July 2007 Archives

In a tribute to Swedish film director Ingmar Bergman, who died yesterday at 89, I present you with the greatest parody of his most famous films, The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries -- The Dove (or De Düva):

Western Washington is known for its incredible hikes. You can't throw a latte around here without hitting some kind of trail head through our mountains, rain forests, or coastal areas. And yet, for a dazzling urbanite like me, it's difficult to get too worked up about it. I enjoy a good stroll through the wilderness every now and then, but I'm not really up for anything more than a half-day outing at best. I've had to toughen myself a bit for Ray's sake (he loves to hike, and I want him to love to hike), but I have to resign myself to the fact that I'm just not "outdoorsy."

Today, though, we tackled the most interesting trail I've ever seen -- a 2.3 mile decommissioned railroad tunnel at Snoqualmie Pass about an hour east of Seattle.

The old tunnel is utterly devoid of light. Water drips (and sometimes pours) from the vaulted ceilings, echoing throughout the chamber. Alcoves filled with old electrical gear line the walls and contribute to the overall sense of decay and abandonment. The trail is somewhat popular and supports biking as well as foot traffic, but when we arrived, we were the only ones venturing into the darkness, and when we turned off our flashlights, we could see only the faint blue speck of daylight from the distant mouth of the tunnel. Ray had FungusTheBogeyman on his mind and remarked that the tunnel would be a good environment for a Bogey -- dark, wet, and quiet.

Ray was a trooper, as usual, and trekked the half-mile to the entrance as well as the entire length of the tunnel, which seemed to go on forever. The goal of today's mission was, of course, one of Amy's coveted Geocaches (her 300th), which we found hidden in a dead stump about a half-mile from the western mouth of the tunnel. Ray finally petered out about halfway into the return journey, which means he logged about 6 miles on his tiny legs before we heard the first complaint. Amy and I took turns carrying him most of the rest of the way, which increased our workout considerably.

Maybe if I believed in a god I'd have more appreciation for natural beauty, but give me a good man-made structure -- a feat of engineering -- and I'm happy.

After I first started working in higher education nearly fourteen years ago I started hearing stuff about this person called "The Provost." I was completely unfamiliar with the term, and it was not really clear to me what this "Provost" person did at a University But "The Provost" was always discussed with great reverence and awe, so I decided very early on in my career that I wanted to be a Provost.

I mainly just liked the name.

I grew to learn that the Provost is the Chief Academic Officer at a University. Minimally, all the Deans report to the Provost. At some schools, the Provost is also in charge of the budget and a variety of other areas. Provosts are, in fact, a Very Big Deal, and are generally recruited from a pool of well-respected academics with 100-page CV's and the power to bend steel beams with their minds.

Suffice to say, I realized that I probably won't ever be a Provost.

However, I just scored a position that's probably the closest to a Provosture that I'll ever get: a job as Associate Vice Provost with the University of Washington's Office of Information Management. It has the word "Provost" right there in the title!

I just got back from spending a few days in New York City attending a leadership training program. Look! That's me by the Brooklyn Bridge!!

When I was in sixth grade, my best friend, Ed, discovered a strange book on the shelves of our school's library -- Fungus the Bogeyman.

Fungus is a graphic novel (aka comic book) by Raymond Briggs that depicts the life and existential angst of a Bogeyman named Fungus, who dwells beneath the earth in Bogeydom with his wife, Mildew, and his son, Mould. Bogeys prefer dank, wet, filthy things and their main job is venturing to the surface to scare humans via making things go "bump" in the night, rattling doorknobs, or popping out from behind trees. Left to themselves, however, they are quiet, gentle creatures with a rich culture and history that the book describes in vivid detail.

Ed and I poured over the book and its detailed drawings and humorous descriptions of Bogey life. We could scarcely believe that a school library would stock such a book as it appeared to have very little educational value and was chock full of disgusting grossness and frank topics such as Bogey anatomy (the females have three breasts) and their various unsanitary habits.

But underlying the book's attempts to make the reader squeamish, there is a touching story of one Bogey's attempt to make sense of his life.

I bought a copy of my own a few years ago, and showed it to Ray a while ago but it was way too advanced for him. We recently started reading it together again, however, and he loves it. He doesn't seem at all bothered by the scenes showing a Bogeyman creeping into people's houses; he takes it all in stride. He's even taken to pretending to being a Bogey and likes to make scary noises and tries to frighten me and Amy.

