Inside Outsider

#55

2011-05-09T21:34:00.028-05:00

What follows is an essay I wrote about photography and my father; two subjects that, as this essay shows, are now inextrictably bound together for me.

Out Standing in a Field

Photographs are representations of presences. They stand in place of that which is outstanding, of those who cannot be with us now. A photograph re-presents a place and a time, a past time. Some re-present loved ones and are carried in miniature in purses or wallets allowing convenient retrieval for bragging or inspiration. Those same pictures might grace mantles or wallspaces, symbolically keeping the family home together. The pictures I have of my father keep him alive for me; they keep him in my view. Maybe they keep me in his view as well. I cannot tell because I’m on the life-side of the measure.

My photographs of dad, I mean the one’s I personally took with him, testify to two very important facts: 1) that he was there, and 2) I was there with him. At bottom that’s what they prove. They function as evidence, as representations which are slowly becoming presences—idols maybe, or icons? These photographs of dad testify and justify his presence just like Barthes and Sontag say they do. But they do so much more so much more simply. They remind me of my father by allowing me to review him. The pictures conjure him up in my mind, but increasingly the memories they conjure are less about dad and more about themselves—the pictures, that is. The memories of dad that stand out most are the memories of taking pictures of him. Below are some of these memories.

Past and Presence

Barthes says the essence of Photography lies in the that-has-been. Regardless of any amount of posing, staging, or altering, something—that— was really captured by the camera. Photographs, Barthes theorizes, are different from other systems of representation in that the referent of the photograph is physically present before the lens (76). Photographs relate to their referent, the presence, in more concrete ways than words do. Words signify arbitrarily, e.g. the word “photograph” does not resemble any photograph whatsoever. A photograph, however, relates to its referent so closely that most people do not feel the need to mention that they are looking at a photograph. The picture above shows my dad working on his 1954 Chevy 2 Ton truck at our family farm in Olton, Texas. When I show this picture to others, or others see this picture in the home, the exchange goes something like this, “Is that your father?” I say yes. I do not feel compelled to say “no, that’s a picture of my father.” People are no longer confused by the lifelikeness of the photograph, on the contrary, that is the quality most people appreciate.

Of course that’s my father in the picture. That’s my real father, not an artist’s representation of him. The man in the photograph is my father. The philosophical dilemmas revolve around the word “is.” Philosophical problems have always revolved around this word because “is” is the most abstract of words, even more so than death. There’s two thousand years of difficulty trying to delimit the referent for the “is” sign. “Is” is being. Of course my father “is notting,” or “is not is-ing” in the photograph, but he was working, which is close enough to “is-ing” when I took the photograph. The photograph testifies that my father was, and that, at least in the photograph, he still is… being that is, existing. My father-was-there—that is what the photograph evidences.

The fact that a photograph is a “representation” does not detract from the reality of the event, or of my father’s presence in the photograph. Problems arise when I start hugging or talking to the photograph as if it-is-still my father, although that does happen on select memorial days—his birthday, his deathday. I do not commune with the photograph because I think it-is-still my father, but because it reminds me of him. Barthes’s temporalizing of the essence of photography as that-has-been shows the limitations of the inanimate photograph. Photographs cannot show what-is-still, it is not in their essence, it is outside their province. Photographs show us what was in front of the lens at the time the photographer released the shutter and captured the scene. What was there might still be there—like a building, or a stationary object—but it will never be there again. Dad will never lean over the cowl of his Chevy again. A twist of being changed dad’s existence from alive to dead, and the Chevy’s from being my dad’s to being my grandfather’s who is still living.

My photograph of dad working on his Chevy shows how things were before all beings involved went their separate ways—dad to death, the Chevy to papa, and me to…here. The dispersion happened like family photographs, which Sontag writes, “show people being so irrefutably there and at a specific age in their lives; group together people and things which a moment later have already disbanded, changed, continued along the course of their independent destinies” (70). The dynamics of the triad of beings present in “Workin’ on the ’54 Chevy” didn’t disband immediately after I snapped the shutter; it happened nine months later. Destinies on independent courses caught together for 1/500th of a second.

Replacing Presence

The photograph testifies to a past presence, what Barthes calls that-has-been. The temporal approximation of has-been begs the spatial question of where-was-it? It in this case being the “target,” aka, the subject or model in the photograph. Where was it when it was its picture was taken? The photograph testifies to the location also, even if only vaguely: “in front of the lens.”

Photographs testify to a being-there just as much as they testify to a that-has-been. In Being and Time, Heidegger famously posits that the human’s being is best articulated with the term being-there. Philosophers generally leave the German term Heidegger uses for being-there untranslated as Dasein. The term Dasein means “existence” in colloquial German, however, Heidegger wants us to hear a deeper, more primordial meaning in the term. The Da translates as “there,” and sein translates as “being.” Dasein is being-there. You and I are Dasein; we are being-there, and photographs testify to our being-there (and not here) at that time.

Barthes and Sontag use judicial language to describe how photographs present their subjects being there. Barthes uses the terms “intractable,” “irrefutable” (77), along with “certify” (79) to write how photographs offer “proof” (79) that the thing has been there (76). Likewise, Sontag writes that the “camera record incriminates” (5), that its “photographs furnish evidence” (5) — “indisputable evidence” (9) no less. Cameras are frequently used to document events objectively. The camera does not take sides and cannot be bribed. The camera’s images can be contextualized as providing irrefutable incriminating proof of a misdeed committed by that which was there. Sontag is adamant that no matter how incriminating photographs may be, they cannot speak for themselves (108). A photograph can function as evidence, even as witness, but never as prosecutor.

The photograph “Dad & I, east quarter” (left) was taken by the camera using a timer. I staged the shot. I plotted out where we should stand in relation to the camera, which direction we should face in relation to the sun, and which pose we should assume. The photograph incriminates us as being-there in front of the east quarter of our family farm. We were there together, like the photograph irrefutably certifies. Sontag argues that photographs cannot speak, that they are mute objects that can only be used. But I disagree. Photographs do speak from their very essence. Their certification of being there is not a neutral certification—there is no such thing. Likewise, incrimination is necessarily value laden because it changes someone from an upright citizen to a criminal.

Certifications and incriminations endorse judgments, and judgments have repercussions and consequences. Photographs do testify to our being there; they incriminate us because we-have-been there, because we were. Photographs pronounce us guilty of being there/human.

We are guilty, Dad and I, of existing there in front of the east quarter of our farm. Being guilty is one of the ways Heidegger describes Dasein. Dasein is guilty because being there is never fulfilled as being here. As human beings we are constantly projecting forward and looking backward seeking new ways to comport ourselves. We always find ourselves somewhere else. We are literally always being there, as in over there. We are never able to completely gather all ourselves up and be here now; we are always there then.

Heidegger uses guilt (German Schuld) to describe our tendency to never have all of ourselves together. We spread ourselves out among so many possibilities and choices, i.e. ways of being, that we are never able to settle down, or settle the debt (German Schuld) of our existence. As Dasein we are in debt, we are guilty of never being complete. Existence, as Heidegger uses the term (German ek-sistence) literally means “standing outside.” We exist by constantly throwing ourselves out there. We are always outstanding in the same way a debt is outstanding, meaning we haven’t settled the debt. As Dasein we are always outstanding, always in debt, always guilty of being there, not here. The photograph of Dad and I judges us guilty of existing together, of being there. Dad was there, he was outstanding. He existed with me. The camera photographed us out standing in front of the east quarter together.

I am grateful for this photograph because Dad can no longer stand beside me. His debt was settled. His outstanding possibilities were settled and his debt was paid on the day he passed away, which is another way of saying he’s being is no longer there. Dad can no long be there except as a subject in a photograph. No more photographs will ever find him guilty. Sontag writes that “photographic images are pieces of evidence in an ongoing biography or history. And one photograph, unlike one painting, implies that there will be others” (166). My photographs of dad are valuable precisely because there will be no others. The photographic implication is arrested, and detained like a criminal repaying a debt to society.

The Human Trace

As I mentioned in the introduction, increasingly, my most vivid memories involve me photographing dad. I spent five years away from my father, three in Denver, then two in Tokyo. During those five years we only spent about two months together after counting up all the vacations and visits. Being in Japan helped me appreciate my father, so that when I returned home I immediately began taking photographs of dad doing all sorts of things: working on his old truck, riding his motorcycle, woodworking. I had an urge to document my father. My time absent from him made me want to authenticate my time with him. I did this through photographing him.

My photographs of dad in some way bring him back to life because they testify to his being there. I remember taking pictures of him. Sometimes that’s all I remember about him. The photographs give me a static and unchanging view of dad. They sum him up; they reify him. He no longer exists except in memory and in photographs. But the photographs are overtaking my memories and replacing my memories. The real that was my dad is dead; the real memories of my dad are endangered by the very images I thought would authenticate and preserve his presence.

But the photographs are not the only reminders I have of dad. In fact, it was a photograph that helped me realize that I myself am an image of my father. An image in the biblical sense, like Adam was made in the image of god. So too I am an image of my father. Some would say I’m a spitting image of him, but not so much in terms of looks—though we both have the same receding hairline—but in terms of mannerisms. The photograph helped me see this; it helped me see just how much of myself I owe to my dad.

