Snowtime

Kaddi's sister Traci and her family came out to visit and pick up their son at BYU. Taylor just received his mission call to Brazil, and will be leaving for the Brazillian MTC in March. Meanwhile, Merissa and Kelsey got to spend time playing with Meg and Jake in the snow.

Meg with Kelsey

Jake, Taylor, and Merissa

Can I get 500mg of common sense?

I have to admit that sometimes I get tired of being a stereotype. Kaddi is constantly bewildered as to how I can remember infinite numbers of names, dates, and events from history, but can't remember that ten minutes ago I left the tv remote next to the microwave. It is a serious problem, but one that I control using medication. Every so often, however, I experience a flare-up. Sometimes it occurs a rather public, and therefore embarassing, manner.

A few years ago one of these incidents occurred at Halloween. When we lived in Madison our ward used to organize a trunk-or-treat at the church. One year Halloween fell on a Sunday, so the member decided to hold the activity on the previous Friday instead. Everyone gathered in the parking lot to admire the children’s costumes (barely visible underneath their winter jackets) and exchange candy from the back of our vans. Since only a few families have young children, the entire operation takes about twenty minutes.

It’s difficult even now for me to explain what happened next. Perhaps I was feeling particularly festive. Maybe I was disappointed with the chocolate to crap-candy ratio in the kids treat bags. Whatever the reason, I decided twenty minutes of Halloween simply wasn’t enough. We’d invested in the costumes, the kids were already dressed up, why not knock on a few doors in the neighborhood?

The truly perplexing part of this tale is that those who should have been looking out for me allowed me to continue with my plan. I told Kaddi that I was taking the kids to do a little trick-or-treating and that we’d be back in a few minutes. She simply gave me a quizzical look and said, “You are? Well…okay.” I also remember telling Nivea-for-Tom to bring his young one along. He looked at me like I was an idiot before declining my offer. But did I let that bother me? Mine was the revelry of the blissfully unaware.

I’ll never forget the reaction of the lady at the first house on our route. When she opened the door to find two little kids on her porch asking for candy, her response embodied the civility and decency of the Midwest. “Oh,” she said, “Well…okay…I think I have some candy you can have.” Off she went into her cupboard, producing some Hershey’s kisses and dumping them into the kid’s sacks. No doubt she was taken with their overwhelmingly cute costumes and probably also felt pity because their father must have a severe disability.

We received the same puzzled but courteous greeting at the second house, but somehow still left laden with candy. It wasn’t until we were walking down the steps of the third house that my thoughts began to coalesce around a rather obvious conclusion:

“Hmmm…people sure seem surprised to see us out tonight. Huh, I wonder why there are no other kids outside. Well, it is pretty cold out here. Although it seems odd that no one else from church is knocking doors. Wait a minute..."

And then the little hamster started running in the wheel again.

"Oh...right. Halloween isn’t for…two more days.”

Immediately I had that same sickly feeling you get when you wake up at 9 AM and suddenly realize your final exam began at eight. Meanwhile, Meg and Jake, who were enjoying themselves immensely, were already half way down the block. I quickly called to tell them that we needed to head home because… mom wasn’t feeling well. Then I began the long walk of shame back to the church building, where I would face the ridicule of wife and friends alike.

I wish I could say that was the last such occurence. Sadly, I experienced another flare-up last week. Thankfully, my kids were not involved this time...

Because Need Knows No Season

Christmas is a time to turn our thoughts to those less fortunate than us. Particularly the children whose parents can't afford to purchase them Video game consoles or new clothes, or sports equipment. This week I captured footage of a poor little boy who was kicking around a milk cartoon because his family couldn't raise the funds for a soccer ball.

Please watch the video and give generously.

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Preserve Us From the Wrath of the Marmot King

In my world civilization classes I've consistently tried to stay on the cutting edge of instruction. Most history courses, for instance, focus solely on human interaction as an explanation for turning points in history. But avant-garde historians like myself recognize that animals can also be important actors on the stage of history.

For example:

You may not know that it was marmots who are partially responsible for the Black Death, which decimated the populations of China, Europe, and the Near East. Fleas spread the bacterium throughout the Central Asian marmot population, and some unfortunate Mongol hunter probably skinned and ate an infected marmot, thereby unleashing the whirlwind of pandemic. This much is widely accepted.

But here's what you won't read in your 'traditional' textbook:

At the end of the twelfth century an army of marmots, under the leadership of the legendary Marmot King, devastated Central Asia. They swept the peoples of the Golden Horde before them like a tidal wave. As they moved westward, the marmots cleverly formed alliances among other rodent populations, signing treaties with the porcupines and making vassals out of the Richardon's ground squirrels.

Once the rodents of Asia were united under the sovereignty of the Marmot King, they launched their attack of the great civilizations of Europe and the Islamic world.


In 1347, an army of marmots surrounded the Genoese port city of Kaffa, on the Black Sea. During the resulting siege, thousands of marmots died from the plague. The Marmot King then ordered their corpses to be placed in catapults and lobbed into the city in the hopes of infecting and terrorizing its inhabitants.

Marmot military tactics devastated their opponents. When the armies of the Marmot king faced the forces of Kwarizm near the Sea of Azov, marmot sappers went out to the battlefied the night before and dug thousands of holes in the field. During the next day's battle, when the Sultan's cavalary charged the field, the horses caught their feet in the burrows and came crashing down. The marmot infantry quickly fell upon the Persian cavalrymen and ate their livers.

The attrocities of the Marmot King were unspeakable. In Baghdad, marmot soldiers gnawed the eyeballs from the sockets of eight-hundred Muslim clerics after they refused to bow before the invaders. After their conquest of Kiev, the marmots forced the Russian princes to run continuously inside specially-constructed stationary wheels until they dropped dead of exhaustion. In Krakow, the Marmot king tried to blackmail a local newspaper into firing an editor, threatened to pull funding for a children's hospital, and requested bribes for appointing potential candidates to a vacant Senate seat.

In their search for a scapegoat, Europeans blamed their own rodent populations for conspiring to help the marmots conquer all of Christendom. They organized massive rodent pogroms, massacring the mice populations and burning thousands of rats at the stake. It was a dark time for Europe.

Just when all seemed lost, the great marmot hordes disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. Historians are at a loss to explain why. My own research speculates that the Marmot King was poisoned by one of his captured concubines. Without his leadership, the alliances disintegrated and the rodent world was plunged into civil war. Europe was saved.

Perhaps I'll make this the subject of my next book project.

It's down to you, Green Mountain State

Those of you who have your own blog know the joy of google analytics. The program allows you to track hits to your website and determine their location of origin. At 301NIB this information is very useful for following user trends. For example, last year a large percentage of our traffic came from Hawaii. But in the last few months, Utah has climbed into the number one user spot. This information helps our staff coordinate revenue projections and marketing campaigns.

