It was five degrees and windy today, so I splurged and paid for a meter across from my office rather than hiking a mile from the student lot. Best dollar I ever spent. But the doors of my building were locked. I knocked furiously and wailed and kicked and shook the handle and yelled "Please, No!" until a confused-looking student finally cracked the door open and glared at me with one eye. "You need something?" she said.
"I'm freezing," I said. "And the door's locked. And I don't have a key. And why are the doors locked at 6 pm? It's freezing out here."
I really didn't want her to answer, and she didn't. She returned to her texting and I mumbled my way past her toward my office.
I was told a year-and-a-half ago that there's a building key waiting for me "down stairs," but I don't really know what that means. The only thing downstairs is a scary bathroom and some exposed duct work.
My concern tonight wasn't that I couldn't get into my building, it was that my students couldn't get in either. I had arranged for them to drop off their final projects between 6 and 7 in my office. But unlike last semester where I ended class two weeks too early, I had ended this semester a few hours too late. Finals were over, the dorms were closed, and the buildings were locked up. I should really start consulting the school's calendar when I write my syllabus. I'm also starting to wonder who the student was that let me in and what she was doing inside the empty, locked building.
To prevent the onslaught of frantic "The building was locked!" emails, I decided to wait by the front door until every last frozen student stopped by. When I would hear a knock (or frantic wailing and kicking) I would open the door a crack, snatch their folder, yell "Merry Christmas," and slam the door shut. But even that brief exchange would leave my knuckles frozen.
And now here I sit, ten hours later, finally thawed out, and I'm done: papers have been read, grades submitted to the registrar's office, next-semester's syllabus revised and printed, and nothing left to do but write this blog entry and contemplate how utterly bored I am. I miss school.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Giving Thanks
It is Thanksgiving, so I have written a Haiku to express my gratitude.
"The Office" on HULU:
Twenty-two minutes
Unless you count commercials
Then it's twenty-six
Since it's a holiday, I offer you a bonus Haiku (not so much in thanks as in frustration).
The Receptionist:Snap to it Nard Dog
I don't want this dragging out
for three more seasons
Twenty-two minutes
Unless you count commercials
Then it's twenty-six
Since it's a holiday, I offer you a bonus Haiku (not so much in thanks as in frustration).
The Receptionist:Snap to it Nard Dog
I don't want this dragging out
for three more seasons
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Three Elliot Moments this Week
Elliot to mom, while coughing: “My body’s not working today.”
Elliot a few hours later when the cough was gone: “My body is working again!”
Elliot to me while watching Dora: “Daddy, will you turn the toilet on for me?” (My mind immediately went to a weird place as I wondered what would turn a toilet on).
Elliot to me while I sang "Defying Gravity" from Wicked: “Daddy, stop! You’re making my ears sick.”
Elliot a few hours later when the cough was gone: “My body is working again!”
Elliot to me while watching Dora: “Daddy, will you turn the toilet on for me?” (My mind immediately went to a weird place as I wondered what would turn a toilet on).
Elliot to me while I sang "Defying Gravity" from Wicked: “Daddy, stop! You’re making my ears sick.”
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
My New Late-Night Hobby
I spent the better part of last night reading through old newspaper articles (kind of for school, but not really).
I found this funny little article from 1920 which claims that the slang word "movie" will soon die.
The term is a vulgar remnant of the days when theaters were cheap, filthy, and uncomfortable. Now, theaters are luxurious, "no longer cheap themselves," and no longer meriting a "cheap terminology." Instead, American's are adopting a terminology befitting the theaters beauty, dignity, and wealth.
We aren't movie fans watching a movie in a theater, we are motion picture patrons watching a photoplay in a picture theater.
The last theater I went to was cheap, filthy, and uncomfortable, so I'll stick with "movie."
I found this funny little article from 1920 which claims that the slang word "movie" will soon die.The term is a vulgar remnant of the days when theaters were cheap, filthy, and uncomfortable. Now, theaters are luxurious, "no longer cheap themselves," and no longer meriting a "cheap terminology." Instead, American's are adopting a terminology befitting the theaters beauty, dignity, and wealth.
We aren't movie fans watching a movie in a theater, we are motion picture patrons watching a photoplay in a picture theater.
The last theater I went to was cheap, filthy, and uncomfortable, so I'll stick with "movie."
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Say Hello to My Little Friend...
Peterson Law dictates
that since I just
bought a new snow-blower,
it won't snow more than a
couple of inches this year.
So to all the residents
of New Hampshire:
You're Welcome.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Dream Job
I'm grading resumes right now for my technical writing class, and one of my students put that he was a “Part-Time Tooter” at a youth center.
I don't know how to respond to that.
I don't know how to respond to that.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Flower Girl
Today, I stood at the top of a steep hill in front of the elementary school and watched my kids run down it. I wished I had my camera, because I knew it was only a matter of seconds before they would crash and burn.
Surprisingly, Elliot was the only one to fall.
She was wearing pink slippers and as she gained speed, she yelled, “Ooh, a flower.” Her attempt to bend over and pluck the flower despite her velocity proved problematic. “I’m Okay!” she yelled as she rolled and tumbled down the hill. “I’m Okay!”
She crawled back up to the flower, which turned out to be a wilted dandelion. “Oooh,” she said, and plucked it. She got to her feet and began running down the hill again. She only made it ten feet before face planting. As she tumbled, she held her dandelion up so it wouldn’t get smooshed. “I’m Okay!” she yelled. “I’m Okay!”
Surprisingly, Elliot was the only one to fall.
She was wearing pink slippers and as she gained speed, she yelled, “Ooh, a flower.” Her attempt to bend over and pluck the flower despite her velocity proved problematic. “I’m Okay!” she yelled as she rolled and tumbled down the hill. “I’m Okay!”
She crawled back up to the flower, which turned out to be a wilted dandelion. “Oooh,” she said, and plucked it. She got to her feet and began running down the hill again. She only made it ten feet before face planting. As she tumbled, she held her dandelion up so it wouldn’t get smooshed. “I’m Okay!” she yelled. “I’m Okay!”
Friday, September 4, 2009
A Good Honest Book
One of the few perks of being a college instructor is the free textbooks. If I like a book, I just email the publisher, tell them what class I’m teaching, and a couple days later it’s sitting on my doorstep. They usually don’t ask how a book on theoretical physics or the history of salt applies to freshman composition. But when they do, I fire my fancy words at them like synecdoche and terministic screen and then tell them, “I really don’t know how I can put this in a way that you would understand.”