I didn't appreciate this back in sixth grade, but in re-reading the book to my child I am pleased by the total and complete lack of any supernatural or religious content. Here we are dealing with a Bogey on the verge of losing his way in life, who is seeking the answers to the great answers of where he came from, why he does what he does, and what does it all mean. Given the rich and detailed mythology Briggs builds for his Bogeys, it would have been easy to construct a theology for them that would neatly wrap everything up, but he does not do so. Fungus seeks answers not via believing in imaginary sky-fathers or the promise of a glorious life after death, but in the simple pleasures of poetry, a good glass of slime, and the enjoyment of poking sleeping humans with his Bogey-stick. And, importantly, he does not find concrete answers in the end ... not because he's looking in the wrong places, but because concrete answers are not easy to come by and may not even exist.

In looking stuff up for this post, I learned that there was a live-action movie version of Fungus the Bogeyman made a few years ago, The reviews I've seen are lukewarm at best, but I stuck it in my Netflix queue anyway.

There has probably been more written about the martini than about any other cocktail. Most of the ink spilled comprises endless debates about the nature of the "true" martini recipe and whether variations can still claim the same name.

The general consensus is that a "basic" martini is made from either gin or vodka with smaller amount of vermouth and then capped with some kind of garnish (usually a green olive, but also a lemon twist, onion, or other such tidbit).

What no one can seem to agree on, however, is whether gin or vodka is the proper martini liquor, what the correct ratio of booze to vermouth should be, and whether a change in the garnish changes the nature of the entire drink. Other issues include the type of vermouth to be used, the style of glass required, and whether or not additional ingredients (bitters, liqueurs, etc.) are permitted.

I enjoy a good martini (sometimes too much; ask Amy about my birthday experience from a few years ago). I like it made with gin, very little vermouth, and served in a real martini glass with an olive or two. Most martini "purists" will insist that is the original and only correct recipe for a drink called a "martini," but as prescriptive as I am in most other linguistic matters, I can't say that I care too much. It's just like what I like.

A postscript to AfternoonAtSafecoField.

You need to understand that concessions at major league ballparks have evolved over the 30 or so years that I've been attending games. When I was a youth, Tiger Stadium offered its fans a choice of mustard or no mustard on their hot dog, and that was about it. Your soft beverage choice was Pepsi, and your beer was Budweiser. I remember they later introduced the hot pretzel ... with "hot" being an outright lie, and "pretzel" referring to a twisted brown inner tube loaded with enough kosher salt to choke a rabbi.

Now, it's almost embarrassing to stroll around under the stands and see Thai restaurants and sushi stands (Ichi-roll, anyone?). I don't think I saw an actual hot dog or bag of Cracker Jacks in the place.

Caving in to this cornucopia of concessions, I steered Ray to one of the Ivar's Seafood stands for a salmon sandwich and some French fries (not the famous Safeco garlic fries -- those things can kill you).

The guy in line ahead of us ordered "fried scallops," but was informed by the cashier that they didn't have scallops. She helpfully offered clams or shrimp instead.

"No scallops?" the guy indignantly retorted. "What kind of Ivar's is this?"

I felt like tapping him on the shoulder...

"This, sir, is an Ivar's at a fucking baseball stadium! They serve thousands people within a three-hour period and, thus, probably felt the need to streamline their menu a bit. They also don't have table service, porcelain dishes, silverware, a wine list, or a dessert menu. You should feel lucky they have clams and shrimp, you fucking whiner!"

But, you know, Ray was with me, so I held myself back.

Today was Day 4 of DaddyWeekend and a trip to Safeco Field to see the Detroit Tigers. Oh, and the Seattle Mariners.

The other day, Amy helpfully suggested that I might want to steer Ray's baseball fandom toward his actual hometown team. After all, she pointed out, I'm a Tiger fan merely because of where I grew up; Ray should be a fan of the team that plays where he grows up.

Setting her blaspheming advice aside for a moment, I'll relate a bit about our experience at the old (well, newish) ballpark today (and note that the Central Division-leading Tigers battered the Mariners 11-7).

First of all, Ray looked cheek-squeezlingly cute in his oversized Tiger cap.

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We had some really good seats, courtesy of the Mariners Ticket Exchange, where season ticket holders put their seats up for sale if they can't make the game.

And Ray was able to follow his favorite player, Magglio Ordoñez (who clocked a two-run homer in the eighth inning), way out in right field.

Ray also scored a warm-up ball courtesy of tomorrow's starting pitcher, Nate Robertson, and Andrew Miller'sautograph.