The picture “Test Shot, east quarter” was really just a test shot to see where and how we should stand in “Dad & I, east quarter” (right). It wasn’t rehearsed, it was the rehearsal. [In “Dad & I, east quarter” you’ll notice how I zoomed in to cut out the distracting ground shadows and had us pose facing left to avoid the obscuring facial shadows.] The essence of the picture testifies that dad and I were there together, but it also reveals how much of myself I owe to dad. We’re standing out in front of east quarter naturally—or at least as naturally as one can when being photographed (either way we pose the same)—hands on our hips, right legs bent, left legs straight. I always knew I emulated my dad’s sayings, like saying “Well I’ll holler at ya later” before hanging up the phone. I like the way that sounds so I made the effort to copy it, and I still say it. But there are things about a person that are only reveled by their parents. I stand the way I do, I laugh the way I do, I lose my temper the way I do because I unconsciously learned these things from dad. I am an image of him. I owe these things about me to him, but I do not owe him a debt.

My being there, my existence in these photographs with him testifies to my pedigree. The photograph irrefutably testifies that my father existed, and that I carry him with me as I carry myself forward without him.

________________________________
Citations:
Roland Barthes, Richard Hill (trans.), Camera Lucida, Hill and Wang, 1982.
Susan Sontag, On Photography, Picador, 1977.

Martin Heidegger, Macquarrie and Robinson (trans.), Being and Time, Harper Collins, 1962.

False Connectedness

2011-05-04T20:41:00.016-05:00

I've been ruminating on MP's comment to my post "Being Alone and Being Lonely" for the last few weeks, and I think he is completely right, he commented:

"I think there's also a direct correlation between loneliness and our current obsession with various forms of social media. We are desperately seeking out more people to talk seriously with, yet the medium of our search is intentionally depth-less, which in turn creates further relationships based upon a two dimensional level of complexity. The more we seek out companions, the farther away they become."

When is the last time anyone one of us had a serious conversation about serious matters via Facebook, Twitter, or text message? Typically, there is direct correlation between the seriousness of the conversation and the amount of embodiment we feel entitled to or desire. For example, no one wants to be dumped via text message or a phone call. We appreciate the gesture of being together before splitting up. We desire that embodiment, we want the other person present for whatever reason: to sob before or malign, either way, we want the other to witness the affects of her actions.

We desire this embodiment because it is becoming increasingly rare to actually sit down with a friend and have serious conversations. It's so much more efficient to send a quick text and get back to whatever we're doing. Communication is now so quick and sloppy that I feel like texting "you," instead "u" makes my texts appear too formal. "You," a three letter word, has become a high -cultural relic, like top hats and boutonnieres in the hyper-reality we live in; and likewise, the practice of texting "you" is a fading social courtesy, like opening a door for a woman or arriving to an appointment ten minutes early. "U" is a symptom of the disembodied-ness of our communications and ultimately our human connections. We are not only alienating ourselves from each other's presences, but from our own language as well.

Pre-telecommunication era correspondence meant sending a messenger pigeon, a letter, or a telegram. The handwritten letter had and still has a certain romantic quality to it, especially if written in cursive (another dying skill). Irrespective of its content or neatness, the letter itself represents an investment of time and thought on behalf of the sender. The letter represents the sender in a physical way, as container or body. The recipient can hold it close and soak it with tears, or crumble and toss it into the fire. The letter has been elevated to a work of art along with the accoutrement used to embellish it. In a very real way, a letter is a place-holder for the sender, as an artifact that simultaneously functions as both message and messenger.

The text message, the Facebook status update, the tweet, all these tell us about how a person wants us to think they are doing. The social media outlets MP commented on function as masks. The avatar, the profile, both of these operate in world of conceptual reality. Within the conceptual reality the profile moves among other profiles: it checks into a restaurant, it makes new friends, and it gets in and out of relationships. Like a real life enactment of the Sims, only now we've placed ourselves into the game. The profile operates as a simulacrum, an image divorced from real life. This free-floating image (the profile) is hostile to any trace of a referent, as French thinker Jean Baudrillard writes in his four step image process:

1. It [the image] is the reflection of a basic reality.

2. It masks and perverts a basic reality.

3. It masks the absence of a basic reality.

4. It bears no relation to any reality whatsoever: it is its own pure simulacrum.

So much of our social lives are mediated through disembodied avenues. There's the online dating scene, Facebook groups and events to RSVP, and my personal favorite, the mad rush of every profile to befriend every other profile. I have a Facebook friend with over 1,000 friends. I do not feel special being one of those 1,000. I put an arbitrary cap on my digital friends at twenty five. About every six months I go through and clean out the profiles who don't interact with my profile, an act which has lead to real disappointments. One of my friends was pissed at me for not knowing about his birthday party even though he posted it on Facebook. I told him to his face, "I play dominoes (42) with you every Thursday so why the hell didn't you tell me two months ago?" A sad sign of postmodernity is my real friends feeling devalued because our relationship isn't digital. That's what happens when the image masks the absence of reality, namely, when my friend feels more comfortable communicating with me (and his other 400 "friends") on Facebook instead of inviting to his party in person.

It is so much easier to say things digitally than personally. No one wants to be rejected via text message, conversely, no one wants to reject a person face to face. It's easier to send that disembodied text message, or to change a relationship status. The less investment we put into the rejection the less impacted we feel, the less serious the relationship really was. We can escape it with our emotions and pride unscathed. Unfortunately, text messages and status updates do not aid in bringing about closure. Likewise, they are non-instructive, the text message doesn't give quality feedback. The human voice, or better still, the human face shows us the truth of statement or sentiment; the text message is the breeding ground for misinterpretation. Hell, I have to put a happy face or an exclamation point somewhere in every text message I send to make sure my recipient doesn't take my message the wrong way.

Like MP said in his comment, "the more we seek out companions, the farther away they become." The main danger of all this superficiality is that it masks the very human need for companionship. It's easier to sit at a computer and be socially lonely than risk going out in public where real flesh and blood people can talk to us or ignore us in person. It's easier to text five words that are to the point than to actually chat with someone. And it's aggravating when an intimate conversation is interrupted by a text message or a game of Scrabble. The danger of digital connectedness is that it makes us believe we are authentically connected each other; an illusion that is slowly eroding our ability to do so.

South Park episode about Facebook domination!
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Baudrillard quote accessed online here

2011-04-30T23:41:00.001-05:00

Living into the Answers

2011-04-25T21:46:00.013-05:00

I'm pretty good at everything I do because I try to be the best at everything I do. I have my own standards that usually end up exceeding the external standards placed upon me; and I live up to my own standards. Some people probably consider me an over-achiever, but I wouldn't know because I try NOT to surround myself with under-achievers. I hold myself to high standards that I continually find myself raising higher as I reach them.

I am currently finishing up student teaching at a local high school where I am constantly challenged to perform better and more creatively. My student teaching experience has taught me that teaching is something I am good at, but still have soooo much room for improvement.

At this point in the student teaching schedule, I am finished teaching students (ninth graders), and finished being evaluated while teaching students. At this point I am visiting different classrooms around the campus to observe all different types of teachers, some amazing, others not so amazing, as they teach their respective subjects and grade levels. What I've witnessed is eye-opening and worth this brief blog reflection.

I wish the student teaching schedule were reversed. I wish that the first few weeks of student teaching were spent visiting different classrooms and learning a myriad of ways to engage and teach students. What I'm discovering is that I am far from the best teacher in the school (not surprising as I'm a student teacher), and, moreover, that my own standards of what a good teacher is or does, are way too low. I need to start dreaming bigger.

Observing teachers who have been teaching 10+ years is a humbling experience. These veterans know what parts of a lesson are going to need more explaining than others. They know how to explain things better because they've dealt with the same questions for six classes a day for 10+ years. That's a lot of questions that these teachers already know will be fired at them, and what's even better, they've had 10+ years to refine their answers into educational gold. Watching these teachers I ask myself "How is she so good at explaining how to write a clear and concise thesis statement to tenth graders?" I want to know because I when I tried to teach my ninth graders how write thesis statements they looked at me like was teaching them stoichiometry in Finnish.

I want to have these seemingly telepathic teaching skills, not to mention classroom management skills, and I want them now. I'm constantly reading pedagogy books and teacher help books to try to speed up the learning curve. Some of the teaching strategies work like charms (like a lot of those by Jim Burke), but others fail miserably, leaving me broken and vulnerable in front of 35 mischievous freshmen. Books about teaching have their place. I gather new ideas and a few graphic organizers from them every now and then; but really it all boils down to experience, and the more years of it you've got the better.

I strive to be the best at everything I do. I read books to help me arrive at different perspectives on teaching. I observe good teachers to see what works well, and I watch horrible teachers to learn from what doesn't work so well--both are educational for me. But best of all, I make numerous unintentional mentors. These are experienced teachers that I gravitate toward and ask politely if I could ask them a few questions that end up taking entire conference periods to answer. I form a mentor/mentee relationship with them whether they would consider themselves mentors or not. I like these unspoken arrangements.