Since its inception in 2006, 301NIB has quickly become a worldwide phenomenon. We consistently have visits from around the world, all ten Canadian provinces, and every state in the union...except one.

Vermont.

I confess I'm at a loss to explain this inattention, since I know very little about Vermont. Do I need to feature more content about Lake Champlain? Is it because there are less than one hundred thousand people living there? Or because they spend so much time outdoors? Do people there not have computers? And what do you call those people? Vermontites? Vermonters? Vermonties? Yeah, I like that last one...

Perhaps I'm obsessing a bit here, but I won't rest until I get a single hit from Vermont. That single white space on my analytics map needs to be shaded light green. So, this week I decided to call up the Green Mountain State to discover the source of the problem. The conversation didn't go as well as I'd hoped:

Vermont: Hello?

301NIB: So what's the deal, Vermont? You haven't checked out the blog.

Vermont: The what?

301NIB: Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. What - you think you're better than me, Vermont? Is that it?

Vermont: Who is this?

301NIB: You think just because you're the outdoor playground of the Northeast that makes you so great? Look, I may not be able to afford to vacation on your ski slopes or stay at your many bed-and-breakfasts, but I...uh...well, I forgot where I was going with this...

Vermont: (long pause) How did you get this number?

301NIB: Don't wory about it.

Vermont: (click)

So telephone contact didn't produce the intended results, but I'm confident Vermonties will give me another chance. And why shouldn't they? I've forgiven them for letting Howard Dean loose back in 2004. But I realized I needed to change tactics.

Here's the deal, Vermonties. In return for a hit from your state, I'm willing to make the following concessions:

1) I will agree to mention Vermont in no less than three posts during the 2009 calendar year.

2) I will purchase genuine Vermont maple syrup the next time we make pancakes for Meg.

3) I'll order a Vermont Teddy Bear as a Christmas present (and not return it).

This is a no-brainer, Vermonties. All you have to do in return is type in a website address, you don't even have to read the content. Face it, during this extended economic downturn it would be irresponsible for you not to accept my offer. The advertising power of 301NIB could increase your state revenues 15-20% over the next fiscal quarter alone.

You have my offer, Vermont. The ball's in your court. I'll be checking google analytics every hour, waiting for your response.

Girls only like Guys who have Great Skills

When I was a kid, my dad could always fix anything. He did a lot of the contract work on our first house in Coaldale. He repaired my Merlin electronics game after I poured water in the speaker (just to see what would happen). He even replaced the engine in his old truck using an old swingset in our backyard as a hoist.

In Wisconsin, my friend Jazzhands practically re-modelled their house in his spare time. Over several Saturdays he built an entire fence around his yard, including the cement post foundations. His wife would pick things out of the Pottery Barn catalog and he'd build a perfect imitation in their garage. (Then he'd strap on his sparkly suspenders and celebrate freedom as a Showchoir yankee-doodle-dandy.)

I can't do any of those things. I own no tools. I have none skills. I lack patience. Whenever I begin fixing things, it generally ends with a special procedure I call, 'smashy-smashy.' I tried to put together a pinewood derby car for Jake one year. During the third race a back wheel fell off and it careened into the next lane where it collided with the opposing car and caught fire. Another happy childhood memory for Jakey.

So it should be not surprise that when our toilet started running last month I had no idea what to do. I had tried nothing and was completely out of ideas. For several weeks we had to sleep with the bathroom door closed, so the noise of water leaking from the tank into the bowl didn't keep us awake at night. I started inviting relatives to visit in the hopes they might fix it for us.

Finally, I accepted the fact that I would have to deal with this myself. After all, I will soon have PhD - surely I'm smart enough to be able to fix the toilet. After checking the internet, I identified the problem as a faulty 'flapper'. (Apparently, flappers aren't just twenties-era, free spirited women who drink martinis while dancing the Charleston at Jay Gatsby's house.)

The website presented a 'simple' step by step process for replacing the valve:

1) Drain the toilet tank
2) remove the flapper
3) purchase replacement
4) install
5) re-fill tank

Simple? Sure, why don't I just design and build a new space shuttle while I'm at it?

Draining the tank and removing the valve went just fine. Then came the most difficult step of all - going to Home Depot. I don't think I've ever been to a home improvement store by myself, I've only accompanied other guys who actually do this sort of thing and know what to buy. I had a particularly memorable trip with the Rock Star once (People thought we were a gay couple because he picked out all these foamy paintbrushes).

A well-installed flapper is a joy forever.

Thankfully Kaddi was along and steered me toward the pumbing section, then picked out a flapper that resembled ours. As we headed towards the checkout counter I consulted an employee to make sure I had selected the right model. "Oh yeah," he said, "you get that thing home and you'll be in plumber's paradise."

And he was right. Once I installed the valve and reconnected the chain - I was in paradise. It was the first home improvement I'd ever completed. There must be a badge I can get for this. Maybe I'll start working on my Chief Scout award again.

Everything went smoothly. Until I got to the last step...

Eat Fresh & Spicy: the eharmony model

(For an interesting article on the LDS Church and the fallout of proposition 8 in California, see the National Review's article: Legislating Immorality)

This week the dating website eharmony agreed to provide homosexual dating services as part of an out-of-court settlement in New Jersey. The agreement ended a three-year lawsuit filed by Eric McKinley, who accused the company of depriving him of his civil rights after it declined to match him (according to twenty-eight points of compatibility) with another man.

In addition to successfully altering eharmony's business model, McKinley also received five thousand dollars - compensation for the pain and anguish of feeling like a "second-class citizen" after discovering eharmony had no drop-down menu for 'men seeking men.'

Strike another blow for progress.

Advocates of such a decision see it as helping to end the rampant discrimination against society's last minority - homosexuals. They argue it is no more justifiable for eharmony to refuse to match-up gays than it is for a Woolworth's lunch counter to deny pouring coffee for black customers. It has de-segregated the world of online dating.

Once again the argument just won't stand up.

The case of eharmony has nothing to do with the ethnic, religious, or gender identity of its subscribers. It has everything to do with the type of services eharmony is willing (and qualified) to provide.

Consider:

Let's say an Indian person enters a Subway restaurant, orders a meatball sub, and eats it at a nearby booth. Then a Chinese person enters the same Subway, orders the same meatball sub, but is informed the restaurant won't serve him because he's Chinese. This is discrimination. The establishment refused service solely based on ethnic background.

But, what if the Chinese person enters Subway and orders Kung Pao with white rice? The employee informs him that Subway doesn't serve Chinese food, he'll have to go somewhere else.

