I now pronounce thee Ratch and Rach

Ahhh...my beloved blog.

It's been while since I've documented the random activities that are my life. I wish I could say it was due to spending more time on my dissertation, but other factors have played a role. Illness has been factor, we've been traveling and hosting visitors, and the kids activities never seem to end. Also, I now spend all my free time trying to develop hip-hop abs.

Last Thursday we spent fourteen hours in the car traveling to Alberta for my sister Rachel's wedding. I was sick with what I'm pretty sure was bronchitis. Kaddi was contracting my bronchitis. Jake spent the entire trip passed out on the back seat with some sort of viral infection. We have no idea what was wrong with Luke, but he would growl like a wounded bear cub for thirty minutes at a time. Somehow he made it all the way to Magrath, despite my repeated efforts to leave him at McDonald play-places in Idaho Falls and Helena.

(Meg was perfectly healthy.)

We arrived at the ranch shortly after someone detonated some type of bridal bomb, because the house was practically buried in wedding-related shrapnel. There was an altar covered with white lace in the front room, miniature trees with crystal hanging from metal branches on the table, and centerpieces everywhere else. All of it had to be loaded up into the trailer and transported to the wedding site. I started feeling less resentful of my fourteen hour drive when I realized that the rest of the family had been working on the wedding for months.

My assignment was to act as the Master of Ceremonies for the wedding reception. A simple task, really. Tell a few jokes, introduce the people at the head table, and allow my natural charm to shine through. As part of the festivities, I also wanted to present my my sister with the first of what would be many wedding presents. I spent weeks thinking of an appropriate gift. It needed to be something that symbolized the union of two families, and the beginning of a new era where bride and groom would place each other's needs before their own. Only one gift could accomplish all that and place the new couple on the path to marital bliss - an autographed photo of myself.

The actualy ceremony was a beautiful event. The hall of the Galt Museum in Lethbridge had been articulately decorated to resemble a winter wonderland. Through the enormous windows you could look down on the snow-covered banks of the Old Man River. As flower-girl, Meg preceded the bride and threw rose petals along the path. Rachel was radiant in her wedding dress as she walked to meet Paul at the altar, happier than I have ever seen her.

-------------------------

When I was in Alberta for Christmas I forgot my camera USB cord. I returned for the wedding in February and meant to retrieve it, but grabbed my parent's cord instead. Now neither of us can upload photos.

Here's a photo montage I lifted from my sister Angela's blog.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

A day of disappointment

One thing I enjoy about working at a university is a good luncheon. Although adjunct faculty like myself are not always invited, we usually go anyway. If the gathering is large enough, no one knows we're not supposed to be there. These types of social events are extremely important opportunities for someone like myself, someone just starting their career. They are an opportunity to eat for free.

So you can imagine my glee when I checked my box one day and found an invitation to a Christmas luncheon for all college faculty. For the next two weeks I kept the invitation in my drawer. Periodically I would take it out and stare at it, imagining the day when my lunch wouldn't involve microwaved tomato soup or boxed Asian noodles from Wal-Mart.

At last the blessed day arrived. Knowing I would probably forget the location, I stuffed the invitation in my pocket and skipped merrily down the hallway to pick up my friend Mike. He was just as excited. It was like pretzel day at Dunder Mifflin.

As we walked across campus towards the conference center, I noticed there didn't seem to be many other professors headed the same direction. After all, there are several hundred faculty in our college. I checked the flyer to make sure we had the right building. Perhaps most people were just coming fashionably late.

Arriving at the banquet room, I immediately recognized it was much too small for a faculty gathering (I'm extremely perceptive about such things). "This can't be right," I said to Mike, "It must be another room."

"No, this is it," he insisted. "It's one of those luncheons where not everyone is here at the same time. People just filter in and out for a couple hours."

And with that remark, Mike officially became partially reponsible for what happened next.

So we went in and wandered around. I didn't recognize anyone for the first few minutes (I rarely do at these things) but began to relax when I saw another professor from my department talking with the Dean. We sat down at a table. Each place setting also had a gift-wrapped bag of what appeared to be Bridge Mixture. Oh, sweet chocolatey delight! This was going to be the greatest afternoon in the history of forever.

Mike and I were talking about our classes when someone stepped to the podium and began welcoming everyone. Although I wasn't paying close attention, I was certain I heard her say this was an "administration and staff" gathering. When I looked around the room, I noticed it had a distinctly feminine flavour. I didn't recognize any professors, but I did see all our department secretaries sitting at a table across the room.

Panicked, I pulled the invitation out of my pocket. The faculty luncheon was actually next Friday

Quickly, I whispered to Mike, "Let's get out of here - this is a staff luncheon." His face blanched.

But it was already too late. The blessing on the food had begun. We couldn't walk out in the middle of a prayer, and so we sat there in silent agony.

Unfortunately, this wasn't really a prayer. It was a commencement address offered with folded arms. I'm sure you have all witnessed something similar. The person giving the prayer knows they have a captive audience, and there's no way they're sitting down until they've discharged their mind on all matters great and small. Lincoln could have given multiple Gettysburg addresses in the time it took this woman to bless a few chafing dishes.

When she finally ran out of breath, we picked up our coats and started to get up. Another person began to speak. This time it was the Dean of the College. The Head Man Himself. The Lord over all Creation. Now, I am not the most politically astute of individuals, but even I know that walking out of a small gathering during the Dean's address is not the kind of facetime a young faculty member seeks. Not only is it impolite, but it was also an admission that we were too dumb to show up at the right luncheon.

We stayed in our seats thinking the Dean would simply wish everyone a Merry Christmas, thank them for a productive year, and close. Not so. This was apparently a vital opportunity to elucidate on the challenges facing the university, the college, and the departments, in that order. Budget expectations, counseling services, charitable activities...

And as we sat continued to sit there I noticed a small crowd forming at the door. People were walking through looking for a place to sit, and I became acutely aware that there were two less empty chairs than there should have been. I started to feel dozens of stares pressing down on me. Perhaps the college staff were a tight-knit group who immediately recognized me as an interloper trying to score a free meal. The room started to feel stuffy.

I kept telling myself to hold steady. Our survival lay in our anonymity. The speech would soon end, and we could merge into the traffice of people headed to the buffet and exit stage left. Just don't get flustered. If we took flight now we'd end up stuffed and mounted, two panicky pheasants brought down by the hunter's rifle.

But the speech didn't end. One topic led into another, as if this were a devotional and not a chance to get free food. With every stale anecdote the room got hotter, the stares felt heavier, and Bridge Mixture seemed to recede from my grasp.

Finally I cracked. We stood up and headed for the door, announcing our uninvited presence to everyone. I didn't care. The cool breeze on my face felt like sweet freedom. As we walked down the street I could the see the banquet hall through an outside window. The Dean was still talking.

I learned later that the professor I recognized was in attendance because she is now an Associate Dean. That was information I could have used a day sooner.

The rest of the day was long and dreary. Instead of ham and scalloped potatoes, I had a frozen burrito for lunch. Instead of celebrating the holiday season in my office, enjoying the companionship of a bag of Bridge Mixture (Mmmmm...so many flavours), I stood awkwardly in the break room while the secretaries laughed at my absent-mindedness.

Worst luncheon ever.

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.

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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.