And it still all boils down to experience, and faith. I don't mean faith in a higher power per se. I mean faith in myself that I too will become one of these awesome teachers--in time. Even this early in my teaching career I realize how important, nay, vital, it is to have faith that I can constantly improve my teaching and craft my own valuable years of experiences. If you don't believe you can constantly improve then why keep teaching?

In his insightful book Letters to a New Teacher, Jim Burke quite aptly quotes the following passage from German poet Rainer Maria Rilke's Letter to a Young Poet, that inspired my reflection on expectations and experience:

You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

Nothing lives at 14,000 Feet...

2011-04-18T22:39:00.010-05:00

that's what I told my buddy Carter as we struggled to the summit of Grey's Peak, one of Colorado's more straight-forward 14er's. Besides yourself, and the dozens of other people sharing the summit with you, there's nothing living at the top of a 14,270" mountain- only rocks and dirt and a stunning view.

Summiting a 14,000"+ mountain delights the senses and renews the spirit while obliterating the entire body. The dichitomies between self versus nature, mind versus body, and any other combative, culturally engrained dualisms are rubbed down and loosened up like the soles of hiking boots. Of course, while ascending some 2,000" from basecamp at 12,000" to summit at 14,000", any Texan coming strait off the plains will ask repeatedly "what the hell am I doing this for?" One more step over and over agian--the metaphors spillith over.

Last summer, my buddy Carter (that's his last name, no one remembers his first name) and I set out to hike to the top of a 14er. A 14er is what people who know call mountains over 14,000 feet. There's 54 of these mountains in the state of Colorado, and the two I climbed last summer, Gray's Peak & Torrey's Peak, became my fourth and fifth. I climbed my first three 14er's during my three year stint in Denver doing graduate work. For my buddy Carter, Gray's Peak was his first time over 14,000", which is no small acomplishment for a life-long Lubbockite. Congrats my friend! Weclome to the club.

_______________________

Photo credits: Check out more photos from the expedition on Flickr

Top- picture of Carter and I atop Gray's Peak, Front Range Colorado, 14,270", taken by stranger.

Video-me atop Torrey's Peak, Front Range Colorado, 14,267" Bottom-Torrey's from Gray's Trail, taken with Canon AE1 Program and Fuji slide film

私の友達内へ

2011-03-17T11:16:00.004-05:00

内こんにちは、元気ですか？毎日二ユースについて地震と津波を見ます。私は日本の友達を心配します。とくべつに原子力発電がすごく破裂しました。内と家族は放射病気がありますか？鷲宮人々について本当に心配してから東京も放射があります。

内友とみんなさんで鷲宮住んでることを祈ります。もし日本を疎開させて私の家で住んでてですよ。返事してね

ジャスティンより

Being Alone and Being Lonely

2011-02-19T23:02:00.005-06:00

Two distinct emotions arising from two distinct perceptions of one's isolated state. Being alone carries with it negative connotations, mainly that of loneliness. Yet being alone can be quite enjoyable when that is what one desires. For example, I like to be alone when reading a book, so I sit in my green chair, alone in my room, and I read. Sitting there reading brings me into the tranquil feeling of solitude.

Loneliness, on the other hand, has little to do with being alone. Loneliness is a feeling or emotional state, not a physical state. One of the loneliest times of my life was on a packed last-train out of Tokyo; another time was in my truck just the other night as I drove around town with no one to see and no one wanting to see me.

I'm writing about this topic because I was struck by a statistic on Wikipedia. The referenced study found that 12% Americans describe themselves as lonely. Another survey found that "between 1985 and 2004, the number of people the average American discusses important matters with decreased from three to two." A couple of points about these findings strike me as interesting.

Firstly and most interestingly, I thought it quite peculiar that "discussing important matters" was a research factor in a loneliness study. Thinking about it though, I can definitely understand the importance, nay, the necessity of having one, two, or apparently for the lucky, three people to discuss important matters with. It's like the difference between friends and acquaintances--I can discuss damn near anything with a large variety of folks, but there's very few people I can (or choose to) discuss the matters I am passionate about or hold as fundamental to my way of life.

Secondly, it's pathetic that as Americans we are becoming more and more lonely, and by that I mean in the quantity of those who are lonely, and not necessarily the depth of said loneliness. 12% is a significant portion of society. Add to that the fact that we have less and less people to discuss important matters with and it's plain to see that we are socially disintegrating, and I mean that in the sense of dis-inter-grating, i.e. failing to enter meaningfully into each others' lives.

Loneliness, at bottom, is a lack of intimacy, a lack of passion reciprocated, an emptiness which one may give to but never receive from.

Serifs san Serifs

2011-01-30T20:51:00.008-06:00

Every now and then in the back of a book I'll find a little paragraph describing the book's typeface. I'm always bemused by the amount of idiosyncratic characteristics that make up a typeface. All the minute styling details that I am completely unaware of as I read come forward after I read the concluding "note on the type."

The note on the type introduces me to a covert character hiding in plain sight. The type is a character in a way. Like the characters in the narrative, the type is crafted at a particular historical moment and invested with its own personality. Some types have serifs, like the type pictured in this post (like tails), but other types don't have serifs and are a little more straight.

Each typeface is distinct from it fellows and the "note on the type" reveals this final character, which is, ironically, the first character we meet. So the next time you pick up a book turn to the back and get acquainted with the typeface. Afterwards you'll never miss it.

The images in this post were KIC scanned from Kobo Abe's Kangaroo Notebook, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, 1996. The novel was translated by Maryellen Toman Mori. It's an awfully interesting book about a man who inexplicably grows radish sprouts from his legs, at least from the knees down.

Lego My World

2010-12-03T22:02:00.011-06:00

I played with Legos everyday until I was about 26. I wish. But really, I played with my Legos until I bought my Super NES when I was 12. Video games may have displaced my passion for Legos, but not the Legos themselves. At this moment I know exactly where my Legos are. If someone came over and wanted to play Legos, I could have them scattered all over the floor in less than 3 minutes.

My Legos are stored securely in my attic and my Super NES, well, I'm not entirely sure where that thing ended up (though it's probably filled with a dirt-dobber nest in my Papa's barn). I know where my Legos are, how about you?

I saved my Legos because I figure they'll come in handy someday. I used to think I'd pass 'em on to my own children someday, but that idea just won't work. It won't work because my kids -should I ever have kids- won't want my Legos. My Legos are old school and way too boring. My Legos were top of the line back when I built: I had clear windshield bricks, angled wing bricks, and even a couple of horses that came with my "Castles" series set. As cool as these pieces were to me, they're nothing compared to the intricate Lego bricks sold today.

Lego develops new bricks to help them make cooler theme sets. When I started building, Lego made 2 theme sets: City and Space. The universe was simpler then and the Legos reflected that simplicity. Back then, kids either built things that could escape Earth's gravity or couldn't -end of story.

The population of the Lego universe was also a lot less ethnically and genderly diverse than it is today. All of my Lego-men were men. I know this because the female Lego-men, which came later on, all had red pursed lips. So, despite being anatomically identical, I knew all my Lego-men were men because they had smiles on their faces, not pursed red lips. Lego seems to have made Lego-man and woman according the Genesis creation account, wherein Adam is made first then Eve. Man and woman, He created them all yellow. Oh yeah, and all my Lego-men were yellow, which as 4 year old I equated with whiteness, but now I suppose all my Lego-men are Asian.

Lego's themes really push innovation. A Lego theme is a whole new world. The last theme set I bought was "Pirates." All my Lego-pirates were still yellow, but some of them had beards, and others had eye-patches! This was a when the floodgates opened and Lego started creating individuals (or at least individual heads) to inhabit their theme worlds. Now-a-days there's Lego-Harry Potters, Lego-Batmans, and even Lego-Atlantis Manta Warriors. So you see, all my mis-matched bricks and Lego-Asians don't stand a chance against these new-school Lego celebrities and personalities.

And that's what really pisses me off. Back in the day I had to use my imagination. When I built a multicolored rectangle with a windshield, slanted wings, and a horse in the back, I had to pretend it was an inter-galactic X-wing Star-fighter piloted by Luke Skywalker-- the horse serving as R2-D2. Hell, now-a-days Luke Skywalker is member of the Lego-Galactic Empire, and so is the rest of the Star Wars Universe.

Lego is colonizing the cultural world and rotting our children's imaginations one contrived brick at a time. Kids don't have to imagine anything anymore. They just play video games or bully each other on Facebook. Of course I can't bitch too much, after all, the Super NES forced my own Lego building career into early retirement.

Newer technologies usually make older technologies obsolete, like the computer did to the typewriter, or like the car did to the horse drawn carriage. Legos, unfortunately, are an older game technology. But Lego is still in business, and it remains in business for two reasons:

1) It has made a Lego-world out of everything from Harry Potter to Atlantis. By expanding its base in this way, Legos appeal to a larger market segment. Lego colonizes to survive.