The Chinese customer remains adamant. He wants Kung Pao, and he wants it from Subway. He feels rejected and distraught. The fact that Subway serves only Eurocentric-themed sandwiches denies his cultural heritage and makes him feel like a second class citizen. If they persist with their policy he'll have to file a lawsuit to ensure equal protection under the law.

Is this also a case of discrimination?

eHarmony is guilty of refusing to serve Kung Pao. It's purpose, its expertise, is in finding levels of compatability between women looking for men, and men looking for women. Heteroexual communication is its meatball sub. Dr. Warren, founder of the company, has said in multiple interviews that he never accounted for homosexuals in his business plan because he had no training on the dynamics of gay relationships.

(That shouldn't surprise anyone. Everyone knows all Christian conservatives are homophobes.)

eharmony's sister-site, compatibilitypartners.net, will launch sometime early next year. I'm sure the gay community will be thrilled with the quality of online dating service they'll receive. I predict it will be so popular, so effective, it may put the hundreds of existing gay-dating websites out of business.

And I'll bet Subway would make great Kung Pao, if only they weren't so prejudiced...

Baby Bangs

For years I assumed that the term “Baby Bangs” referred to babies when they are growing hair. It’s all new so it looks very short. I have since discovered the true historic reference to “Baby Bangs.” After having Jake and Meg my hair fell out, but at a normal rate. After having Luke it’s like my hair follicles were in a race with one another to see who could leave my scalp the quickest. You want to know who won? They all did. I have never in my life lost so much hair, mainly in the front. Luke of course is the cause and culprit. So for months now I have invested a small fortune in hair products which promise to slick down any hairs that are a nuisance (pomade, gels, dapper dan).

These products for the most part have done there job but I must confess that for Halloween this year Jake and Meg insisted that I go as Telly from Sesame Street. If you do not have children and do not know how I might pass as Telly I will describe him. He is a fuzzy monster, with hairs on top of his head that are in a constant refusal to obey the laws of gravity. They simply just stand straight up on his furry head and kind of float about. That is about what I look like these days. On my Christmas wish list to Santa this year am hoping for a subscription to Rogaine for Women, hair plugs or a nice wig. I’m not partial, Santa can choose.

I would just like to look normal again. On some days I have to resort to drastic measures and sweep my hair across my forehead. On those days for some reason Meg and Jake would rather walk to school than have me drive them. Oh well, I must endure this until my “Baby Bangs” grow out. I just hope that with our next baby I don’t go completely bald. Time will tell.

Q & A

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Banned in the USA

Jake has been bugging us for weeks to let him dye his hair. So, the other day Kaddi bought him some dye spray and sprayed his hair green before school. It lasted all of about ten minutes before the office staff moved to stamp out this act of rebellion.

They called him down the office to tell him that, "This sort of thing was not appropriate." Then the secretary made him wash it out of his hair. He returned to his classroom unbroken. He had lost the battle, but he had the courage to take a stand against the man.

I guess you can empathize with the elementary school on this one. You have to maintain standards. If you allow someone to dye their hair green, pretty soon someone else is getting a fake tattoo. Then before you know it some punk comes to school wearing a pro-Obama t-shirt. It would be anarchy.

Well, we can't worry about this too much right now. Kaddi and I have other importants issues facing our family. We're in the midst of a disagreement over why exactly Gargymel was trying to capture the Smurfs. Kaddi's convinced he wanted to eat them, while I maintain he needed them as an ingredient for his potion to make gold.

To the internet!

It's Storytime

All history is story-telling. This is why historians are so fascinated with narratives. How they are constructed, the biases they reflect, and evaluating who benefits most from telling a story through a certain perspective.

I'm fascinated with the narratives coming out of this election. I particularly enjoy watching the left dredge up a contemporary rendition of their classic stand-by: that all conservatives are mean hateful people. (You can read the latest example of this storyline in the Chicago Sun-Times)

Or, for an even better example, see The Porter Bureau

The McCain-Palin ticket is constantly portrayed as racist hatemongers who use campaign rallies to stir up their supporters to violence. This narrative is particularly powerful during this election for two reasons. Obama is black. Palin is country. After reading articles like the one above, you'd think the Republican symbol was a burning cross rather than an elephant.

A few weeks ago, when it looked like Barry could actually lose, the airwaves and newspaper columns were full of accusations that racism was making the election close. Now that Obama had a strong edge, liberals are working themselves into a frenzy over the likelihood that Barry will be assasinated. That's how conservatives problem-solve, after all.

Admittedly, conservative have opened the door to this sort of thing with their "Obama doesn't see the world as we see it" rhetoric. The conservative media have done what they always do - make the public afraid of the Democratic candidate.

My question is: where does this narrative come from? When the left has a problem they protest peacefully (ex. anti-globalization protests in Seattle, or the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago), but the right goes out and kills people.

This is another arena where the response to Palin is so fascinating. I would argue there is BY FAR more hatred and vitriole directed towards her in the public arena than anything that's been said against Obama. Here are a few examples:

Inspiring artwork depicting Palin as a "Mother I'd like to Punch." Sure, it celebrates violence against women, but it's for a good cause.

A popular museum display of Palin breaking one of the left's commandments - Thou shalt not hunt. And an Obama supporter pointing a rifle at her head. Can you imagine the outcry if the media caught a McCain supporter pointing a rifle at a banner featuring Barry's likeness?

Here's a charming little bumper sticker for your minivan. The website that sells these carries the tagline: Abort Sarah Palin because she's a horrible person. Another example of rational dialogue on the issues.



I don't blame Obama for this. He didn't create this intense animosity towards a mother of four from Alaska. But I am interested in why these types of portrayals are never featured on the nightly news or on the pages of the NY Times / Washington Post? The answer is really quite simple.

They don't fit the storyline.

Bob Dole doesn't need this

Luke is now crawling all over house. This morning he got into the kitchen cupboard, pulled out the a stack of glassware and watched it crash and break on the kitchen floor.

His favorite item for a few days was a red sharpie pen that he would carry everywhere with him. He looked like Baby Dole. We eventually had to take it away from him when he started giving speeches on the flat tax, railing against Bill Clinton, and making long distance calls to Jack Kemp's office.

What's this? Some kind of pen?

When the family gets together

A few more observations from last weekend:

My parents drove down with my sister Angela's family in their minivan. They called me in the late afternoon to tell me they had arrived and were enjoying some ice cream at Dairy Cream. When I walked down the hill to meet them, I noticed they were sitting outside at a table. They had the doors of the mini-van open and the stereo was blasting early eighties rap.

I just kept walking.

After the baptism we had Meg's confirmation meeting with just our own family. Even someone as callous as myself had to admit there was a very warm feeling in the room. I was especially touched to see my cousin's wife on the back row with tears in her eyes. Later I learned she was upset because the Gators lost.