Back to Amy's comment: I did try to keep things even-handed during the game, and led Ray in cheering for both Mariners and Tigers where appropriate. It was not my fault that the Tigers generated more cheer-inducing activity than the Mariners (Granderson's three-hit performance, Sheffield's steal of home, Thames' three-run blast). I extolled the virtues of Ichiro (who really is awesome), and tried to find good things to say about Raul Ibañez (he hit over .300 a few years ago!), and Adrian Beltre (he almost has a .500 slugging percentage!). But I drew the line at whiny-ass Jeff Weaver on the mound. I just can't stand that guy.

As part of DaddyWeekend, I took Ray to Emerald Downs today, as per his request.

I'll begin by stating that, in my opinion, come Monday morning the to-do list of the nearest glue factory (the "to-glue list"?) should read: Clever Ridge, On the Ave, and Follow Your Shot. Those horses are apparently well past their prime and need to "retire." And for the $14 I wasted betting on them, I deserve at least a free pint of mucilage.

Apart from souring my relationship with Lady Luck, I enjoyed my time today with the boy, and I think he had fun, too.

It was a lovely day, if a bit too warm, and Mt. Rainer loomed on the horizon.

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Ray made friends with Ed, the Family-Friendly Emerald Downs Mascot. It's never too early to introduce the young ones to gambling!

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My favorite part of the whole track experience is the bugler. I have to wonder, though, how sick and tired does this guy get of the 33-note "Call to the Post"? And how often does he screw it up? Not this time (following a nice intro).

My standard news sources are abuzz and consumed with schadenfreude over the news that yet another Christian Republican -- this time, Florida state representative Bob Allen -- was caught with his pants down ... er, rather, caught trying to get down the pants (for $20) of an undercover male cop. It didn't take long for the blogosphere to dig up several hilariously hypocritical tidbits about Allen's legislative record, including his authorship of a "Lewd Or Lascivious Exhibition Act" and his 90% voting alignment with the Christian Coalition.

It's almost cliché to say that those who are the most vociferously homophobic are the ones most deeply closeted, but it's guys like Allen who keep the cliché alive and help underscore its truth. It seems pretty obvious to me that a fair percentage of individuals who feel so compelled to battle "immorality" that they get elected to public office and attempt to legislate away "problems" such as homosexuality are doing so to counter the shame they feel about their own true natures. In that way, a story like this is sad -- a man who is obviously confused about his sexual orientation is so fearful of being exposed by a generally homophobic society that he marries, has a child, and affiliates with a rabidly anti-gay organization (the GOP) as a cover. One can only assume how unhappy he has been all his life, and how devastated those he has lied to must feel.

It also stands to reason that this same MO is present for those who most loudly proclaim their religious faith and who denounce, slander, and demean unbelievers. The strongest voices that praise Jesus and call people like me sinners probably belong to those whose hearts are so tormented with doubt they dare not pause to reflect lest they realize their entire belief system is bogus. The Christian obsession with "joy" and Christ's "love" is, to me, an obvious mask for how deeply unhappy the average Christian must truly feel.

But unlike closeted homosexuals, closeted atheists are not going to somehow be caught in the act of revealing their true nature. There is no tradition of atheists secretly meeting up at highway rest stops for anonymous philosophizing. There are no atheist prostitutes who charge $20 to reassure you that it's OK to not believe in god. It's unlikely that an elected official will be caught IM'ing about Richard Dawkins with his eighteen-year-old page. They can only step out of the atheist closet voluntarily after finding the courage and strength to confront the truth.

I recently helped a friend and fellow blogger deal with a lingering Google cache issue. The search behemoth still listed a page from her blog that she thought she had deleted, but had merely "delinked." Even if she removed the page now, I warned, the cached version would still be available unless she contacted Google and asked them to remove it (Note: Google's page for webmasters describes how you can do this).

This reminded me of a similar incident I dealt with a couple years ago.

When I played baseball for the Madtown M's, the manager used to follow up each game by writing an amusing recap on the team's web site (a graphic-less archive of which can be found here). The recaps were all written in an over-the-top sportswritery style complete with tortured nicknames for the players, egregious verbing, and wild exaggerations of our on-the-field accomplishments.

After one of our games, a number of team members announced that they were heading to a nearby Hooter's restaurant for some post-game festivities. The manager derided them in his next recap by writing a fictional account of how they were arrested for disorderly conduct after mashing on one of the waitresses.

Two years later, one of the team members implicated in this fictional scandal contacted me in a panic. He had been applying for jobs at law firms and one of his potential employers found the humorous piece during a routine background check (read: Google search). Taken out of context, it was difficult to determine that the piece was satirical on its face. He was able to convince them that it was a joke, but he worried (understandably) that other employers might not be so forgiving.