I’ve been somewhat liberal in my acquisition of textbooks over the years. Our basement is full of boxes of books that I’ve never read and never will read, but the covers are so pretty, and the only thing harder for me to get rid of than a book is a FREE book.
One fateful morning last year it occurred to me that ordering books that I had no intention of using for teaching was dishonest. Maybe even a form of stealing. I remembered a sign in a music store that said, “Want Lower Prices? Tell Your Friends to Stop Shoplifting.” I was ashamed to think I might be the reason textbooks were so expensive for students. If only I could break my free-textbook addiction, my students might not have to shell out seventy-eight bucks for a copy of Huck Finn and could use their money, instead, to buy printers that didn’t break every time an assignment was due.
So I vowed to not be dishonest anymore with book publishers. If I wasn’t actually teaching from the book, I wouldn’t request it.
I started a graduate seminar this week, and my teacher flashed a book in front of me with earthy-green covers called The Norton Book of Composition Studies.
I had to have it. Not only because it was required for the class, but because it would look so nice on my bookshelf. But it cost fifty bucks, even in paperback.
Seeing my despair, one of my classmates slid a piece of paper to me. “Call this number,” she whispered. It was a number for Norton, who are notorious for denying free textbook requests—they know the difference between a professor and a cheap grad student. “This isn’t the normal book rep,” she said. “She’s an old lady that fills book orders. She won’t give you any problems.”
I’d like to say there was an inner struggle where I debated endlessly about whether I should call the number or just do the right thing and buy the book, but I knew as soon as she gave me the number that I couldn’t go through with it. I’m just not that guy anymore. So I threw the number away and decided to buy the book the old-fashioned way: with a credit card at Barnesandnoble.com.
Before hitting the Proceed-to-Checkout button and parting with fifty dollars, I decided to try one last thing I hadn't thought of before: being honest with the book seller.
I sent my local book rep an email and told her that I wasn’t going to lie: I’m a grad student and I’m not teaching with the book and probably never will, but I really, really want a free copy.
Today she sent me an email thanking me for my honesty and said my free copy is in the mail.
I love being rewarded for my honesty. I feel like I’m in third grade again! Now if I could just find a juice box and someone willing to read to me.
I’ve been somewhat liberal in my acquisition of textbooks over the years. Our basement is full of boxes of books that I’ve never read and never will read, but the covers are so pretty, and the only thing harder for me to get rid of than a book is a FREE book.
One fateful morning last year it occurred to me that ordering books that I had no intention of using for teaching was dishonest. Maybe even a form of stealing. I remembered a sign in a music store that said, “Want Lower Prices? Tell Your Friends to Stop Shoplifting.” I was ashamed to think I might be the reason textbooks were so expensive for students. If only I could break my free-textbook addiction, my students might not have to shell out seventy-eight bucks for a copy of Huck Finn and could use their money, instead, to buy printers that didn’t break every time an assignment was due.
So I vowed to not be dishonest anymore with book publishers. If I wasn’t actually teaching from the book, I wouldn’t request it.
I started a graduate seminar this week, and my teacher flashed a book in front of me with earthy-green covers called The Norton Book of Composition Studies.
I had to have it. Not only because it was required for the class, but because it would look so nice on my bookshelf. But it cost fifty bucks, even in paperback.
Seeing my despair, one of my classmates slid a piece of paper to me. “Call this number,” she whispered. It was a number for Norton, who are notorious for denying free textbook requests—they know the difference between a professor and a cheap grad student. “This isn’t the normal book rep,” she said. “She’s an old lady that fills book orders. She won’t give you any problems.”
I’d like to say there was an inner struggle where I debated endlessly about whether I should call the number or just do the right thing and buy the book, but I knew as soon as she gave me the number that I couldn’t go through with it. I’m just not that guy anymore. So I threw the number away and decided to buy the book the old-fashioned way: with a credit card at Barnesandnoble.com.
Before hitting the Proceed-to-Checkout button and parting with fifty dollars, I decided to try one last thing I hadn't thought of before: being honest with the book seller.
I sent my local book rep an email and told her that I wasn’t going to lie: I’m a grad student and I’m not teaching with the book and probably never will, but I really, really want a free copy.
Today she sent me an email thanking me for my honesty and said my free copy is in the mail.
I love being rewarded for my honesty. I feel like I’m in third grade again! Now if I could just find a juice box and someone willing to read to me.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Swedish Conspiracy
I’m not sure I like Volvos anymore. I got a flat today, which isn’t technically Volvo’s fault, but trying to change the tire in the middle of a crowded UNH parking lot with their factory-issued jack made me wonder a couple things about Swedish engineers: do they have a weird sense of humor, or do they just hate us?
The jack was standard issue so far as it was black and metal and tucked next to the spare tire. But it looked more like a post-modern sculpture of an old man kneeling and holding up his empty hands, like he’s begging forgiveness or offering me something and saying, “Here, take it, I’m all set.” I stared at it for several minutes before deciding which side was up and then guessed that the man’s golden tail was the hand crank.
My driver’s manual pointed out the two (and the ONLY two) spots on each side of the car where the jack fits: one under the back door, and one under the front door, and both are surprisingly close to the center of the car. I’m not a Swedish engineer, but even before I started cranking the old man’s tail, I knew that if you jack a car up halfway between the tires, you’re going to get a three-thousand pound teeter-totter. But what I didn’t figure out, until a few minutes later, is that when Volvos teeter, they don’t totter—they just come crashing down off the jack.
I’ll admit that it was my fault for letting this happen three times. The first time surprised me, and I did the squatting backwards jump with my hands in the air yelling, “I’m OK! I’m OK!”
No one walking by cared.
The second time I remained squatting and watched the rotor dig deep into the pavement.
The third time, I managed to stand up in time to threaten the car before it fell off the jack. “Come on,” I yelled. “We’ve been over this!”
A nice lady with gray hair picked up my jack and said, “Is this your jack?”
“I think so,” I said.
She turned it over in her hands a few times. “Really?”
She told me to wait and returned a few minutes later with a real jack from her GMC. I was then able to jack up the car the American way: under the axel.
I drove away feeling more leery than usual towards Sweden, but with a newfound respect for American engineering. And I totally dig cool gray-haired ladies willing to stop and help a sweaty fat guy yelling at his Volvo.