We returned home for the big family meal. When that was over I was shocked to hear my parents tell me they were going to the mall. It was Saturday, but it still felt so wrong.

My dad has developed an unhealthy fascination with Sonic restaurant. They'd only been in town for a few minutes before he forced us to drive to a Sonic so he could get his novelty drink. He's the original guzzle-gut.

This is the best group picture we have, and it makes me laugh everytime I see it. If you live in Winnipeg you know why.

Meg with my sister Angela's family.

The primary orchestrated this photo shoot before the baptism. While they were taking the pictures my dad kept making fun of me for wearing white after Labor Day, which I thought was really inappropriate.

Kaddi and Meg

Meg and her cousin Nolan pose for my favorite picture from the weekend. Why is awkward so darn cute?

Born of Water

Today we had Meg's baptism in a very special meeting along with seventy-two other eight year-olds from our stake. It was nice to have both grandparents and other family in town.

For the confirmation meeting Kaddi put together a special video montage of pictures of Meg. She spent hours collecting the footage, editing the video, and then searching for a medium to display it. When it was time to show the video she spent several minutes trying to get it to work - and if hadn't been for the intervention of a senior project manager, it may never have happened. But figure it out she did.

It's something all 301NIB viewers should be able to enjoy.

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Aside from the technical difficulties, the baptismal meeting was not without its candor. All the children being baptized and their fathers sat on the front row so that the speakers could take directly to them. I ended up sitting next to a little boy who couldn't wait to be done with the entire affair so he could go outside and play.

As the prelude music was playing I heard him say, "What? There's going to be talks?! That's so boring!"

Later when other children walked onto the stage for a musical number he said, "There's no way you could get ME to go up there."

But the best part was during the final talk on the Holy Ghost. The speaker shared an experience where he had been hiking with his family and gotten lost, but found his way back to the car with the aid of a GPS device. Throughout the talk he held up his global positioning unit as a visual aid. This led to the following exchange:

Speaker: Today, each of you will receive a type of GPS-device...

Bored little boy: Awesome!

Speaker: ....called the Holy Ghost.

Bored little boy: Awww, man!

Best baptism meeting ever.

It's a mad, Mad-town: Part II

When we last left our hero he was getting ready for the big move out of storage and into the moving van....

If it doesn't fit, she must forget

From the moment I reserved the truck online I was worried that it may have been too small for all our items. The truck description said it was ideal for 2-3 bedrooms, which is what we had. I was also certain the sixteen-footer was the exact size we had used to move out of your apartment two years ago. What I failed to consider was that we had already taken several van loads of boxes out of the apartment before the big moving day.

When we arrived at the storage and began pulling everything out it became obvious in a hurry that there would be some casualties. I started to panic a little, knowing the certain doom that awaited me in Provo when Kaddi learned some things had been left behind.

Several friends from the ward were nice enough to come help on a Saturday morning. Unfortunately, they spent most of their time standing around while I tried to prioritize the load. I even called Penske again to explore the possibility of renting a larger truck - which would have meant taking everything out of this truck, driving over to pick up another truck, then coming back and re-loading it. Not the ideal scenario. The clincher was the price difference. It would have cost an extra five hundred dollars. Since all our stuff put together was probably only worth five hundred dollars, it didn't seem like a wise investment.

So I made the executive decision. It was like Sophie's choice. Some of our belonging would live, and some would die.

The story has a somewhat happy ending. Many of the items found good homes with friends, and others were sold at garage sales. I was really just hoping Kaddi would forget everything we had, and so wouldn't notice that certain things were missing.

She didn't forget.


Living Separate Lives

After loading up the moving van we had to return to Chez Rock Star to get the most prized item of all - the Pier One table. We parked the truck in front of Steve's house and began unloading some items so that we could make room for the Holy Grail of the Madison move.

We kept it small, and we kept it real


While we were working, several of Steve's neighbours passed by. You could just see the panic in their faces, thinking that he was moving out of the area.

"Oh no, he's moving out? If the Rock Star leaves the neighbourhood my property values are going to bottom out. Maybe if I promise to shovel his driveway all winter I can get him to stay..."

Steve calmed their fears by telling everyone that he wasn't moving, he was finally getting rid of some items that a freeloading friend had been keeping in his basement for over two years. Everyone had a hearty chuckle (except the free loading friend).

My laugh came later when the Rock Star went back into the house to take a phone call from his manager (Talk to me, Cindy!). Yet another neighbour came by and asked me if Steve and Jamie were moving out. I told him the marriage was in trouble and so Steve had decided to take an apartment on the west side. The guy responded, "That makes sense - I was trying to figure out why they had such a small moving truck."

We did manage to make room for the table and the chairs, which made all the way to Provo without any damage. (Which is pretty remarkable, considering it's soft wood.)

But when I was all packed up and had driven out of town, the table legs were still sitting in a box in Schaefer's basement.


Five minutes to Showtime

The most surreal experience of my weekend in Madison was church on Sunday. For ninety glorious minutes, I felt was it must be like to be the Rock Star.

Our ward in Madison has an elderly Lao couple who come to church faithfully each week, even though they understand little of the meetings. The Bishop gave them each callings, and was waiting for me to arrive so that I could explain those calling to them and assist in translating their ordination.

So, I arrived at church a half hour early and pulled up at the back entrance. Security whisked me through secret tunnels to the Bishop's office, where I spent the next thirty minutes in a meeting with the Manavongs talking about their callings and getting re-acquainted in Thai.

Then we headed into Sacrament meeting. It was complete chaos, with crowds of people pressing against security barriers, former Scouts asking me to sign their 'For the Strength of Youth' pamphlets, and everyone trying to get a glimpse of celebrity. It caught me a little off guard, but I really should have expected it. Madison was the birthplace of the Mack Strate phenomenon, and word had traveled fast that the local boy was returning home.

I have to admit that I was completely overwhelmed by the reception. If not for the coaching I received from the Rock Star, I never would have made it. He showed me how to stand so the paparazzi capture you from the best angles, how to approach the crowds without getting too close, and how to always leave them wanting more.

Sadly, I didn't get to visit with as many friends as I had hoped. Steve had to leave for a gig right after the meeting, and so security once again whisked us out through the service entrance and before I could re-orient myself we were on our way to the airport.

Uneasy Lies the Head

I have a confession.

It's something I've been hiding from everyone for quite a while. A secret so dark and sinister it has the potential to embarass my family and alienate me from friends. Fortunately, I work in academia - so coming clean about my true nature will not hurt my career (it will probably even help). Over time I think people close to me will learn to accept my alternative choice, but even if they don't it's time for me to come clean:

I want Obama to win in Novemember.

