, I did help someone else with his syllabus. And had tea with Dr. Write. Also, my throat still hurts, but less. And tomorrow is Thursday, also known the world over as Finish Your Syllabus Day. I plan a full observance of this event.

What is a syllabus?

Is it the skeleton of the course, that structure upon which the flesh and musculature of the days and weeks will rest?

Is it a promise?

Is it a contract? a recipe? an agenda, a calendar, a game plan?

Is it a sketch, preliminary to the painting that will emerge? A musical score, which the class and I will perform?

What I'm really asking is, can I just call what I have good enough, and let it go? or do I have to keep working on it?

The kind of sick.

I have the kind of sick where it hurts my throat to eat toast. Toast, the people! one of the basic food groups!

It's the kind of sick that doesn't allow you to go out to tea and a movie with your friend, which you had heretofore planned, but which does allow you to stay home and do work on your laptop, like writing drafts of reports and thinking about syllabi.

It's the kind of sick that you just have to freaking endure, knowing that it will abate, but it's going to take its own sweet time about it.

It's the kind of sick where, even though you have leftover cake from your dinner party two days before, the cake must languish because, like toast, it hurts to eat it. Yes, I am saying that in my present condition, cake--very good cake, if I do say so myself--is as toast, no offense to toast, because both of them are anathema to my throat. It's the kind of sick that calls for tea. Lots and lots of tea.

It's the kind of sick that wakes you up at 4 a.m. for more ibuprofen.

It's the kind of sick that visits you during the last few days of a break. Alas, break! you are nearly over and I am sick.

Tomorrow, it will be the kind of sick that helps me write two syllabi. O my syllabi: you will be redolent of contagion.

On and about the new year.

On New Year's Eve, I went out with my well-padded list to the expensive grocery store to buy the food for our New Year's Day family celebration; bought a camel-colored scarf; put gas in my car; and stopped at Target for dishwasher detergent. Then, we rang in the New Year with two movies, True Grit and The King's Speech, with Mexican food in between. Before bed, I baked the cake layers, made Honey Sesame cookies for good luck on New Year's Day, and made bread dough.

On New Year's Day, we baked the bread, iced the cake, made the white lasagne with mushrooms and artichoke hearts, tossed the lovely and spritely salad, cut up three pineapples and divested two pomegranates of their seeds. We had about 30 people at our house. It was rambunctious and the food was good and at the end of it, we collapsed.

Today, the day after New Year's Day, it is my daughter's birthday. She is in St. George for a few days--happy birthday, S! As for myself, I spent the day in the company of my good friend ibuprofen and a sore throat. I read the paper, did the crossword, read some of a couple of books, and lay abed whilst moaning softly. But my outlook is good. It is a new year, I have a new year calendar, and I already have a new year agenda. How about you?

In the new year, I hope to see the friends I miss seeing a little more often; play the piano and sing more; write regularly (I feel I have a little leg up on this, with the couple of dedicated sessions I spent on a couple of weekends); make some movies; walk a little longer and a little more frequently; and really pay attention to the people I love when I am with them. All of that will, I believe, make the new year grand.