The jack was standard issue so far as it was black and metal and tucked next to the spare tire. But it looked more like a post-modern sculpture of an old man kneeling and holding up his empty hands, like he’s begging forgiveness or offering me something and saying, “Here, take it, I’m all set.” I stared at it for several minutes before deciding which side was up and then guessed that the man’s golden tail was the hand crank.
My driver’s manual pointed out the two (and the ONLY two) spots on each side of the car where the jack fits: one under the back door, and one under the front door, and both are surprisingly close to the center of the car. I’m not a Swedish engineer, but even before I started cranking the old man’s tail, I knew that if you jack a car up halfway between the tires, you’re going to get a three-thousand pound teeter-totter. But what I didn’t figure out, until a few minutes later, is that when Volvos teeter, they don’t totter—they just come crashing down off the jack.
I’ll admit that it was my fault for letting this happen three times. The first time surprised me, and I did the squatting backwards jump with my hands in the air yelling, “I’m OK! I’m OK!”
No one walking by cared.
The second time I remained squatting and watched the rotor dig deep into the pavement.
The third time, I managed to stand up in time to threaten the car before it fell off the jack. “Come on,” I yelled. “We’ve been over this!”
A nice lady with gray hair picked up my jack and said, “Is this your jack?”
“I think so,” I said.
She turned it over in her hands a few times. “Really?”
She told me to wait and returned a few minutes later with a real jack from her GMC. I was then able to jack up the car the American way: under the axel.
I drove away feeling more leery than usual towards Sweden, but with a newfound respect for American engineering. And I totally dig cool gray-haired ladies willing to stop and help a sweaty fat guy yelling at his Volvo.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Top Ten Reasons I Love My Wife
Today is our eleven-year anniversary, so I thought I would publicly applaud Laura’s wonderfulness. Here, in no particular order, are the top ten reasons I love my wife:
She’s supportive – I put Laura through a lot. Too many times I’ve come home to find her frazzled from watching the kids all day. All she wants is a little quiet time away from the kids or to spend some time with me, but when I tell her I’m sorry, that I have to run off to another meeting or to go out with the missionaries, she never complains. I couldn’t have accomplished all that I have without her at my side. There are days when it’s hard being away from home so much, between work and school and teaching and church responsibilities, but I always take comfort in knowing the house and kids are taken care of and that Laura supports what I’m doing. Plus, when I told her she would have to leave her family and Boise and truck to the other side of the country so I could do even more graduate work, she never hesitated. And when I get down on myself and doubt my decisions she reminds me of the bigger picture.
She’s a great mom – Laura hates it when I say “you’re a great mom” when citing the reasons why I love her. “Gee, thanks,” she says. “That’s what every woman wants to hear.” I think she’s looking for a more romantic answer, like “My heart turns to Jell-o every time I see you,” or something. But it’s true. She signs the kids up for soccer and piano and basketball and gets them to their games and practices and helps them with their homework and teaches them how to read and buys them arts-and-crafts supplies and takes them to the library and washes their clothes and cleans up their messes and kisses their boo-boos and gets them to church on time and laughs at their corny knock-knock jokes. She’s a fantastic mother.
She forces me off the couch – Laura and I don’t argue much, but when we do, it’s usually on my day off, and it usually involves Laura wanting to do something fun and me wanting to just sit on the couch and catch up on my Scrubs episodes. But she always wins (she ALWAYS wins), and we end up spending the day in Boston or at the beach or at a museum. I think New England would be wasted on me if it weren’t for her.
She mows the lawn – She does. Every week. Now if she would just figure out the weed-whacker, my life would be golden.
She’s a great cook – Remember how skinny I used to be before I met Laura?
She is funny – One of my faults is that I don’t laugh out loud very often. When I watch comedies I’m usually pretty quiet, which bothers Laura because she thinks I’m not enjoying the movie. Unfortunately, I’m the same way with Laura. I don’t laugh nearly enough at the funny things she does and says. She really is a crack up, and she can take me from a grouchy mood to a good mood with just one comment. She also maintains a very funny blog. Half the things the kids do aren’t nearly as funny and cute as when Laura retells it.
She’s smart – And she’s humble about it. I often take too much credit for the brains of the bunch. When people compliment us for how smart our kids are, Laura usually says they get it from me. She’s just being kind, probably because she feels bad that everyone already knows that the kids got their great looks from her. But most people don’t realize how often I have to ask Laura to explain things to me, like how our medical insurance works, which still baffles me. When we watched John Adams together, I saw a lot of similarities in Laura and Abigail Adams, who was the real brains and voice of reason in the relationship.
She’s beautiful – I remember sitting at Shari’s restaurant while on a date with Laura. I don’t think we were engaged yet. I kept looking at her nose and thinking, “My word, that’s a perfect nose! I want my kids to have that nose.” And, as luck would have it, they do. Or at least they don’t have my beak. She complains a lot that she looks frumpy when cleaning the house or mowing the lawn, but who doesn’t look frumpy when they’re working in sweatpants and a T-shirt? Even then, I still think she’s gorgeous. And she cleans up real nice too!
She loves God – If it weren’t for Laura, I probably would have stopped going to church years ago. It was particularly hard after the twins were born, and then again when I started my master’s degree. But no matter how tired or frustrated I was with going to church after two hours of sleep and wandering the halls with fussy babies, she made me do it. And I appreciate it.
She laughs at my jokes – They’re usually potty jokes, which I know she hates, but she laughs anyway. One of these days I’ll get her to finally “pull my finger,” and she’ll see how hilarious it really is.
She’s supportive – I put Laura through a lot. Too many times I’ve come home to find her frazzled from watching the kids all day. All she wants is a little quiet time away from the kids or to spend some time with me, but when I tell her I’m sorry, that I have to run off to another meeting or to go out with the missionaries, she never complains. I couldn’t have accomplished all that I have without her at my side. There are days when it’s hard being away from home so much, between work and school and teaching and church responsibilities, but I always take comfort in knowing the house and kids are taken care of and that Laura supports what I’m doing. Plus, when I told her she would have to leave her family and Boise and truck to the other side of the country so I could do even more graduate work, she never hesitated. And when I get down on myself and doubt my decisions she reminds me of the bigger picture.