Let me quickly add that it's not because I agree with his policies. I still think he's wrong about Iraq, abortion, gun control, education, and a host of other issues. It's not that I believe Barry's the best person to govern the country, although given McCain's recent campaign strategy, it's hard to say. No, the reason I want the Democracts to win the Presidency is much more self-serving. I want to switch over to the resistance for a few years.

I just feel I would be more comfortable as part of the opposition. I could become one of those sophisticated, urbane, erudite commentators who scoff at the administration's transparent rhetoric because I'm so clever I see the world in its true state. Any mechanical drone can like things. A true intellectual understands why he should dislike them. This is the world we live in. Supporters are mindless and boring. Dissenters are smart and sexy.

If you've ever been to the movies you already know this. The unwashed masses come out of a theater and talk about who much fun they had watching the picture. They say things like, "I thought it was cute," or "It was very entertaining," or "Remember when they blew up that car? That was awesome!" These people enjoy almost every movie because they don't know any better.

To be considered a truly discerning moviegoer requires an element of harshness. The educated elite rarely endorse movies because they're capable of spotting the flaws in acting, storyline, and presentation. After viewing a film they say things like, "the acting was stilted and wooden," or "the plot eventually collapsed under its own weight," or "Kevin Costner couldn't inspire paint to dry."

And they say these things right after you just finished talking about how much you liked the movie, which makes you feel stupid. So you think to yourself, "If only I was smarter, then I would have been disappointed too." Do you have a friend who hates every movie he's ever seen? He's probably a genius.

And if Obama becomes President, maybe I could be like that friend.

The truth is I'm worn out. The past eight years of defending the Bush administration have been exhausting. Have you ever been at an academic gathering and tried defending the Iraq war, or 'No Child left Behind,' or Faith-based initiatives? I felt like a wounded gazelle asking a group of hungry Jackals for a leg splint. Bush opponents consider Bush supporters to be kool-aid drinkers, uninformed ideologues, reactionary Red Americans who ignore reality. If only they were a little smarter they could see the damage W has done to the country. But like the habitual theater-goer, they just like to sit there and watch things blow up.

Instead of trying to reason with an angry mob, I want to be part of that mob. I could spend the next four years making fun of Obama supporters who believe that he's really going pull the troops out during his first month in office, or that he can bring about universal healthcare, or put the country on track to be energy-independent in ten years. No longer would I be a mindless follower. My superior intelligence would be obvious from the intensity of my disdain.

Being for things is hard work. It's much more fun to be against things. When you're out of power you don't have to worry about achieving anything. You simply point out the ruling party's failures and critique their proposals. You get to appear smug and self-important as you explain that you see what everyone else is missing.

Yes sir, sign me up for a four year tour-of-duty in the resistance.

(I guess I could always support Nader. Then I'd be set no matter who won.)

Regrets? I've had a few

For most people, the beginning of a new year is the time when they take stock of their lives. The yearly cycle of a grad student/fake professor, however, always begins anew with the start of a fall semester. This is season when the leaves start to change, the morning air is crisp and cold, and I begin to wonder if perhaps I should have done some things differently.

For instance, maybe we shouldn't have had our two oldest children one day a part at the beginning of September. Each year their birthdays come around the same time that tuition is due. Hey, I love my kids, but graduate school doesn't pay for itself. Fortunately this year we have an abundance of excess items that we've pulled out of storage. We'll say 'happy birthday' to Meg with an old clock radio, while Jake can look forward to unwrapping his winter coat from two years ago.

I'm also starting to question whether I can handle the day-to-day performance pressure of being a university professor. At Hawaii each class had only forty students. Here I stand up at the lectern and see 150 sets of eyes boring into me. The pressure doesn't let up after lectures either. I have to face the tough questions like, "Uh...can I have a syllabus?" Geesh. Just because I've been studying this for ten years doesn't mean I know every single thing about the entire history of forever.

And then of course I say things I probably shouldn't. Last class I moved the deadline of a paper back to give the students more time to complete it. I explained it was a shameless attempt to get them to like me, but was also necessary so that their papers stayed separate from the other section's assignments. My explanation led to the following exchange:

Student: You're right, this DOES make me like you more!
Me: Really? I still like you about the same.

There go the teaching evaluations.

Even my eating habits probably need re-evaluation. Last night after dinner I was looking for something to get the non-chocolate taste out of my mouth, but came up empty. After searching through pantry and cupboards, I finally found a bag of leftover cinnamon bears that had been in the back of the fridge for two weeks. At least it was sugar.

My mouth still tastes like freezer burn.

Chicken Soup for the Conservative Soul

I'll be honest.

When I first heard McCain's VP announcement I though it was a disaster. Nominating a first-term governor from a state no one cares about seemed to undercut his emphasis on being 'ready to govern'. For months St. John (and I) have been criticizing Obama as a community organizer masquerading as a Presidential candidate. Well, that line of reasoning is dead and buried. The Republicans have just added the 2008 version of Dan Quayle to their ticket. People might as well take their chances on Barry.

(I must also point out the press's fascination with the Maverick moniker makes me want to watch Spanish language news. Choosing Lieberman would have been a Maverick move, and resulted in the complete implosion of the GOP campaign. Choosing Palin was simply an acknowledgement that McCain wasn't getting it done.)

It came across as such a desperate, image-conscious decision. After a week of watching the Obama disciples in spread the Good News from Denver, McCain realized he was in big trouble. There no exictement, no energy, no winning issue. I'm sure it was like Governor Pappy O'Daniel sitting on the porch with his brain trust thinking, "Hey, why don't we get ourselves a little midget even smaller than Stokes'?!!"

Which, of course, is what McCain did. He looked past Romney and Pawlenty and Lieberman and many people more qualified, and reached up into the Last Frontier to pull down Sarah Palin.

Two thing have shocked me since that announcement. The way the right has embraced Palin and the way the left has assaulted her.

The fact that conservatives seem overjoyed to have Palin on the ticket is somewhat understandable. After all, there was serious panic within the party that they might end up with Lieberman. This woman is pro-life, a gun-owner, in favor of more drilling, and an unapologetic evangelical. But when Palin's name came up in speculation EVERYONE talked about her as a poor choice, simply because she's so new to the national game. The clamour was all about getting someone like Romney or Pawlenty who would make the Obama candidacy look even riskier.

I also expected the Democracy strategists to simply laugh at Palin's introduction, but instead they've assaulted her like a beach at Normandy. There's a serious contradiction within Obama's approach. Palin could be either completely unknown or completely incompetent, she can't be both. Even as they deride her abilities and qualifications they dig up every rumor and innuendo possible to throw at her. Her daughter's pregnant, the baby isn't hers, she tired to have her ex-bro-in-law fired. There were even tabloids trying to link her romatically with the editor of 301NIB.