2) Legos have also made the digital-turn by making Lego video games like "Lego-Batman" and "Lego Harry Potter." I've never played these games, but it seems like they'd be nothing more than Legofications of regular games. Most today's kids probably first encounter Legos on their Wii systems than on their playroom floors. By extension, these same kids probably just figure "Lego," the word, refers to a blocky yellow aesthetic style used in video games.

Sure, I'm pissed off that today's Legos are so unimaginative and virtual. But at least they're still being made in brick form. I like the bricks. I like to feel the texture of the world I'm creating and then imaginatively move beyond it. I also like to stroll down the Lego isle and see what's new in the ever expanding, all consuming Lego universe. In Japan, I frequented the Lego Store at Saitama-Shintoshin. Walking through there sends my mind reeling and my heart lamenting that Lubbock doesn't have a Lego Store. But Lubbock did have Lego exhibit at the Arts Festival last year. (see pictures)

So while Legos are gradually taking over the past, present, and future of our world, it's nice to know they're still being played with. Though I dislike the virtual-turn Lego continually makes into the gaming world, I can understand their motivations. But then again, I dislike most things virtual. I like having more real-world friends than Facebook friends, and I like being paid in cash than the digital numbers of this direct deposit age. Hopefully my kids will too.
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Photos taken by me at the 2010 Lubbock Arts Festival.

A few short of a Haiku

2010-10-06T23:01:00.008-05:00

I was sitting on a bench near some trees this afternoon. I looked around and thought "my but there's quite a lot of pigeon shit on the ground." I wasn't sitting under the trees because I didn't want to sit in or near the excrement, but I was sitting in the pigeons' flightpath. Thinking about the perils of the position I was in brought a stunning memory to the surface.

About 5 years ago... I'm walking home in the snow from Kaladi Brothers' Coffee House on University Ave. in Denver, Colorado. I'm bundled in a nice black pea coat and carrying a steaming cup of coffee. I'm wearing my flannel golfer's cap (I don't golf), thankfully. I'm just slushing along. The air is calm and there aren't too many cars on the road so the air is quiet, too. I love snowy afternoons in Denver; they go best with the aroma of fresh coffee and the warmth it gives. I don't hear the defecation; I only feel it. A little dopplethump on my head. Water dripping off an awning?

I feel it again when I go to take my cap off. Now it's on my cap and my fingers. White and grainy, kinda like toothpaste but a bit runnier. I wipe my fingers off in the snow, check to make sure my coffee is scat free, and smirk at the peculiarity of the event...

When I got back to my apartment I wrote a little poem, like a haiku, only without the right amount of syllables (consequently, it wasn't a haiku). Here's what I wrote, it's easy to remember:

On a snowy day
A bird shat on my head

I remember debating whether I should write "shit" or "shat" at the time. Either way. Some people say that being shit on, or shat on, is a sign of good luck. The same people make wishes when they light upon a stray eyelash. These uninhibited optimists make lemonade out of lemons, but I wonder what they'd make out of pigeon shit?

Flats and Pans at the Red River Rally

2010-06-06T15:56:00.025-05:00

It's a Burrus tradition to spend Memorial Day weekend at the Red River bike rally. For a few days in May, the small, traffic light-free town turns into a biker oasis. The Red River Memorial Day rally draws close to 50,000 bikes and is one of America's top 25 rallies.

This year I spotted some really cool vintage bikes amidst the thousands of stock Harleys, a slew of Goldwings, and a spattering of "Hollywood Choppers." I dig the old bikes because when I see one of them out on the road I know the owner is more than likely very mechanically savvy. Those owners are also really cool to talk to because they tend to be older, and have more to talk about than custom handlebar grips and chrome.

Below are a couple of the bikes I stood around at Red River while their owners told me tales of epic breakdowns, wrecks, and 6 volt problems.

Up first is this killer 1947 Harley Flathead. This was my first time to ever see one of these things in person. What makes this bike so killer? Well, this is one of Harley's first big twin engines that predates modern engines (Evo's) by over 40 years. Just imagine cruising down the road on a motorcycle that's over 60 years old! Super cool. For its age, the bike is immaculate. It's a kick-started, hand-shifted, springer-frontended masterpiece of early big twin design. I chatted with the owner a bit while he fiddled with some little springs inside an old something or other part of the bike. I never really understood what he was doing, but he said on a 500+ mile ride he'll usually have to pull out the wrenches a few times before he gets where he's going. Rest assured, I ran into him at Red River where he entered his bike in the vintage class bike show.

This next bike is a 1963 Harley Panhead Electra Glide. The bike is a far cry from the modern Electra Glides you see cruising around today. Back then there were no front or rear fairings, no comfy seat for the misses, and definitely no radio/CD players. The real advancement with this bike was the electric start, hence the name. However, as the owner told me, you can't always count on that electric starter so the kicker pedal remains as a trusty standby. The solo seat is not original to the bike, neither are the saddlebags. The owner explained that after being rear-ended in the mid-'70s he couldn't find or afford the stock replacement tailpipes, seat, or bags, so he stripped them off a Sportster and made them work.

I think the bike looks great and wouldn't have know anything wasn't stock (minus the bullet hole stickers) unless he'd told me. One of my favorite things about this bike is the exposed oil filter on the right side. I figure back then Harley wasn't as concerned with hiding away or chrome plating all the unglamorous components of their motorcycles. Like the guy with the Flathead, this man entered and later won bike show in the vintage class. He said the judges liked his original paint. The man also told me that professional painters have offered to paint the bike for free, but he continually turns them down. Can't blame him.

And lastly I'll leave ya'll with an image of my own "old" bike. My Virago 1100cc is only 15 years old now, but it does meet one vintage requirement: it's discontinued, meaning it takes me a week to get parts for it...when I can find them.

Here I'm just leaving the Palisades Sill in Cimmaron Canyon. For all of you who knew my Dad, next time you're cruising by this spot be sure to pull over, walk down by the river, and say a few words to Dad. My family and I scattered his ashes here during the rally, giving new meaning to Memorial Day. It was his favorite spot on the way to his favorite rally.

15,000+

2010-04-26T00:48:00.003-05:00

This week I was pleased to learn that my first and favorite self-made video passed 15,000 views! I can't believe it, 15,000+ views in one year! I made this video for Dr. Hamman's "Instructional Theory and Design" class at Texas Tech University. The assignment was simple: Compare and contrast the cognitive development theories of Piaget and Vygotsky in 90 seconds or less. The task sounded easy until it actually came time to compress these two distinct theories into a 90 framework, and then narrate it without screwing it all up. So for all you cognitive development buffs out there I hope you enjoy the music, the pics, and the theory.

"A Technically Perfect Camera"

2010-04-25T00:56:00.016-05:00

For my fellow photography enthusiasts out there looking for the ever elusive "perfect" camera, look no further--look to the past. That's right, back in the '60s, Germany based Agfa made the "technically perfect camera," the Optima IIs, at least according to the owner's manual.

The Optima IIs (pictured left) is a charming 35mm rangefinder camera, featuring a revolutionary "automatic mechanism" that selects the proper exposure setting for every shot. Operation is quick and easy, just focus, press the "magic release lever," and BAM, perfect pictures every time! No more bad pictures caused by incorrect exposure settings.

Part of what makes this camera so charming is the brilliant language of the owner's manual. The first lines are worth quoting in full, "You are now the proud owner of a technically perfect camera- the fully automatic Agfa Optima IIs which does not require any complicated manual operation and so leaves you free to concentrate on the subject. What a source of boundless joy that is!" I don't recall reading anything like that when I bought my Nikon D40.

I have no doubt that the Optima IIs will be my source of boundless joy once I figure out how to set the damn ISO meter just right. Hell, I had to read the manual before I could even turn the ISO adjustment dial, where I learned "to do this, turn the milled disk with the aid of a coin until the required DIN or ASA speed is opposite the setting mark." Turns out all I needed was a quarter and my best guess about the settings. After setting the dial to ASA 200/DIN24, I loaded the camera with Ilford 400 Delta Professional black & white film and went to shooting. Here's a little taste of the magic:

The Texas Tech Architecture building before a storm. This is my architectural homage to Ansel Adams's The Face of Half Dome.

The Student Union Building just before the same storm.

And finally, the main library looking out from a second floor window in the Student Union.

All these images link to my Flickr page for optimal viewing. I would like to thank Ani Dela Rosa, a promising photo major, for processing the negatives and teaching me how to scan those negatives into digital images.

Please try to enjoy the pictures, and if you have any advice on how I can the Agfa Optima IIs better, please do not hesitate to comment on this post. I welcome any suggestions, magical or not.

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Reproduction of original Agfa Optima IIs owner's manual available at: http://www.butkus.org/chinon/agfa/agfa_optima_ii_iiis/agfa_optima_ii_iiis.htm

Bacterial Sentience? Intelligence? Civilizations?