She’s a great mom – Laura hates it when I say “you’re a great mom” when citing the reasons why I love her. “Gee, thanks,” she says. “That’s what every woman wants to hear.” I think she’s looking for a more romantic answer, like “My heart turns to Jell-o every time I see you,” or something. But it’s true. She signs the kids up for soccer and piano and basketball and gets them to their games and practices and helps them with their homework and teaches them how to read and buys them arts-and-crafts supplies and takes them to the library and washes their clothes and cleans up their messes and kisses their boo-boos and gets them to church on time and laughs at their corny knock-knock jokes. She’s a fantastic mother.
She forces me off the couch – Laura and I don’t argue much, but when we do, it’s usually on my day off, and it usually involves Laura wanting to do something fun and me wanting to just sit on the couch and catch up on my Scrubs episodes. But she always wins (she ALWAYS wins), and we end up spending the day in Boston or at the beach or at a museum. I think New England would be wasted on me if it weren’t for her.
She mows the lawn – She does. Every week. Now if she would just figure out the weed-whacker, my life would be golden.
She’s a great cook – Remember how skinny I used to be before I met Laura?
She is funny – One of my faults is that I don’t laugh out loud very often. When I watch comedies I’m usually pretty quiet, which bothers Laura because she thinks I’m not enjoying the movie. Unfortunately, I’m the same way with Laura. I don’t laugh nearly enough at the funny things she does and says. She really is a crack up, and she can take me from a grouchy mood to a good mood with just one comment. She also maintains a very funny blog. Half the things the kids do aren’t nearly as funny and cute as when Laura retells it.
She’s smart – And she’s humble about it. I often take too much credit for the brains of the bunch. When people compliment us for how smart our kids are, Laura usually says they get it from me. She’s just being kind, probably because she feels bad that everyone already knows that the kids got their great looks from her. But most people don’t realize how often I have to ask Laura to explain things to me, like how our medical insurance works, which still baffles me. When we watched John Adams together, I saw a lot of similarities in Laura and Abigail Adams, who was the real brains and voice of reason in the relationship.
She’s beautiful – I remember sitting at Shari’s restaurant while on a date with Laura. I don’t think we were engaged yet. I kept looking at her nose and thinking, “My word, that’s a perfect nose! I want my kids to have that nose.” And, as luck would have it, they do. Or at least they don’t have my beak. She complains a lot that she looks frumpy when cleaning the house or mowing the lawn, but who doesn’t look frumpy when they’re working in sweatpants and a T-shirt? Even then, I still think she’s gorgeous. And she cleans up real nice too!
She loves God – If it weren’t for Laura, I probably would have stopped going to church years ago. It was particularly hard after the twins were born, and then again when I started my master’s degree. But no matter how tired or frustrated I was with going to church after two hours of sleep and wandering the halls with fussy babies, she made me do it. And I appreciate it.
She laughs at my jokes – They’re usually potty jokes, which I know she hates, but she laughs anyway. One of these days I’ll get her to finally “pull my finger,” and she’ll see how hilarious it really is.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Fiction 101: Big Bad, by Mike Peterson
Allen the Ferocious winced as hot wax dribbled down his fingers. He switched hands and proceeded with the chant, but the wax soon oozed down his other hand, onto his wrist. The shop girl never said anything about this, only that black candles were super sexy. And he believed her.
He jumped when wax landed on his toes, bumping the offering table. A chicken’s foot rolled off.
“It’s fine,” he reassured himself. “No one sees this part.” He bent to pick it up, and the candle went out.
In darkness he knelt, searching for the chicken’s foot. He refused to cry.
He jumped when wax landed on his toes, bumping the offering table. A chicken’s foot rolled off.
“It’s fine,” he reassured himself. “No one sees this part.” He bent to pick it up, and the candle went out.
In darkness he knelt, searching for the chicken’s foot. He refused to cry.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Fiction 101: Thicker than Water, by Mike Peterson
Max didn’t know Dax was a swamp monster. Dax didn’t even know it. Their dad had suspected it, but he was curious to see how it would all play out.
As Max descended the spiral staircase for breakfast, he felt Dax’s teeth sink into his Achilles tendon. Max wailed in pain, but mostly he wailed for justice. Mom intervened. A time-out was issued. Band-aids were applied.
Max finished his Cocoa Puffs and yelled, “Last one in the pool is donkey drool!” He slapped Dax’s forehead and darted out the door.
Dax waited before following. He patted his growling stomach and smiled.
As Max descended the spiral staircase for breakfast, he felt Dax’s teeth sink into his Achilles tendon. Max wailed in pain, but mostly he wailed for justice. Mom intervened. A time-out was issued. Band-aids were applied.
Max finished his Cocoa Puffs and yelled, “Last one in the pool is donkey drool!” He slapped Dax’s forehead and darted out the door.
Dax waited before following. He patted his growling stomach and smiled.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Day at the Office
There’s a scene in Dances with Wolves where Lt. Dunbar (Kevin Costner) shoots a buffalo as it charges toward Smiles A Lot, a teenage boy. The buffalo instantly becomes lifeless. It face-plants and slides to a thunderous halt, stopping inches from the boy’s feet.
Today I arrived at my office at UNH feeling energetic and ready to read and evaluate a stack of personal essays for the textbook I’m editing. I grabbed the first essay, entitled “Summer of Change,” and made it two lines in before face-planting into my desk. I’m amazed at the efficiency with which students can suck your will to live.
I’ve come to a conclusion: essays about the death of a grandparent can be interesting, but not when written by college freshmen. There were a few other abused themes I had to deal with: prom night, the best summer ever, the car crash, the first kiss, the big game, and—for some weird reason—the dog that died of cancer. Dog cancer is apparently endemic to northern New England.
My office is on the third story of Hamilton Smith Hall, which is completely deserted now that the semester has ended. The lights are off, the halls are silent, and the bathrooms are clean. It’s eerie, but I enjoy the solitude. After Cinnamon, the third cancer-ridden dog, finally died, and the student realized that life is short and each day must be lived to its fullest, I limped from my office feeling like the buffalo after taking five shots to the chest.
I needed a diversion, so I grabbed a book off my shelf called Proust was a Neuroscientist, and began writing quotes from it on the whiteboards hanging on the office doors of my colleagues. There are 16 offices on the third floor, and I could only find five or six good quotes, but that didn’t stop me. On one white board, I quoted the copyright page. When I finished, I decided it was stupid, so I erased all the white boards and returned to my office.