It's becoming increasingly obvious that the left has no idea how to deal with this type of Republican candidate. All of a sudden we have the Gloria Steinem crowd is accusing her of jeopardizing her family's well-being by spending too much time on her career. (That's supposed to be OUR line). Is it conceivable that a woman could be successful professionally while embracing marriage and shunning abortion? Acceptance of such an idea would sound the death-knell of liberal feminism.

But the real reason we love Sarah Palin is that she appears to have stepped right out of Frank Capra film. Each of his films (Mr. Deeds goes to Town, Mr. Smith goes to Washington, It's a Wonderful Life) celebrated the ability of the idealistic small-town everyman to triumph over the cynicism and snobbery of the urbane elitist. Her campaign speech at the convention was relentless in it criticism of Obama, but managed to do so with such relaxed humor that it avoided the appearance of bitterness. Biden should take note for the VP debate. If he's not careful he'll come across as the cantankerous Henry Potter trying to squash the Bailey building and loan.

In the end I don't think even this appeal to middle American will save the GOP from the electorate's overwhelming desire to punish Republicans for the past eight years. But, it certainly has given conservatives more of a reason to head to the voting booths on a Tuesday night.

Canadians are Americans too

It is a busy time here in the mountain west. My classes start today, which means I have to dust off my lecture notes and prepare my powerpoints. My job applications for next year are due in a few days. I have to finish up posts lauding Sarah Palin (and making fun of Obama). And as always the dissertation looms large overhead.

But each of these tasks pales in importance to congratulating the winner of our caption contest. The voting was close, going down to the wire before a victor emerged. I really should have announced the winner a few days ago, but some of our viewers in Ohio filed a legal injunction against 301NIB, claiming that someone tampered with their voting machines. (We settled out of court)

So congratulations to Joe from Tucson, a virtual unknown who came out of nowhere to claim the 2008 title with this caption:

"C'mon Meg… just pull the trigger already! I don't know how it works either! When I was your age all we got to do for fun was throw rocks eh!"

Well done, Joe. Apparently the combination of portraying me as an illiterate, slack-yawed technophobe and making fun of my Canadian accent put you over the top in a close race - proving once again that anti-immigrant sentiment always sells.

On a related note, I was disappointed that my own entry (entered under a pseudonym) didn't register a single vote. I had no idea the 301NIB public was so hostile to Canadian-Americans.

Ah, well - in the end it was an honor just nominating myself.

Smarty-Smart Pants

Many of you have written to 301NIB expressing concern about my relationship with Jake. But he and I have a great relationship. We spend quality time together when he brings me the tools so I can put together bunkbeds. Sometimes in the evening we play all sorts of fun games together, like 'slap the Nintendo controller out of Jake's hand' or 'pin the blame on Jake' or 'jam the broken glow-stick in Jake's eye.'

Such good memories.

But this week even I had to give J-dog some props. Last week his sixth grade class tested for competency in mathematics. Yesterday we learned that Jake scored the highest in his class and is one of the smartest kids in his entire grade. (Someday he hopes to be two of them). Now he's part of a select group of students who will study pre-algebra this year.

I can't remember - does being good at math help you with grade six chicks?

We Post. You Decide

Thank you to the hundreds of 301NIB viewers who responded to our Captioning contest. We've received so many captions that right now we're undecided as to how to choose a winner. (Our original plan to have a Chinese gymnastics judge pick the gold medal winner seems unwise given their recent track record.) We wanted to avoid the controversy surrounding our last contest at all costs.

So, we've developed a compromise. Our editors have chosen the five best captions submitted to us here at our World Headquarters. We will list them below so that you, our loyal viewers, can have the final say in this matter. Look over the captions and then vote for your favorite in our poll on the right. You will ultimately determine our champion for 2008

Here are our finalists:

1) This is a sport that Canadians like to term "Getting rid of the damn-border-crossing-Yankees."

Kim
Bartlesville, OK


2) "Okay...just look through the scope and find the crosshairs. Then, place those crosshairs over the picture of Mike Huckabee..."

Todd
Elk Grove, CA


3) "C'mon Meg… just pull the trigger already! I don't know how it works either! When I was your age all we got to do for fun was throw rocks eh!"

Joe
Tucson, AZ


4)"Meg, I already told you - Hello Kitty doesn't make a .22 calibre rifle!"

P-dog
Edmonton, AB


5) "Listen up, Meg. The thing on top you use to scope the target is called the 'viewer'. And that switch underneath that triggers the bullet is called the 'switch'."

Bella
Hoffman Estates, IL


You can email you vote or text the word 'caption' to 83775 (Standard Rates Apply). Remember: A person who doesn't vote is no better off than someone who can't vote.

The River Wild

If you're a read of my sister's blog you already know one of the highlights of Strate-palooza was a rafting trip down the middle-fork of the Flathead river. (You can read her version of the trip here) Like her, many of you probably envision a rafting trip as a leisurely jaunt down a mountain stream, an opportunity to enjoy the scenic nature of the Rocky Mountains. You might expect to relax, talk with friends, or even engage in some friendly splashing contests with passing rafts.

Oh, how naive you all are.

What you people don't seem to realize is that a river-rafting trip is a like a courtship with death. The river is not a recreational medium, it is a deadly adversary full of jagged rocks, swirling pools, floating logs and other debris, and a series of rapids with frightening names like 'Bonecrusher', 'Toiletbowl', 'Jack-knife', and 'Manny'. One minute you're staring at an eagle's nest up in the trees, the next you're upside down in the water underneath your raft being choked by your own life-jacket.

We are only alive to tell his story because of the expertise and courage of Federico, our rafting guide. He spent the first twenty minutes of our three-hour tour impressing upon us that river-rafting was a dangerous business, a lot of hard work, and that at no time should we be enjoying ourselves. Knowing that our skill with the paddle could save our lives, Federico put us to work. We learned all the techniques...forward....back.....right-forward, left-back....right-southeast, left-north-by-northwest. By the end of the first hour we were qualified to row one of the great Roman galleons of the Punic Wars.

A fine judgement of character, Federico selected me to be co-captain of our tiny crew. (This is why you see me seated up front.) But sadly, not everyone in our party took his instructions as seriously as I did. One individual (for privacy's sake I'll call her 'chatty Angela') decided she didn't need any instructions and could spend the whole trip gabbing with the person next to her. In so doing, she showed blatant disregard for her own safety and the safety of the rest of us. After several stern warnings we had to throw her overboard.

Another passenger tried to start a mutiny aboard the vessel by refusing to listen to Federico, even arguing with him about rowing techniques and property boat safety. It was unfortunate that she jeopardized the safety of the entire crew with her poor attitude. It's this younger generation. Here's poor Federico, just trying to keep us alive. In addition to the plethora of natural hazards, he has to deal with the passengers who don't take that river seriously. Thankfully, she and Federico later reconciled, and by the end of the trip I think she even asked for his phone number.