I promptly removed the offending section from the page and contacted Google to remove it from the cache. I'm happy to report that it was gone within a couple days.

Yesterday, I arrived at the Dean's office a few minutes early for a meeting so I ducked into an empty cubicle to inhale some lunch. I found the pictured stack of books on the cubicle's desk.

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For those photographically-challenged amongst you, the titles of the books I found were:

Chairing the Academic Department
The Academic Chairperson's Handbook
The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

What the hell kind of College are they running, anyway!?

Coincidently, one of the topics at the meeting I was going to concerned training new academic department chairs. I mentioned the pile of research I had spied in the cubicle, which drew a big laugh. I then suggested that perhaps basing our mission on, say, Brave New World instead would be more effective. The room was in stitches. I owned that audience.

Later, I recalled that the drug from Brave new World was called "soma," which was also the last name of our former Acting Dean. If only that had occurred to me at the meeting I could have scored a legendary comedic triple play. Oh well.

OK, let's get something out of the way first.

In high school, I was a big fan of the TV show "Night Court." I especially liked the character of Judge Harry (Harry Anderson), who wasn't so much a "character" as he was a direct port of the actor/magician's own persona. I was so taken by Judge Harry, in fact, that I bought a 30's-era fedora and raided local vintage clothing stores for old ties and fancy duds. That I then wore. To school. I even learned magic and would produce silk scarves or "vanish" sponge balls at a moment's notice. It's a wonder I wasn't beaten up every day.

Anyway, during the first season, the public defender (Billie Young) was played by a pretty, slighty-punkish actress named Ellen Foley. I had a mad crush on her, as did the character of the judge -- the questionable ethics of which didn't concern me at the time.

Later on, Young/Foley was unceremoniously replaced by the inferior, more conservative Markie Post, who provided the requisite sexual tension for the remainder of the show's remarkable (and, in retrospect, complete undeserved) run of nine years. I never recovered from this recasting.

Flash forward to a couple days ago. The Clash's "Hitsville UK" song comes up on iTunes. "Hitsville" is distinctly different from other Clash songs in that it's (1) melodic, and (2) sung by a female. It never occurred to me to wonder who this guest vocalist was, but it was a slow day so I hopped over to Wikipedia, where I learned that the tune was sung by Clash guitarist Mick Jones and his then-girlfriend ... Ellen Foley.

The same Ellen Foley who stirred such warm feelings in my adolescent body!

It turns out, Ms. Foley had been a recording artist prior to her acting career, released three solo albums, and worked with such rock luminaries as Meat Loaf and Joe Jackson in addition to various derivatives of the Clash. She's currently a noted Broadway actress.

And now the damn song is stuck in my head.

One of my student assistants pointed me to this new service from Google. I can't wait to try it.

In case you hadn't heard, a few months back we launched 1-800-GOOG-411 (1-800-466-4411) in the U.S. It's a free telephone service that lets you search for businesses by voice and get connected to those businesses for free.

Today, your GOOG-411 experience just got better: during your call to GOOG-411, just say "map it", and you'll get a text message with the details of your search plus a link to a map of your results right on your mobile phone.

I also hear they are rolling out a service where, if you are in physical danger, you can call 1-800-GOOG-911 and they'll dispatch an platoon of heavily armed robots to your rescue. The only drawback is you have to listen to a 15-second commercial before they'll save you.

Amy's about to leave town for a few days to attend her cousin's wedding in California. It'll just be us boys for the long weekend.

The last time Amy went away (for yet another cousin's wedding last year) I took Ray to Emerald Downs, the horse race track just south of Seattle. He was surprisingly excited about going, but when we got there, I realized I might not have thoroughly prepped him for the experience.

"When do I get to ride a horse?" he asked as we strolled through the paddock.

Uh-oh! Major disappointment followed. But, soon after came acceptance, and we ended up having a nice time. But I hardly expected him to keep the horse race track on his list of favorites.

Nevertheless, when I asked him what he wanted to do when Mommy was gone, the first thing out of his mouth was "Go to the horse race track." We hadn't really talked about it in the intervening year, but now, apparently, betting on the ponies is forever associated with Mommy going out of town.

Other fun activities planned for Boy's Weekend Out is: the Bite of Seattle and the Mariners/Tigers game on Sunday. Ray also mentioned wanting to go bowling and playing pool (though he remembered it only as "that game with the sticks that you and grandpa Doug played at your work.")

So: the track, a ballgame, a bowling alley, and a poolhall. If only he were older, I could add a trip to the casino and a strip club to the agenda and complete his corruption!