I charged through another five essays and started having weird emotional responses. I found myself laughing at things that weren’t meant to be funny. I felt angry at one essay that was excruciatingly boring but had a fantastic ending that involved the student and a mentally-challenged girl spinning in circles on the front lawn of the high school. It was devastating and beautiful. Why did it have to come at the end of six pages of mindless wandering?
After reading an essay about a chubby twelve-year-old boy who rides a BMX aimlessly for seven pages, I decided my random white-board quotes were actually kind of funny, so I made the rounds and rewrote all of them.
It took four hours to finish the stack of essays. I felt sorry for the students on the bottom of the pile. In the beginning, I wrote thoughtful evaluations: Good use of narrative and reflection; strong descriptions; well organized. By the end, I was writing things like, Yawn.com, Could this BE any more boring? And, There’s 20 minutes I’ll never get back.
Fortunately, the students will never read my comments. These are just notes for the other editors to help us when we get together next week to decide which few will make it into the book. But maybe that’s the kind of honesty students need from their teachers. Maybe next semester I’ll take this more candid approach, with notes in the margins like, This paragraph makes me really sad. I don’t know why. Or, Really? That’s the big epiphany you had when Cocoa died of a brain tumor, that friendship lasts forever? Really?
On my way out of my office, I decided--after all--that the white-board quotes weren’t really that funny. So I erased them. But I didn’t erase the one with the copyright info. My colleague will probably think it’s a poem and spend an hour analyzing it.
Today I arrived at my office at UNH feeling energetic and ready to read and evaluate a stack of personal essays for the textbook I’m editing. I grabbed the first essay, entitled “Summer of Change,” and made it two lines in before face-planting into my desk. I’m amazed at the efficiency with which students can suck your will to live.
I’ve come to a conclusion: essays about the death of a grandparent can be interesting, but not when written by college freshmen. There were a few other abused themes I had to deal with: prom night, the best summer ever, the car crash, the first kiss, the big game, and—for some weird reason—the dog that died of cancer. Dog cancer is apparently endemic to northern New England.
My office is on the third story of Hamilton Smith Hall, which is completely deserted now that the semester has ended. The lights are off, the halls are silent, and the bathrooms are clean. It’s eerie, but I enjoy the solitude. After Cinnamon, the third cancer-ridden dog, finally died, and the student realized that life is short and each day must be lived to its fullest, I limped from my office feeling like the buffalo after taking five shots to the chest.
I needed a diversion, so I grabbed a book off my shelf called Proust was a Neuroscientist, and began writing quotes from it on the whiteboards hanging on the office doors of my colleagues. There are 16 offices on the third floor, and I could only find five or six good quotes, but that didn’t stop me. On one white board, I quoted the copyright page. When I finished, I decided it was stupid, so I erased all the white boards and returned to my office.
I charged through another five essays and started having weird emotional responses. I found myself laughing at things that weren’t meant to be funny. I felt angry at one essay that was excruciatingly boring but had a fantastic ending that involved the student and a mentally-challenged girl spinning in circles on the front lawn of the high school. It was devastating and beautiful. Why did it have to come at the end of six pages of mindless wandering?
After reading an essay about a chubby twelve-year-old boy who rides a BMX aimlessly for seven pages, I decided my random white-board quotes were actually kind of funny, so I made the rounds and rewrote all of them.
It took four hours to finish the stack of essays. I felt sorry for the students on the bottom of the pile. In the beginning, I wrote thoughtful evaluations: Good use of narrative and reflection; strong descriptions; well organized. By the end, I was writing things like, Yawn.com, Could this BE any more boring? And, There’s 20 minutes I’ll never get back.
Fortunately, the students will never read my comments. These are just notes for the other editors to help us when we get together next week to decide which few will make it into the book. But maybe that’s the kind of honesty students need from their teachers. Maybe next semester I’ll take this more candid approach, with notes in the margins like, This paragraph makes me really sad. I don’t know why. Or, Really? That’s the big epiphany you had when Cocoa died of a brain tumor, that friendship lasts forever? Really?
On my way out of my office, I decided--after all--that the white-board quotes weren’t really that funny. So I erased them. But I didn’t erase the one with the copyright info. My colleague will probably think it’s a poem and spend an hour analyzing it.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Fiction 101: Gone Fishing
He fished the swamp because it was all he had, never catching anything but grass and leeches. He walked across a log and stopped at a wide, inky pool where he thought a fish had jumped. But before he could cast, he slipped. He was hip-high in mud, chest-high in water. He grabbed the log, but the harder he pulled, the deeper he sank. The warm mud crept up his torso; the water reached his lips.
He forced himself to relax. He marveled at his coolness under pressure.
Somewhere, another fish jumped, but the water around him remained silent and undisturbed.
(For those of you new to Fiction 101, these are stories I write that have exactly 101 words.)
He forced himself to relax. He marveled at his coolness under pressure.
Somewhere, another fish jumped, but the water around him remained silent and undisturbed.
(For those of you new to Fiction 101, these are stories I write that have exactly 101 words.)
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Post-Semester Jitters
It takes me a couple weeks to work through my Post Traumatic Semester Disorder. I have a hard time relaxing and just doing nothing—I feel the incessant need to be productive, and I keep getting mini-panic attacks where I think I’m forgetting to do something. An episode or two of Buffy is usually enough to get me through the harder moments, but sometimes the only remedy is to find an old seminar paper and revise it.
One thing I’ve discovered that helps is reading online movie and television screenplays. I’ve started reading them at work. Last night I read a pre-production script for Truman. It’s fascinating to see how much of the script makes it into the movie verbatim, and how much is changed. For example, in the original script, Truman shoots down a helicopter with a flare gun. He also escapes the dome and hijacks a tour bus. He also has some “private” moments that I’m glad they didn’t put into the movie.
I also read a post-production version of Big Fish, but I was very disappointed. Post-production scripts are rewritten to take into account all the changes that were made in the movie—so they would be good to read if, say, you haven’t seen the movie yet. Who knows, maybe the next Harry Potter script is online.
If you have a couple hours to spare and want to read something fun, I suggest putting down your novel or magazine and find a screenplay. They’re available at a lot of sites—just google “screenplay” or “movie scripts.” One website I like is www.imsdb.com. It has a good selection of pre- and post-production scripts, including a lot of television shows. I suggest the Seinfeld pre-production scripts. They’re brilliant.