2010-03-31T20:00:00.011-05:00

What counts as “intelligent life” and who (or what) possesses it? These are the central questions raised in Slonczewski’s Children Star. As mentioned in class on 30 April, the difficulty we face in pinning down a definition of “intelligent life” in the novel stems from the author’s use of many different words with overlapping meanings. For example, the novel assumes that intelligent life is sentient, but not all sentient life is intelligent. The characters’ struggle to define intelligent life mirrors our own philosophical and biological struggle to decide what makes life intelligent, or at least sentient. Though sentience is roughly understood in the novel—witness the protesting electric sentients fighting for their civil rights—intelligent life is harder to recognize. Unfortunately for the creatures of Prokaryon, the answer to this question will determine the rest of their lives, intelligent or not.

Questioning the boundaries of sentience and intelligent life is not confined to science-fiction. Like Sarai in her mountain laboratory studying microzooids in hopes of understanding their behaviors, Jacob, Becker, Shapira, and Levine,[1] study bacterial growth patterns and argue that some bacteria, like Paenivacillus vortex and Paenibacillus dendritiformis (pictured top left), are not only sentient, but intelligent as well (assuming intelligent life is necessarily sentient). The researchers base this conclusion on these bacterial colonies’ abilities to “cooperatively make drastic alterations to their internal genomic state and transform into different cells (369).” Bacteria, like humans, are able to transfer genetic material between themselves, i.e. sex, however, unlike humans, bacterial “horizontal genetic transfer” does not lead to reproduction. Thus, the bacteria studied above are able to adjust the genetic composition of their colonies in order to thrive in particular environments, which, in this case, is a Petri dish.

There is nothing new about the above findings. Mircobiologists recognized the genetic capabilities of bacteria decades ago. What is novel, however, are the conclusions Jacob, Becker, Shapira, and Levine, draw from their controlled laboratory studies. One of the central questions arising from these documented bacterial genetic adaptations is how does the colony morph, as a whole, into different, more life preserving shapes? For as the study demonstrates, both bacteria, when placed in an adverse environment, selected a pattern “that maximizes the rate of colony expansion (370).” This beneficial selection, the researchers modestly claim, “hints that the colonial morphotype manipulation is applied to attain better adaptability (370).” These findings hint (show?) that bacteria choose survival and expansion over stagnation and death. Does this choice, even if it be at the genetic level, i.e. unconscious, point toward bacterial sentience?

And what about bacterial intelligence? Intelligence, like sentience, is a value laden term, more so than the term “life.” A tree that grows is alive, so is a barking dog, but are trees and dogs sentient, much less intelligent? Based upon the above findings, it is easy to conclude that the simple act of choosing life is an intelligent choice in itself. However, as Tyler Volk explains in his book Death,[2] autolysis, or self-dissolution, i.e. cellular suicide, is, in many cases, needed for a bacterial colony to continue expanding. Volk illustrates the workings of autolysis by looking at the case of myxococcus, which uses cellular suicide in order to form stalks—harder support structures made from the corpses of sacrificial cells (Volk, 29). Based upon Volk’s work with the suicidal cells of myxococcus (on left), it appears that death is sometimes the most intelligent, and dare I say it, the most telenomical choice.

At this point, after reviewing the findings of Jacob, Becker, Shapira, and Levine, and in light of Volk’s work with autolytic, and perhaps telenomic cells, the question of bacterial intelligence can be answered along two different lines of thought, one biological in nature, the other philosophical in nature. However revealing the philosophical implications of a seemingly telenomic entity might be, this route of analysis will be saved for a forthcoming essay. At present, the issue of bacterial intelligence will be considered from a biological perspective.

So how does a colony of bacteria decide which genetic mutations afford the greatest chance of survival and expansion? Jacob, Becker, Shapira, and Levine, hold that bacteria communicate among themselves, writing, “It is clearly essential to figure out how the bacteria can obtain semantic meaning, so as to initiate, for example, the proper context-dependent transitions between different operating states of the genome (370-371).” Though the researchers do not understand the process(es) by which bacteria code messages and send them, Jacob, Becker, Shapira, and Levine do conceive that bacteria have shared social communicative abilities, which, because of the nature of language, implies a shared knowledge of the semantic meanings of their codes (371). Based on these speculations, it would indeed appear that not only are bacteria sentient (by choosing), and intelligent (by communicating), but that they are also socially organized (but civilized?).

At the moment there is no definitive answer to the question of bacterial sentience, much less intelligence. Unlike the Petri dish bound bacteria above, we humans have yet to codify the semantic meanings of the words “sentience” and “intelligence.” (Which is odd, and perhaps a little telling, because we assume we possess both traits but are unable to define them.) But does there need to be a definitive answer? Biologist John Bonner, best known for his work with amoebae (left), which behave similarly to the bacteria described above, in an interview with Eduardo Punset in Mind, Life, and Universe,[3] refuses to answer the question of bacterial intelligence with a yes or no. Rather he states, “I prefer the idea of continuity and admit the difficulty in defining intelligence,” which Punset interprets as, “Therefore you believe that intelligence is a question of degrees and not, as many hold, that we are intelligent and other animals are not,” to which Bonner replies, “Exactly.” Bonner’s perspective is, I believe, more open mindedly curious and more scientifically sound than a simple yes or no. While Bonner’s non-answer to the question of bacterial intelligence would undoubtedly lead to the destruction of the fictional planet Prokaryon, his unique, and in many ways Buddhist perspective, heightens my sense of mystery and wonder about the microcosmic world I am.

Joan Slonczewski, Children Star, 2010, Phoenix Pick, Rockville, Maryland.

[1] In “Bacterial linguistic communication and social intelligence,” TRENDS in Microbiology, 12.8, August 2004.

[2] Tyler Volk, Death, 2009, Chelsea Green Publishing Co., White River Junction, Vermont.

[3] Lynn Margulis and Eduardo Punset eds. Mind, Life, and Universe: Conversations with Great Scientists of Our Time, 2007, Chelsea Green Publishing Co., White River Junction, Vermont.

Spring Break Wrenchin'

2010-03-23T20:45:00.020-05:00

There's not much better than having five days off work to spend time with the fam, drink homebrew, and wrench on a classic truck. The time off was Spring Break, the fam was my cousins and grandparents, the brew was my cousin's homebrewed beer, and the classic truck, a 1953 Ford F-100. If you're into classic trucks, or at least classic truck axles, springs, and frames, then keep on reading.

My cousin Alan, the fiery headed mechanic/homebrewer, has been working on this truck in between his offshore work schedule for the last few months or so. He already had the original straight 6 motor machined 30 over and then painted and rebuilt it himself. Alan also rebuilt the axles and bolted on some sweet Kragar rims wrapped in fresh rubber. The truck has already come a long way from the $100 basketcase my Dad bought seven years ago. So check out the photos and enjoy watching my family and I rebuild a piece of history.

Here Alan and I are breaking down the rust encrusted leaf springs for a nice pressure wash followed by a fresh coast of black spray paint.

Here's the same springs after some long awaited tender lovin' care. The front springs have the brass spring inserts in them (on right), the rear springs still need the old worn out inserts smacked out.

And this why you need to replace the 50+ year old spring inserts. This wasn't even the worst of the old inserts; some of the inserts had done broke in half!

Tip: Always lube up your insert before pushing it in. Doing so makes the whole process go a lot smoother.Here's the suspension parts going onto the frame. The parts in baggies were bought from Mid-fifties Ford. Along with the new inserts shown above, we needed new rear u-bolts, shackles, hanger pins all around, new shocks from Autozone (front match rear), and a freshly cast rear spring hanger. This new hanger (bottom hanger left of red shocks) was a pain to work with, mainly because it was the only straight piece on the rear suspension, which meant it was crooked. A little grinding and smacking got everything lined up.

Alan lightly tapping in the bottom shackle pin. Notice the concentration and accuracy. He knows he's gotta hit this pin straight and easy so as not to deform its outer edge or rotate it inside the insert. You don't want the pin rotating because then you can't align the keeper bolt in the hole on the bottom right of the hanger.

With the springs hung front and rear, we rolled the axles underneath and bolted the whole set-up together. We decided to keep the original i-beam front axle instead of messing with all the new aftermarket IFS kits available for modern classic trucks. The suspension, drivetrain, and body will be completely rebuilt, stock equipment. I think we are gonna spring a little extra dough for power brakes and steering. Maybe even an air conditioner.

Speaking of the motor, here she is in all her oilpanless glory. We can't finish dressing out the motor because the thing is so damn heavy its slowly bending Alan's motor stand, so we support the front of the motor with a 2x4. I swear, this thing looks like goes in a tractor, not a 1/2 pick-up. The transmission is really wimpy looking compared to the motor.

So now we've got a roller. When we started working on the truck we had to carry the frame around from the backyard, but now we could roll it down the driveway if wanted to. Of course we can't steer it yet, or stop it, or start it, but hell, the point is the frame is suspended and rolling on some rebuilt axles with killer wheels. It'll probably be a while before we work on the truck together again, up next we're looking to drop in the drivetrain. Should be a blast. Till then, keep wrenchin'.

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The following blog post was brought to you by Smack Yo Moma Beer, homebrewed by Alan in sunny south Texas. [No, it's not "Smack Yo Mama," it's "Moma," pronounced like "soma," the drug of choice by many esoteric Indian explorers.