Despite these setbacks we made it safely down the river with only minor casualties. Jake lost his paddle at one point and had to swim for it. It was an incredibly hot day, so many of us took advantage of a slow spot to jump in. That's when we got to meet Mr. Hypothermia. I realize that successive years in Thailand and Hawaii have compromised my ability to deal with cold temperatue, but I swear this was the coldest water I have ever known. Thankfully, Kaddi pulled me from the glacial torrent before the river claimed me as its own.

No, I can't say we enjoyed our time on the river. But we did survive.

Over-sized Life-Jacket says "Forget the dangerous rapids everyone - it's a camera!"

Captioning the Moments 2008

At 301NIB we received hundreds of emails and letters every month asking us to bring back the photo caption contest. Now that its summertime and our writers are completely out of ideas, we've decided to comply. If you missed the original contest based on a photo taken outside of Wat Pra Kaew in Bangkok, you can look back on it here.

Here's this year's photo taken at the grandparents ranch up in Alberta:



Just write a clever caption for this picture and enter it in as a comment, or submit it to our editors at srstrate@gmail.com. The winner will be showered with praise and non-existent prizes. The losers will be taunted and booed until my throat is sore. (As always, if no one enters 301NIB reserves the right to write its own captions and submit them under fictitious names).

It's a mad, Mad-town: Part I

I can only describe my trip back to Madison as bittersweet. The travel aspect proved to be extremely painful (and expensive), the unloading and loading of our possessions exhausting, and the visit itself proved fraught with nostalgia. But I was also looking forward to re-visiting the university, attending church with our former ward, and re-connecting with friends.

The most exciting prospect of my return was an invitation to stay at Chez Schaefer. After all, how many times in one's life does one get a backstage pass to hang out with the Rock Star?



It's not a man-crush...

The Rock Star is an individual who has received mentioned several times on 301NIB, but deserves a more formal introduction. I first became acquainted with the great man while we were moving into our apartment. The buzzer rang and after saying hello I heard a voice say, "Hey, is this the Mormon family that just moved in?"

But I only began to comprehend the man's truly Rock Star nature when I accompanied him on a speaking assignment at the Beaver Dam branch northeast of Madison. Watching him 'meet and greet' with the members as they arrived for Sacrament meeting was like watching Bono mesmerize a concert audience during the Joshua Tree tour. People naturally gravitate towards that handshake and intoxicating smile. This guy truly is what the Mack Strate only pretends to be. Women love him, men want to be him.



Lights, Camera, Mayhem

Besides the Rock Star himself, the Casa Del Schaefer is home to another ground-breaking artist, an innovative young film-maker who produces movie-shorts that shatter the industry's conventions. My own interest in theater production caused me to watch his technique with fascination. Whereas most directors spend several minutes (if not days) conceptualizing and then setting up shots, Vadar prefers complete spontaneity. Friday afternoon I watched him shoot a film by throwing his camera off his bed and allowing it to bounce several times. The dialogue consisted mainly of shouting and some singing of primary songs. The violence of it all was appalling, and yet strangely compelling - he treats his equipment with the reckless disregard of a (dare I say it?) Rock Star, who vindictively smashes his quitar after a brilliant performance.

301NIB is currently in talks with Vadar in the hopes he will direct our next internet video.



No, really...we're just friends

It was great to be able to hang out with Steve this weekend. Between moving our stuff out, running various errands, and the constant partying, we spent so much time together people may questioned the nature of our relationship. For example...

Since I need to pick up a rechargeable phone and a padlock for the moving van, we loaded everyone into the mini-van for a family trip to Target. As we walked through aisles Jake wanted to hold hands with both Steve and I, and of course he wanted us to swing him into the air over and over. It was a touching scene - a carefree lad out with his two dads.

On the way home we stopped at a home improvement store to pick up some paint brushes. After searching for several minutes without finding what we needed, we stopped someone in a red vest for directions. "Hey, can you tell us where to find those special foam brushes?" I considered buying a pneumatic drill or maybe a pressure washer just to make things a bit more masculine.

At the end of the weekend, the Rock Star and I both bolted church early on our way out of town. Since he was running late I dropped him off at the airport and carried in some boxes. Not knowing when we'd see each other again, he gave me the trademark bear hug as we said good-bye. In some cities that might draw some questioning looks as people secretly wondered if we'd just finished herding sheep in the mountains of Wyoming. But this was Madison. I didn't see anything but approving glances from people thinking, "Wow, good for them."

Coming soon in Part II : If it doesn't fit...she must forget

A Tale of Hunger and Heroism

The journey is over - I have made it to the great valley. Over the past two days I drove a wagon-train of our belongings across the great plains from Madison to Provo. I arrived in Utah early Wednesday morning in a half-delirious state. After running several tests, doctors diagnosed me as suffering from a combination of allergies, overexhaustion, and Obama-fatigue.

Thankfully, the trip was mostly uneventful. With a Penske moving van as my faithful steed I enjoyed good weather untill hitting a few thunderstorms in Nebraska, causing me to stay the night in the tiny hamlet of York. The road was lonely - my only companion being a bag of Brach's chocolate covered raisins given to me in Madison by a considerate friend. We were quite a team, those raisins and I, until tragedy stuck on the north fork of the Platte river. As we meandered through a construction zone the truck hit a pothole, sending my beautiful blue Brach's bag bouncing out of the cupholder and down underneath the passengers seat. Since the cab was packed with household items that wouldn't fit in the cargo hold, it proved impossible to retrieve the raisins while steering the truck.

They were trapped.

I tried to forget about it. After all, I could buy another bag at the next town. But the thought of all that chocolatey goodness melting on the floor of the cab, and possibly getting on our HP printer, plagued my thoughts mile after mile, like a splinter in my brain - driving me mad. I knew I must take action. After pulling the truck over to the side of the road I began reaching down for the raisins, to no avail. I tried approaching the stranded victims from the passenger door, but quickly realized this could trigger an avalanche of televisions, shoes, footballs, lamp shades, and other sundry items. The situation seemed hopeless, my raisins destined for the dustbin of history. Despite the hopeless situation, I counseled them to stay alive - I would find them.

They say that when humans are confronted with intense trauma they are often capable of either superhuman strength or flashes of inspiration. Such was my good fortune on that fateful day. Just when all seemed lost, and I was preparing to consign my raisins to their floor-mat tomb, I saw my opportunity. The island separating the passenger foot-spaces had a cover on it. By removing this plastic shield I created a passageway of life, which I used to reach through the maze of household items and retrieve my beloved snack.