One thing I’ve discovered that helps is reading online movie and television screenplays. I’ve started reading them at work. Last night I read a pre-production script for Truman. It’s fascinating to see how much of the script makes it into the movie verbatim, and how much is changed. For example, in the original script, Truman shoots down a helicopter with a flare gun. He also escapes the dome and hijacks a tour bus. He also has some “private” moments that I’m glad they didn’t put into the movie.
I also read a post-production version of Big Fish, but I was very disappointed. Post-production scripts are rewritten to take into account all the changes that were made in the movie—so they would be good to read if, say, you haven’t seen the movie yet. Who knows, maybe the next Harry Potter script is online.
If you have a couple hours to spare and want to read something fun, I suggest putting down your novel or magazine and find a screenplay. They’re available at a lot of sites—just google “screenplay” or “movie scripts.” One website I like is www.imsdb.com. It has a good selection of pre- and post-production scripts, including a lot of television shows. I suggest the Seinfeld pre-production scripts. They’re brilliant.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
And the Award for Outstanding Teacher Goes to…
I don’t know how it happened, but I ended class a week and a half early. Last Wednesday I collected my students’ final papers, graded them, and posted their semester grades online. This Monday, when I went to clean up my office for the summer, I noticed that all the classrooms were still full. Students were milling the halls and teachers were conferencing with students in their offices.
I asked one of my colleagues about it, being careful not to admit my mistake. She said Wednesday would be her last day of class and then she’ll give her students this Friday off to finish their papers.
As I thought about it, it did seem odd when my students were turning in their final papers while I still had two weeks of graduate classes left. But I had too much on my mind at the time to play Sherlock Holmes with the schedule.
I finished cleaning up my office, but then I felt like I should pretend to be grading papers or something, so folks wouldn't realize I had already started my summer vacation.
I asked one of my colleagues about it, being careful not to admit my mistake. She said Wednesday would be her last day of class and then she’ll give her students this Friday off to finish their papers.
As I thought about it, it did seem odd when my students were turning in their final papers while I still had two weeks of graduate classes left. But I had too much on my mind at the time to play Sherlock Holmes with the schedule.
I finished cleaning up my office, but then I felt like I should pretend to be grading papers or something, so folks wouldn't realize I had already started my summer vacation.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
My New Teaching Assignment
I’m teaching technical writing to a class of engineering students next semester, which has me concerned for two reasons: I don’t know the first thing about technical writing, and I’m terrified of engineers. I’m thinking of assigning Engineering for Dummies. I won’t tell them it’s a joke. I’ll just put it out there and ask for a report on it, standard format, and see what they come up with. Then I’ll write on the top of each report, “I’m not sure I like your tone.” It’s good to keep them on their toes. Plus it might divert attention from the fact that I’m teaching in a distance learning lab but can’t figure out how to work the projector.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Ride Along
I started out my shift on a ride along with the Durham police. I couldn’t find the regular stuff, so I ate a box of children’s Dramamine and then sat for three hours with my forehead pressed against the passenger window while the sergeant drove around in circles pointing out frat houses and stop signs. Durham doesn’t have much going on, especially on a Wednesday night. We pulled into the parking lot of a run-down apartment complex. “You should see this place on a Friday night,” he said. “Or a Saturday. Or even a Thursday. It’s crazy.”
But it wasn’t a Friday or a Saturday or even a Thursday. It was Wednesday, the town was deserted, and I was starting to see things.
We headed south toward Great Bay until the air became thick and smelled like week-old egg salad. It made me hungry. I thought I saw a heard of buffalo sleeping in a pile. The sergeant pulled over and pointed beyond an electric fence. “See that herd of buffalo sleeping in a pile?”
They have farms for that sort of thing in New Hampshire.
As we headed back to town, we saw a deer who apparently wasn’t affiliated with a farm standing on the side of the road. And a bunch of trees. A rock. Another stop sign.
We ended the night by stopping at Dunkin Donuts. I peeled my head off the window and got out of the car. Three hours of sitting and staring mixed with Dramamine and sheer boredom resulted in a bad case of the jelly legs. I tried to walk to the front door, but stumbled in a large half-circle to the middle of the parking lot. I thought the sergeant was going to make me touch my nose and walk toe-to-toe before continuing on. But he was already inside, slightly leaning over the display case, rubbing his hands together, considering the possibilities.
But it wasn’t a Friday or a Saturday or even a Thursday. It was Wednesday, the town was deserted, and I was starting to see things.
We headed south toward Great Bay until the air became thick and smelled like week-old egg salad. It made me hungry. I thought I saw a heard of buffalo sleeping in a pile. The sergeant pulled over and pointed beyond an electric fence. “See that herd of buffalo sleeping in a pile?”
They have farms for that sort of thing in New Hampshire.
As we headed back to town, we saw a deer who apparently wasn’t affiliated with a farm standing on the side of the road. And a bunch of trees. A rock. Another stop sign.
We ended the night by stopping at Dunkin Donuts. I peeled my head off the window and got out of the car. Three hours of sitting and staring mixed with Dramamine and sheer boredom resulted in a bad case of the jelly legs. I tried to walk to the front door, but stumbled in a large half-circle to the middle of the parking lot. I thought the sergeant was going to make me touch my nose and walk toe-to-toe before continuing on. But he was already inside, slightly leaning over the display case, rubbing his hands together, considering the possibilities.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Elliot's Pink Comb of Horror
I was watching Family Feud when Elliot came up to me with a hot-pink comb and asked if she could brush my hair. I put her on my lap, took off my hat, and told her, “Sure.”
She grabbed a fistful of hair, stabbed me repeatedly in the forehead, and then ripped the clump of hair out.
"Be careful!" I yelled.
She dropped the comb, grabbed two fistfuls of hair, yanked them alternately, and sang “Shake your booty!”
I told her that was enough and set her on the floor, but in an instant she climbed back up, recovered the comb, and attempted to saw my ear off. I yelped, pushed her aside, and ran to the bathroom. I wasn't bleeding, but things were looking a bit thinner up there.
I didn’t dare come out. I could hear her on the other side of the door. She walked back and forth, dragging the comb across the door, quietly singing: “I comb your hair. I comb your hair.”
“Go away!” I yelled.
After a minute or so, she went quiet. But I knew she was there, pink comb in one hand, clump of hair in the other. I turned out the light, slowly opened the door, and peeked into the hallway.
There was no sign of her.
I didn’t know if I should run for the bedroom or stay put. But then, to my relief, I heard Griffin squeal from the family room, “Get off of me! You’re hurting me! No shake your booty! No shake your booty!”