The Need for Biomimicry

2010-03-03T12:48:00.017-06:00

The following blog post is a reflection upon my Sputnik Observatory path focusing on biomimicry: the process of mimicking biological processes in human technological design.
Sputnik Observatory is an online oasis of free-thinking scientists, ecologists, architects, and artists who are committed to informing and inspiring the public with biologically and ecologically based scientific findings.

[To watch the videos online you will need the latest edition of flash. The following wander essay (path) responds to these videos.)

Embarkation: Interconnection and Human Meddling
In his conversation, “Earth is the Place to Be,” Trevor Paglen (artist/writer) speaks about the most important observable phenomenon in social, philosophical, and ecological history: reciprocity, dialectic, feedback; aka, interconnectedness. Using corn as his exemplum, Paglen states, “we have changed nature in a very fundamental way planting all this corn; but the fact that we’ve planted all this corn also changes us in a very fundamental way, too. We are turning ourselves into corn!” (0:27). Although the piece doesn’t allow Paglen to explicate how we are turning into corn, I assume it is partially due to the cattle industry force feeding corn (and other unnatural chemicals) to the cattle which in turn we eat as beef. “We are what we eat:” that feedback loop is a common phrase; however, the twice removed, less common phrase is “We are what we eat eats.”

This second phrase pushes the feedback loop between consumer and consumed deeper into the interconnected web involving farmers and veterinarians, cardiologists and morticians.

It is interesting that Paglen does not mention cattle feedlot diets as a reason why we are physically transforming into corn given the advice of Freeman Dyson (physicist), who appears later on in the same conversation video. Dyson holds that we should genetically engineer usable-energy-producing plants if we obtain the ability to do so. He encourages scientists and engineers to produce 10% more efficient plants—say by genetically programming a black leafed photosynthesizer—that would only require one tenth the land to produce the same amount of energy.

In general I am distrustful of such ideas and practices; especially given that it was logic similar to Dyson’s that brought about the creation of feedlots. By all rationale, feedlots are marvels of efficiency, requiring only 10% of the land to needed to naturally feed upwards of 60,000 cattle at a time. Unfortunately, such efficiency is unnatural and requires hormones, and a cornucopia of other chemicals in order to keep the cattle alive while reconditioning their stomachs to digest corn. Of course corn is a vegetable suitable for consumption; but not for cows. When was the last time we witnessed cattle grazing the vast open corn fields of America?

Contrasting Dyson’s idea of actually engineering plants that would produce energy for us (notice the direction the dialectic is travelling); Janine Benyus (author, biomimicker) argues that a more responsible form of artificial photosynthesis involves us as humans evolving our technologies to mimic nature’s processes of energy production. Her argument about turning our excess carbon dioxide into biodegradable plastics changes the flow of the dialectic, encouraging us to learn and mimic plants and bacteria: the true masters of turning waste into food. Let us mimic natural biological process instead of forcing those processes to meet our needs.

Step 2: Starting at Home
Instead of deluding ourselves in thinking we can control nature—from the stomachs of cattle to the biogenetic make-up of as-yet-un-crafted artificial photosynthesizers—in order to live more comfortably in the world, we should look toward nature’s evolved designs for Gaia-responsible living inspiration. Spring boarding from Benyus’s biomimetic approach, architect Andreas Vogler provides us with visions of biomemic future homes. Worldwide, 50% of all energy is consumed by our homes (0:09), with the other 50% being used by industry. Lowering the amount of energy we use in our homes can radically reduce consumption of natural resources. Yet Vogler has more than energy reduction in mind for biomimetic homes: he would like to craft homes that function as organisms do—plants in particular. Vogler envisions a home that functions not only as a human habitat, but also as air purification centers. These respiring homes can intake waste from the atmosphere, purify through techno-chemical processes, and release a newly purified bioproduct into the home and later into the atmosphere using negative feedbacks. The ultimate vision is, I suppose, to create negative ecological footprint homes; or, phrased inversely: homes that actually benefit and act in concert with emergent Gaian feedback loops. Human technology has an opportunity, and I would argue an ethical responsibility, to direct a proportion of its innovative efforts towards greener living solutions. Our technology should adapt to Gaian sensibilities.

Step 3: New Conceptions of Beauty
Despite how illogical our current use and abuse of nature is, it is apparent that logic and reason are not enough to inspire a change in worldview. One central ingredient in lasting change is positive behavior reinforcement; and no matter how fuel efficient or biomimetic a car is, if it is ugly people will not buy it. What we need is a different kind of beauty; a bio-aesthetic. Michael Hensel (architect) argues for this new look at beauty by asking us to locate beauty not only in crafted products, but in emergent biological processes as well (0:06). With this conception of beauty in mind, Hensel tries to craft dwellings in ways that utilize Vogler’s eco-friendly technologies in a style that encourage intellectual and sensual appreciation of process integrated architecture. Hensel’s idea is to make environmentally responsible productions pleasurable and attractive to participate with (through ownership and dwelling).

[The following literary application draws from Joan Slonczewski's amazing book A Door Into Ocean.]

From Gaia to Raia
Shoran verbs demonstrate the ingrained interconnected worldview of the Sharers. Their language helps them effectively communicate about the world around them, and life on Shora is life in the web. All phenomena are natural and interconnected. Hence, when the Valan colonizers use toxins to ward off sea-swallowers the entire web of life is affected. Valans (at Realgar and Jade) view the world from the for us side of the dialectic. Instead being biomimetic (copying the Shorans living rafts) and adapting their floating death camps to handle swallower season, they decide to alter the web. They prefer separation from the web rather than integration. What else can we expect, they are not sharers. Valans, like the majority of Americans, would rather alter nature than work with her; we find more beauty in material items than natural processes. This latter point is not surprising, for our pursuit of natural resources is decimating what is left of our most primordial source of beauty: nature.

Ecosophy... got one?

2010-02-23T22:49:00.026-06:00

What do you get when you philosophize about the environment and the natural world we all live in? You get ecosophy; the combination of ecology and philosophy. Ecology is the study of the environment and philosophy is the love of wisdom, so by putting the two parts together you get environmentally centered wisdom. That's a rough definition of ecosophy, and whether you understand it or not, we all have an ecosophy; whether we know it or not.

Nature, and how one believes we as humans should relate to her, is the crux of any ecosophy. Traditionally, there are two ecosophical views that represent two extreme ends: human-centric ecosophies vs. nature-centric ecosophies. Here's the skinny on each of them.

Some people view nature (by nature I mean everything living & non-living which makes up all that is Earth) as a mindless bunch of germs, mountains, and critters that are only good for scientific research, economic growth, or delicious food. This approach to nature is human-centric; meaning we humans are the most important part of the relationship, and we call the shots. This human-centered ecosophy says, "There's oil under that wildlife preserve and them critters ain't usin' it so let's start pumpin' boys. Billy club that baby seal." Basically, human-centered ecosophies are more concerned with humanity's comfort first and foremost; the Earth comes second, if at all.

If viewing nature as nothing but a huge collection of exploitable resources isn't your bag, then you might have a more nature-centric ecosophy. Where the previous view might be personified by a ten-gallon hat wearin' Texan, this second view is best personified by the unshaven (or showered) tree-huggin' hippie. Nature-centric ecosophies prioritize nature's health over human comforts. On the extreme end of this ecosophy you'll find eco-terrorists who have been known to spike trees, endangering loggers' lives while preserving the trees'.

Of course the two above characterizations of Texans and Hippies are just exaggerations for the sake of illustrating the extreme ends of opposite ecosophies. So if anyone is offended, don't be.

Most people do not fit into either of these categories or have such extreme environmental views. Personally, I don't think any of us actually seek to destroy the Earth by our actions; it just so happens that a lot of the actions we do everyday end up harming the Earth: like driving our car the grocery store less than a mile away; or spending 30+ minutes in a hot shower. Neither of these activities constitute a slapping the Earth in the face, it's just that there's better alternatives to both activities -like riding a bicycle to the store, or only taking a 5-10 minute long shower. These simple and reasonable alternatives keep us in shape and save gas money; which in the end, reduces the amount of CO2 (carbon dioxide) being pumped into the atmosphere. [CO2 is a greenhouse gas which absorbs more solar heat than other atmospheric compounds, thus raising the Earth's temperature and upsetting bio-feedback loops.]

So what's my ecosophy? Well I'm still working that out. But I do believe that as a human being, I am just one member of an animal species called homo sapiens, and as such I must share the Earth with a wide assortment of other species. These other species are not under my control, and they did not evolve into their present form for my benefit and use. Each of us -and by "us" I now mean "living beings"- affect the environment we live in; and because of this we should do all we can to care for the Earth which we cannot replace or live without.

We are all part of a vast and extremely complex web life; and a broken link anywhere in the web effects the whole. More on ecosophy in future posts.