Where once there had been only defeat and hunger, there was now hope and sustenance. The raisins returned to their place of prominence on the dash below the radio.

Then I ate them.

Ain't no party like a small-town party

You say you've never been to a small-town parade in Southern Alberta? Well, pull up your lawn chair, get the kids in the stroller, and prepare get nostalgic as 301NIB takes you on tour through a town that hasn't changed since the post-war era. Our photo-essay gives all the excitement of Magrath Days and doesn't try to hit you in the face with a lollipop.


At an A-list event like Magrath Days the security is extremely tight.


The Spirit of Magrath marching band helps keep the spirit of British imperialism alive.




The Strate Round-up carriage won a red-ribbon for best family float. (That's first-place to you and me.)



Each year the parade's major plot device involves whether or not some unfortunate child will end up under the wheels of a float as they reach for that elusive tootsie roll.

Underneath the glamour and gloss of Magrath Days lies a sinister purpose - free advertising for heartless corporate titans.


The Magrath Young Women demonstrate what a fantastic time our pioneer ancestors had pulling handcarts across the plains.


Just when you think the parade has plateaued, they take it up a notch - old people in power chairs!

Rocky Mountain Refreshment

No visit to Alberta is complete without a stop at Waterton National Park. If it's summertime, we always take visitors to see the Rocky peaks and cold mountain lakes of this protected refuge. In fact, I'm quite certain that if you try to return to the US without proof of having visited Waterton, Canadian customs will drag you out of your car and force you to attend a screening of Strange Brew before allowing you to cross the border. It's that important.

Some of the best memories of my youth involve trying to hike my way up Red Rock Canyon. As a kid it was always a contest to see who could get the farthest without getting your shoes wet. By the end, of course, everyone is completely drenched and ends up sitting on a towel in the car for the long ride home. Red Rock Canyong was also a great place to take a date, because the girl would always need to hold your hand as you crossed over the stream. You might even have to grab her around the waist one or twice to keep her from falling in the water.

This time, however, my constant companion was a little krabby patty strapped to my back. Chubber Chalong enjoyed hiking up the canyon, but with his added girth I didn't make it to 'the slide', which is generally the endpoint during these excursions. Aside from my dad offering my mom one hundred dollars to go down the slide, the highlight was watching cousins from Florida and New Mexico dip their feet into a glacial stream for the first time.

There's nothing like icy-numb extremities to let you know you're in Canada.

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Equestrian skills, Softball, and The One

So here we are now in Canada. We loaded up the van in California with as many of our possession as would fit and the kids sat like living corpses in their traveling coffins while we drove the 1295 miles from Sacramento to Magrath. The drive from Monida pass (Idaho-Montana border) to Helena still feels like traveling across the top of the world. A man feels small underneath that enormous sky.

The Strate-palooza has gone well despite my repeated attempts to disfigure myself. As soon as we arrived Meg was anxious to ride grandpa's horses, but unfortunately the riding equipment was not made for a man of my tremendous girth. (Mmmmm....girthy.) Only five minutes into the ride our horse made a unexpected turn, the saddle strap broke, and I ended up on my back with Meg on top of me. Conventional widsom says that when you fall off a horse, you need to get right back on it again. Well, screw conventional wisdom. The next time Meg rides I'll be walking in front of her with the reins in my hand. (Is it bad form to punch a horse in the face?)

The second day we were here was the opening day of the Magrath softball tournament. After scorching a double into left-center I got caught in a run-down between second and third. I somehow managed to fall on my face, tearing a hole in my sweats, and an even larger hole in my knee. The only thing that hurts more than the injury is the constant reminders from relatives, "Hey Shane...remember how there was no one even around you at third and you still face-planted?"

But the most painful aspect of all has been the coverage of the Obama campaign. Even here north of the border Obama's European tour is the top story. I think that most of us can safely say we have never seen a Presidential candidate like this in our lifetime. The National Review crowd is rightly deriding him for acting like he is already President (you want to speak at Brandenburg gate....seriously?) but why should he not? The world and especially the press has so little regard for Bush and fawns over Barack like a baby deer, the man is just acting the part.

And finally the though occurred to me - what if he doesn't win? I realize that this is a remoted possibility. The media has already handed him the election, he is leading in key swing states, there is not conceivable scenario in which he could not beat a tired, uninspiring, war-monger like John McCain. But what if he doesn't? The shock of a McCain victory would dwarf the 'Dewey defeats Truman' election as the biggest upset in American history.

This is why I think America is almost trapped into voting for Obama. He is inexperienced, ill-informed, and incredibly self-obsessed. But if he loses, the media will demand to know why. They will spend weeks and months analyzing how it was possible for a young, articulate, energetic, inspiring candidate could possibly be defeated given the unpopularity of the war and the state of the economy.

It's not difficult to imagine the conclusion they will offer.

Pictures from Pleasure Island

Spencer, Grant, and Jake smother Chubber-Chalong
Luke and Kelsey
McKay, Isabelle, and Meg
Lampwick vandalizes the court
Meg and Isabelle
The Flash with new cousin Cole
Zac, anonymous friend, Whitey, Spencer, and Noah

So what's your dissertation about?

For years I have been practicing how to answer that question. Every conversation with a friend or relative inevitable turns to that topic, and I am forced once again to stumble my way through a shoddy explanation. The reaction is always the same. The face betrays a combination of confusion and boredom, followed by a half-hearted, "That sounds interesting."


Next subject.


I certainly can't blame them. These are all intelligent people. They didn't understand my explanation because I didn't understand it. I knew the questions I was asking, I just didn't have the language to formulate a dissertation into a refrigerator magnet. It's like taking four hundred gallons of sea water and trying to distill it into a single glass of drinkable water.

But today I had a breakthrough.

My dissertation explores nationalism. (For those of you who don't have a copy of Ben Anderson on your nightstand, nationalism involves the study of how groups of people imagine themselves as having things in common with other groups of people. We are a nation because we share common traits. These can be a common language, religion, ethnicity, or political philosophy.)

In Thailand, historians have always credited two institutions with creating a sense of community: Buddhism and the monarchy. I will argue that a third factor has been overlooked - the collective memory of national humiliation.

Thailand's loss of territory to French imperialism created deep scars on the national psyche. These act like traumatic childhold memories that can cause re-lapses and influence behavior later on (ie. the current political crisis over Preah Vihear).

Collective memories of victimhood form an integral part of what it means to be 'Thai'. The communal sense of resentment and bitterness towards the west provides an additional sense of cohesion to an otherwise diverse group of people. It also means that a country which was never colonized is afflicted by a post-colonial mindset.

So there it is - my future contribution to knowledge. Not as ground-breaking as Orientalism or the Bush Doctrine, but hopefully good enough to get a diploma and one day...a job.