She grabbed a fistful of hair, stabbed me repeatedly in the forehead, and then ripped the clump of hair out.
"Be careful!" I yelled.
She dropped the comb, grabbed two fistfuls of hair, yanked them alternately, and sang “Shake your booty!”
I told her that was enough and set her on the floor, but in an instant she climbed back up, recovered the comb, and attempted to saw my ear off. I yelped, pushed her aside, and ran to the bathroom. I wasn't bleeding, but things were looking a bit thinner up there.
I didn’t dare come out. I could hear her on the other side of the door. She walked back and forth, dragging the comb across the door, quietly singing: “I comb your hair. I comb your hair.”
“Go away!” I yelled.
After a minute or so, she went quiet. But I knew she was there, pink comb in one hand, clump of hair in the other. I turned out the light, slowly opened the door, and peeked into the hallway.
There was no sign of her.
I didn’t know if I should run for the bedroom or stay put. But then, to my relief, I heard Griffin squeal from the family room, “Get off of me! You’re hurting me! No shake your booty! No shake your booty!”
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Future English Teacher
I woke up early this morning to finish writing a book review. I was plugging away at the computer, book open in my lap, when Miles, my seven-year-old son, walked over to see what I was doing. He leaned against the computer desk—pajama-clad with wild hair—looked at the screen, down at the book, and back at the screen. “You know it’s illegal to copy out of books,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, and continued typing. “Where did you hear that?”
“My teacher told me.”
“Well I’m not copying,” I said. “I’m writing about the book.”
“Hmmm…” he said. “So you’re like quoting and putting it in your own words and stuff?”
“Yup," I said. "That’s what I’m doing.”
“Good,” he said. “Just making sure.”
“Oh,” I said, and continued typing. “Where did you hear that?”
“My teacher told me.”
“Well I’m not copying,” I said. “I’m writing about the book.”
“Hmmm…” he said. “So you’re like quoting and putting it in your own words and stuff?”
“Yup," I said. "That’s what I’m doing.”
“Good,” he said. “Just making sure.”
Monday, March 2, 2009
Procrastination
Hypocrisy isn’t something to be ashamed of. We should recognize it and embrace it. If we ever truly convince ourselves that we’re not hypocrites, then we have lost our ability to be self critical, which is a sad state of affairs.
My weekly hypocrisy comes in the form of procrastination. I’m writing this, in fact, while avoiding two papers that I should have finished and emailed to my professor five hours ago. I could blame Will.I.Am blaring on my PC speakers (“I like ‘em Chunky”), or the episode of Medium playing in the other room, but the real culprit is this deep-seated feeling of “I don’t want to, and you can’t make me!”
I sent an email to my students a few weeks back where I actually told them, “Please don’t wait until the last minute to write this essay. Take your time and have fun with it.”
Take your time and have fun with it? I’m working on my third English degree and I’ve never taken my time and had fun with any writing assignment. I even capped off the email with, “Leave yourself plenty of time to revise, because that’s when the fun really starts!”
I wrote that. For reals. Exclamation point and all. I would have hated myself as a teacher. Pile on the homework, give me strict deadlines, make me respond to boring articles, but don’t send me happy emails with exclamation points saying it’s going to be fun.
The world doesn’t need another writing cheerleader.
Maybe I should take a more realistic approach in my next email:
Class –
Your essay is due in a few hours, and I’m sure you’re just getting started. I know that writing this paper sucks, but just think of how badly it sucks for me having to read them. You only have to write one of these stinkers. I have to read twenty-five of them. So please, for the love of all things holy, try to make them interesting. If that’s not possible, just staple a twenty to the back and call it good. Either way, you’re all getting a C.
P.S. If you’re having fun writing your essay, you need help.
P.P.S. I put office hours on my syllabus because my boss told me to. My door really isn’t open—please leave me alone.
My weekly hypocrisy comes in the form of procrastination. I’m writing this, in fact, while avoiding two papers that I should have finished and emailed to my professor five hours ago. I could blame Will.I.Am blaring on my PC speakers (“I like ‘em Chunky”), or the episode of Medium playing in the other room, but the real culprit is this deep-seated feeling of “I don’t want to, and you can’t make me!”
I sent an email to my students a few weeks back where I actually told them, “Please don’t wait until the last minute to write this essay. Take your time and have fun with it.”
Take your time and have fun with it? I’m working on my third English degree and I’ve never taken my time and had fun with any writing assignment. I even capped off the email with, “Leave yourself plenty of time to revise, because that’s when the fun really starts!”
I wrote that. For reals. Exclamation point and all. I would have hated myself as a teacher. Pile on the homework, give me strict deadlines, make me respond to boring articles, but don’t send me happy emails with exclamation points saying it’s going to be fun.
The world doesn’t need another writing cheerleader.
Maybe I should take a more realistic approach in my next email:
Class –
Your essay is due in a few hours, and I’m sure you’re just getting started. I know that writing this paper sucks, but just think of how badly it sucks for me having to read them. You only have to write one of these stinkers. I have to read twenty-five of them. So please, for the love of all things holy, try to make them interesting. If that’s not possible, just staple a twenty to the back and call it good. Either way, you’re all getting a C.
P.S. If you’re having fun writing your essay, you need help.
P.P.S. I put office hours on my syllabus because my boss told me to. My door really isn’t open—please leave me alone.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
When Crazy Calls
Yesterday, while waiting alone in a classroom for a seminar to start, I overheard a male student in the hall yelling at someone. I walked to the door and saw a scrawny pizza-faced kid yelling at Mary, an extremely sweet-hearted teacher of ours. “I’m going to the dean on Friday, and you’ll never work here again. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
Each time he yelled “I hate you,” his voice rose and he swatted at his face. The guy was obviously cuckoo for cocoa puffs.
It was one of those moments where I should have leapt into action and made sure everything was OK, but as the adrenaline kicked in, I found myself stepping behind the door jam. I peeked around the corner and hoped the little freak would finish his tantrum and leave. But he didn’t. He just kept yelling while spit dangled from his mouth.
I’m terrified of crazy people. I could ride comfortably on a bus full of grouchy gang members, but if I see a slipper-footed old lady get on the bus, talking to herself and caressing a shoe, I start looking for the exit. I don’t do crazy.
As I hunkered behind the door, I had a quick vision of Elliott from Law and Order asking me where I was when the crime occurred, and why I didn’t intervene (I know, he’s special victims, but still…).