Here's a video of Stephan Harding speaking about Gaia: the interconnectedness of all living and non-living things. Please enjoy:

Thank You Ursula LeGuin

2009-12-29T19:15:00.006-06:00

I received a signed book plate from Ursula K. LeGuin in the mail today! LeGuin is a giant in the science-fiction world and most famous for her 1969 groundbreaking and multiple award winning novel The Left Hand of Darkness. Earlier this month I read The Left Hand of Darkness, and although I found the first 100 pages of this 218 page book quite boring, the back half of the novel depicts a peerless tale of friendship, courage, and endurance.

After I finish a novel it's my custom to research the book on the Internet; reading reviews and criticisms post facto. While researching The Left Hand of Darkness, I found Ursula K. LeGuin's website and learned that she is alive and well in Oregon. Her website provides her physical address so fans can write to her and receive a signed bookplate. On her website, LeGuin writes that she can no longer sign people's books because of the weight and hassle of returning said books; but she encourages those wanting a signature to send her a self-addressed stamped envelope and she will return a signed adhesive bookplate. Needless to say, I sent LeGuin a short letter and a return envelope and today I received my bookplate!

How cool is that?! A living legend who cares about her readers and freely sends them signed bookplates for their volumes when asked. Everything I read about LeGuin describes her as a tender and caring woman, and I think her personality softly radiates in her main characters in The Left Hand of Darkness, and in the bookplate she sent to me. Thank you Ursula LeGuin.

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I stuck my bookplate in my first book club hardback edition of The Left Hand of Darkness, I purchased at a local book store; what a find!

Merry Christmas from the Poopin' Reindeer!

2009-12-23T23:52:00.001-06:00

Going Synthetic

2009-12-20T23:38:00.005-06:00

Tonight I made the switch from conventional motor oil to synthetic. I'd been thinking about switching over to synthetics for a while now but didn't want to shell out the extra money for the technologically superior oil. But since school let out I've been in mechanic-mode so I figured now was good time get under the truck and change my own damn oil and make the switch. Now I'm running Castrol GTX High Mileage in my Dodge Ram (107,500 miles).

I've known how to change oil since I started driving, and for the first few changes I kinda liked doing it. Yet as the years rolled on and time grew scarce I began taking my truck to those quick-change shops, or the Tire & Lube center at the WalMart. I figured $30 wasn't too much to pay to have a professional (in the sense that they get paid to do the job) do all the work properly and dispose of the used oil. I'd never had a problem with their work and it gave me 30 minutes to mine the $5 DVD shit-bin for movie gold.

But I've been in mechanic-mode lately due in part to watching two hours of Spike TV's "Power Block" --a block of four shows all devoted to wrenchin': Extreme 4x4, Horsepower (my fav.), Trucks, and Muscle Car-- every weekend for the last month. All those TV shows recommend synthetic oils and I figured changing my own oil would satisfy my "manly" gene and give me a chance to investigate the synthetic hype.

I went to my local auto parts shop to compare the prices of conventional oil (Pennzoil, Quaker State, etc.) to synthetic oil (Castrol, Royal Purple, etc.). To my surprise, a quart of Castrol GTX High Mileage was only a buck more than a quart of Pennzoil motor oil! That, in my opinion, is a small price to pay to go synthetic. Seeing as how my Dodge only needs 4.5 quarts that translates into a $5 difference. Not too shabby. Also while I was at the auto parts shop I picked up a Haynes repair manual for my Dodge Ram. (I felt slightly embarrassed that I didn't already own one, as any do-it-yourselfer needs a manual for their vehicle.)

Before I took the leap and shelled out my dough for the oil, I figured I'd see what WalMart charged for a synthetic oil change; and here's the price gouge that will really blew me away: $55. That's a shit-ton of money for an oil change, especially when one aisle over you can buy 5 quarts of Castrol GTX for $14 and a Fram high mileage oil filter for $7. Add those together and you can do your own synthetic oil change for $21; a savings of $34! That's huge!

So that's what I did. I bought the fancy filter, 5 quarts of the super synthetic oil, drain pan, funnel, shop towel, and a jug of windshield washer fluid (I was dry), and my grand total: $37. Even factoring in the cost of the Haynes manual I still only spent $57, which is $2 more expensive than the synthetic WalMart oil-change, but lands me all those essential shop tools and the invaluable repair manual.

This post probably sounds like a consumer alert piece, and it is a little bit, but if you have the gumption to change your own oil you will save money and get a better bang for you buck. I'll leave you with one last cost comparison: WalMart conventional oil change-$30; changing it yourself oil with synthetic oil and fancy filter-$21. Now that's thinkin' with your dipstick!

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The torque rate for a Dodge Ram oil plug in 25ft/lbs. Thanks Haynes!

Sacred Safety Sticker 交通安全ステッカー

2009-12-13T21:53:00.014-06:00

I know how dangerous riding motorcycles can be, so the more I can stack the deck in my favor the better. I keep myself as safe as possible by wearing a helmet, and I keep my bike safe with my Shinto "safety in traffic" sticker (the yellow one with the red shrine gate in the pic).

As Americans, we don't customarily put these kind of stickers on our cars. Sure we've all seen the "Jesus is my co-pilot" bumper stickers, but these are totally different from the "safety in traffic" sticker.

Across the top of the sticker are four Japanese characters (kanji): 交通安全. The first two characters, 交通 (koutsu) mean "traffic," and the last two characters 安全 (anzen) mean safety. Beneath the "safety in traffic" characters is the name of the shrine whose god is looking out for you and your vehicle, which in this case is my favorite-and coolest-shrine in all Japan: Washinomiya Shrine, 鷲宮神社; the shrine of the small town I lived in for two years. 僕の鷲宮の友達宮内Shinya君が「交通安全」のステッカーを僕に送りました。本当にありがとうございました内友! Underneath all the writing is a drawing of the shrine gate and the eagle (FYI: "washi," as in "Washi-miya" means eagle 鷲).

As I've written about in earlier posts, most if not all Japanese people are Shintoist--at least culturally. Shintoism holds that all objects contain a god, kami 神. Things like trees and stones, rivers and mountains all have gods in them. That's peaceful to think about. But man made things also contain gods, like coffee mugs, pencils, and even, you guessed it, vehicles. In fact, it's not uncommon in Japan to see a new car and its proud owners being blessed by Shinto priests in the middle of the shrine grounds. Nothing like seeing a Mercedes getting blessed. (Click here to watch a Shinto car blessing video on YouTube.)

When cars are blessed (if that's the right word for it), the priests bless the car's spirit and ask that the car be a good and safe car for its new owners. After the blessing, many Japanese people will buy a "safety in traffic" sticker from the shrine and put it on the back window. Some shrines also sell "safety in traffic" stickers for bicycles, which are both smaller and cheaper. The going rate for a car sticker is 1,000 yen ($10) and 500-800 yen ($5-8) for a bicycle.

Even though my motorcycle wasn't blessed at Washinomiya Shrine, I believe it still has a spirit or god in it--after all it is a Yamaha--and it's nice to know he's being taken care of. My "safety in traffic" sticker helps keep my motorcycle safe and functioning properly, and that keeps me as safe I can be with my helmet on.

Your Best Worst Weakness

2009-12-12T21:47:00.005-06:00

Anyone of us who's ever interviewed for a job has been asked this age old question: "What are your biggest weakness?" It's a standard question that all of us have answered successfully; well, those of us with jobs at least. Isn't it strange that our weaknesses will actually land us a job providing those weakness are good ones?

I know interviewers love to ask this question; but is it a good question? I was kicking this issue around the other day at work after one of my supervisors finished interviewing a potential student assistant, and the more I think about this question the less I like it.

It's not that I don't have weakness or that I hate talking about them, but I just wonder how valuable the "weakness" question is when it comes time for employers to choose the right person for the job. Asking the "weakness" question could easily be paraphrased as: "Why shouldn't I hire you?" Now if you think like I do, you're thinking about pleading the 5th on this one.

Here's the standard reasons for asking the "weakness" question:

-It makes interviewees think on their toes.

-It tells interviewers what they need to watch for if they hire the person.

-It humbles the interviewees and forces them to quit boasting about themselves.

All of these are good reasons to ask the "weakness" question; only there's a few flaws in the reasoning. For example, the whole question-and the entire interview process-hinges on the interviewee telling the truth. Undoubtedly, it is stupid to lie about where you went to school, your employment history, or any criminal convictions you might have, because the interviewer can verify your answers. But how can they verify your greatest weaknesses? Sure, they can call your old bosses and find out about the quality of your work, but they've probably already done that if they're interviewing you. So when it comes down to answering "What do you feel is your greatest weakness?" why not spruce up your answer, I mean, they're asking you a subjective question anyway.

And there are even more flaws in the logic of asking the "weakness" question. Chief among these being that no one is surprised by the question anymore. The few moments interviewees spend thinking of an answer to this question is not spent introspecting their characters, but is spent deciding which of the canned answers are most likely to please the interviewer. There's a ton of canned answers out there, the standard good ones are:

-"I work too hard."

-"I'm a perfectionist."

-"I'm too detail oriented."

The problem with these good answers is that they're too good, and because they're too good everybody's heard them before. However, giving a good canned answer might be better than giving one of my true answers, which are at the moment:

-"I eat too many potato chips. I can't resist those damn things. Got any?"