“This wasn’t in the job description,” I muttered and grabbed a pen off the table. I stepped into the hall, trying to look casual, not knowing what my plan was. Maybe I was hoping he’d see the pen and think, “Wow, I really need to reassess my objectives here.”
But just then a male professor stepped around the corner and asked if everything was alright.
“Yeah,” I said, in my manliest voice. “Everything OK?”
The kid yelled one last “I hate you,” and ran to the exit. The three of us stood and watched him try to slam the old wooden door, but he couldn’t get enough weight behind it. He opened and closed the door three times, and each time it only made a gentle fwump. From the stairwell, we heard, “I hate all of you.”
Mary just waved it off. “I’m fine,” she said and went back in her office.
“That was weird,” I said to the professor. I punched the palm of my hand. “I thought I was going to have to bust some skulls.”
He didn’t respond. He just walked off, and there I stood, my hands shaking, feeling like I needed to puke.
Each time he yelled “I hate you,” his voice rose and he swatted at his face. The guy was obviously cuckoo for cocoa puffs.
It was one of those moments where I should have leapt into action and made sure everything was OK, but as the adrenaline kicked in, I found myself stepping behind the door jam. I peeked around the corner and hoped the little freak would finish his tantrum and leave. But he didn’t. He just kept yelling while spit dangled from his mouth.
I’m terrified of crazy people. I could ride comfortably on a bus full of grouchy gang members, but if I see a slipper-footed old lady get on the bus, talking to herself and caressing a shoe, I start looking for the exit. I don’t do crazy.
As I hunkered behind the door, I had a quick vision of Elliott from Law and Order asking me where I was when the crime occurred, and why I didn’t intervene (I know, he’s special victims, but still…).
“This wasn’t in the job description,” I muttered and grabbed a pen off the table. I stepped into the hall, trying to look casual, not knowing what my plan was. Maybe I was hoping he’d see the pen and think, “Wow, I really need to reassess my objectives here.”
But just then a male professor stepped around the corner and asked if everything was alright.
“Yeah,” I said, in my manliest voice. “Everything OK?”
The kid yelled one last “I hate you,” and ran to the exit. The three of us stood and watched him try to slam the old wooden door, but he couldn’t get enough weight behind it. He opened and closed the door three times, and each time it only made a gentle fwump. From the stairwell, we heard, “I hate all of you.”
Mary just waved it off. “I’m fine,” she said and went back in her office.
“That was weird,” I said to the professor. I punched the palm of my hand. “I thought I was going to have to bust some skulls.”
He didn’t respond. He just walked off, and there I stood, my hands shaking, feeling like I needed to puke.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
CSI: Idaho
Reading through my childhood journals, I notice two recurring compulsions: I apologize any time more than a week goes by without writing, and I meticulously document what I ate for dinner.
June 1st, 1989. Sorry I haven’t written for so long. I’ve been busy. Tonight we ate pork chops with rice pilaf and dinner rolls. I ate two pork chops, but I didn’t like the dinner rolls.
I’d like to say I’ve evolved since then, but I feel compelled to apologize for not blogging these last few weeks, and to inform you I had a Cup O’ Noodles and pretzels for dinner. The pretzels were stale. I found them in my office.
My wife makes fun of the rote detail of my journal entries.
Today in typing class we learned the letters J and F.
Today we learned Y and T. I have a hard time hitting the Y.
But who else knows the exact day they learned to hit the Q without looking at the keyboard? I do. October 19th, 1991. It was a special day for me. We had meatloaf for dinner.
I like to think that someday the team from CSI could accurately reconstruct my 7th grade typing class.
“She couldn’t have gone missing that Friday,” Horatio will say, taking off his sunglasses. “They were learning the H and G that week, and the victim’s finger clearly shows stretching of the tendons. That could have only happened on a B or Y day, which didn’t occur until two weeks later.”
“But we found remnants of corn dog and tater tots in her teeth,” Delko will rebut. “And according to this journal, they were served on October 5th, but not again until November 27th.”
Horatio, framed by the setting sun and a pine tree, will let out a long, calculated sigh. “The journal doesn’t lie,” he’ll say. “It’s boring, but it doesn’t lie.”
Perhaps I’ve gotten past journaling the minutia of my life, but it’s hardly any more worthy of NBC primetime. I could tell you how I learned today that Oliver Wendell Holmes, as a Supreme Court judge, favored the uncertainty of pragmatism over the immutable platonist "Truths" (with a capital T) of his antebellum youth. But is that really CSI material?
Maybe House could pull it off. He could find the connection between Holmes, the Cup O' Noodles, and the weird itch in my belly button.
June 1st, 1989. Sorry I haven’t written for so long. I’ve been busy. Tonight we ate pork chops with rice pilaf and dinner rolls. I ate two pork chops, but I didn’t like the dinner rolls.
I’d like to say I’ve evolved since then, but I feel compelled to apologize for not blogging these last few weeks, and to inform you I had a Cup O’ Noodles and pretzels for dinner. The pretzels were stale. I found them in my office.
My wife makes fun of the rote detail of my journal entries.
Today in typing class we learned the letters J and F.
Today we learned Y and T. I have a hard time hitting the Y.
But who else knows the exact day they learned to hit the Q without looking at the keyboard? I do. October 19th, 1991. It was a special day for me. We had meatloaf for dinner.
I like to think that someday the team from CSI could accurately reconstruct my 7th grade typing class.
“She couldn’t have gone missing that Friday,” Horatio will say, taking off his sunglasses. “They were learning the H and G that week, and the victim’s finger clearly shows stretching of the tendons. That could have only happened on a B or Y day, which didn’t occur until two weeks later.”
“But we found remnants of corn dog and tater tots in her teeth,” Delko will rebut. “And according to this journal, they were served on October 5th, but not again until November 27th.”
Horatio, framed by the setting sun and a pine tree, will let out a long, calculated sigh. “The journal doesn’t lie,” he’ll say. “It’s boring, but it doesn’t lie.”
Perhaps I’ve gotten past journaling the minutia of my life, but it’s hardly any more worthy of NBC primetime. I could tell you how I learned today that Oliver Wendell Holmes, as a Supreme Court judge, favored the uncertainty of pragmatism over the immutable platonist "Truths" (with a capital T) of his antebellum youth. But is that really CSI material?
Maybe House could pull it off. He could find the connection between Holmes, the Cup O' Noodles, and the weird itch in my belly button.
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