-"I talk too much. I'm a very curious person."

-"You mean work related?... uh..."

These are bad answers. I know the interviewer could care less about my potato chip addiction, but it is a big weakness for me, I can't resist those damn things. And thus we arrive at the moral dilemma: is it better to tell the truth, or kinda lie and get the job? Do you see the catch-22 the "weakness" question places on applicants?

Here's my solution that removes the moral dilemma, requires little in the way of lying, and is generally a fun loving question. My question to interviewees would be: "If you could have any superpower what would it be?" You might think that's a stupid question, but it meats the three criterion the "weakness" question supposedly satisfies. The question makes the interviewee think on their toes; it tells you what to watch out for if you hire the person (after all, what if they really possess that superpower?), and it makes them stop boasting about themselves because usually, psychology tells us, that people want superpowers that compensate for their perceived weaknesses. (I'm not sure what psychology tells us that, but it makes good sense to me.)

So for all you interviewers out there, think about the moral implications of asking the "weakness" question and consider asking the "superpower" question instead. The latter will spice up the interview, but watch out for canned answers: flying, teleporting, and telekinesis. Be especially weary of people who want invisibility and telepathy--those people are most likely greasy voyeurs.

Zip it, Clamp it, and Haul Ass

2009-09-23T20:19:00.007-05:00

let's go
motors fire exhaust pipes chant potato-potato-potato

shouts: followin' you
how far can you go before you gotta fill that thing up
don't know
what ya mean ya don't know
no speedo no odometer
followin' me then

15 miles out of town they pass a tractor-trailer at 85 mph

how ya feel
great man
hows 75-80 suit ya
i prefer 70
yeah that's what we're goin'
yeah
ya'll were hittin' 85 passin' that truck
well we had to pass 'em
cool man
next stop roswell and the aliens
there's a dealership there
need parts for that old thing
my exhaust clamp snapped
bad
the pipe's shakin' off the front head
better zip up tight dark clouds up the road
leather jackets zipped and belted, motors fire, exhaust pipes chant potato-potato-potato

20 minutes outside roswell new mexico the clouds open up and soak the heros
a rooster-tail streams water into one of their faces

where's my front fender when i need it
looks cool though
feels cold

at the service counter at the dealership

what year you say it is
83 shovel
well it looks like we don't carry parts that old
you got anything else that'll work
i can sell ya this one for $10 but i can't garuantee it'll work
let's go with it

in the parking lot full of leather clad dentists and new machines

he didn't try to sell ya a shirt with that did he
nah man
let's bust out the tools and get this rigged up

brake lever detached, old clamp removed, new being pounde like a horseshoe, leather jackets thrown on the wet asphalt as workbenches

you guys know there's a repair shop in the back of the dealership
yes sir we do but we'd rather save the extra $100 for beer and smokes
alright good luck then

30 minutes later the repair is finished, brake lever reattached

looks good man
better than stock
that shit anin't comin' off again
hell yeah man little roadside maintnance
cool
ruidoso
let's go
motors fire, exhaust pipes chant potato-potato-potato

25 minutes outside ruidoso the heavy clouds dump a large late-afternoon mountain rain

damn front fender
-shouts-ya look cold man
damn water's runnin' down my back

after 30 minutes of looking for the lodge in the wet crowded streets the heros find it

turn on tha heater
throw me a beer
that was the shittiest ride i've ever done
hell yeah

there is nothing at the rally worthy of an adult male's attention

two days later they fire up the machines and ride home under a brilliant sky
a falcon attacks a bird in flight
antelope look up from their grazing and gaze at the machines hurling by them, chanting potato-potato-potato at high tempo

everything holdin' together
taillights rattlin'
one thing or another
hell yeah

safely back at home, under lone star's special spell, the heros conjure memories of heavy rains, busted exhuast clamps, and falcons preying
little is said of the rally, just as it is written here

Judge a Book by Its Cover

2009-09-08T19:21:00.015-05:00

There's an old maxim which goes "Never judge a book by its cover," and this maxim, unfortunately, applies to more than just books, but also to people; again, unfortunately. But we do judge books and people by their covers. And while there is a bead of truth to the saying, one cannot deny that reading a book with a cool cover feels cooler, just as kissing a stunning woman is all the more compelling. With this idea in mind, I present the five coolest book covers in my collection (in no particular order) with a brief note on why I like each of them.

Critical Terms for Religious Studies, by Mark C. Taylor, University of Chicago Press, 1998.

This postmodern dictionary isn't what you'd expect from its title. A gripping cover wraps this edgy volume. I don't even know what painting this is but I like it. One of my favorite features of the cover is how the painting is so oddly framed by angled black borders. Another pleasing aspect of the cover is the use of different fonts --an interesting touch, and one we'll see more of as this list continues-- which keeps the eye bouncing and the orangish dot containing the "for" lends the cover a vintage detail, as does the dominant typeset.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Penguin Books UK, 1998.

This cover is real gem which is only out shined by the magical story inside. I came across this edition while in Japan. The Japanese tend to import books from British publishing houses more than from American ones. The green, leafy swaths on the blackish background gives the cover a vegetative, cool, and junglish feel.

The messy, typed over fonts spelling out the Marquez's name and the book's title gives the cover a dangerous and somewhat schizophrenic feel, as if someone kept typing the letters with a dirty typewriter. The praise blurb by The Times isn't thrilling in itself, but the fact that it's printed in a different font, akin to Garamond (the classiest of all fonts), lends a classic touch to the disjointed design. And what would a Penguin book be without the little oval-celled penguin, this time appearing in light blue.

Pure Immanence: Essays on A Life, Gilles Deleuze, Zone Books, 2001.

Here's a short but extremely deep French, postmodern philosophical text. More than the text though, the book cover captures the viewer with its graceful eeriness. It almost looks like a face there in the middle, but who knows. The book is published by Zone, an extremely stylish publisher of modern intellectual pieces.

In keeping with all the covers designed by Zone, the cover utilizes a different font and color for each of the lines of texts. The burgundy, yellow, and white go well together and contrast perfectly with the cool green smoke of the background image. The black blocked publishers mark in the bottom left smacks some solid boldness into this ephemeral, wafting design.

The Rum Diary, Hunter S. Thompson, Scribner: Simon and Schuster, 1998.

Here's an eclectic cover chocked full of everything that makes a great cover. Designers should take notice of this cover. Thompson's drunken tale of his Puerto Rican nights is wonderfully represented by this colorful pallet. So what's great about this cover?

To start with, the colors are all bright and vivid. The solid red title bar syncs up perfectly with the bright, kinda light blue author type. The tart green negative picture clashes in just the right way with the other colors (and it doesn't really matter that the photo wasn't taken in Puerto Rico).

Not only are the colors spot on in their oddness, but the fonts alternate, with the title and author in a tough, military looking font, and the praise blurb in a stylish Garmond. Brilliant!

The Glass Bead Game, Hermann Hesse, Picador USA, 2002.

The Picador cover of this epic novel which helped Hesse win the Nobel Prize is soft, subtle, and dreamy. Blurry marbles, glass beads, what is that a picture of anyway? It fits the book's personality and more than that, the cover stands on its own as a beautiful piece of tranquil photography.

Though the font is consistent throughout, even in its use of all upper-case letters, the lines are cleverly arranged around the space and in different sizes. The shifting location and size of the text lines makes the eye bounce around, just like a glass bead might in a Master Ludi's hand (if that's how the game is played).

The bright white text contrasts cleanly with the rainbow of smudged colors at work in the background. This is a fresh, clean cover that bids the reader a curious welcome. A must read for sure, but be sure to read this edition so you get the fresh cover art.

So there you have it, five amazing book covers that will make you want to read these books whether you have any idea at all what they're about. That's what a good book cover does: it compels you to read the damn book, if only for the reason you'll look cool reading such a cool looking book. And just to further prove my point about how a great cover will make you want to read a book, how would you like to read this thrilling volume:

Ethics: Treatise on The Emendation of the Intellect, Baruch Spinoza, Hacket Pub. Co., 1992.

Do you want to read this book? I think not. Even if you like Spinoza you'll dread reading his philosophy out of this boringly covered book. Hell, the only interesting thing this cover has going for it is the line separating the author's name from the title.

This book cover is like being in Delaware, "Hi, we're in Delaware."

World without my Superman

2009-07-10T20:08:00.005-05:00

I always assumed my father would die in my lifetime -just as every child assumes of their parents- I just didn't know the event would take place so soon in both of our lives. Death is unpredictable and sudden, non-sensical and absurd.

"This is non-sense," that's all I kept uttering as I gripped my father's swollen hand in the hospital room. He was home when I clocked into work, and in the hospital when I clocked out. So many people's lives changed so quickly without notice.

But there is comfort in the non-sense, tranquility in the uncertainty, and a shining presence in his absence. Of all the deaths my father could've had, in light of all those dark possibilities, I'm glad Dad's death was swift, and I'm glad death found him on his motorcycle: the machine that always made him smile as it carried us hundreds of miles down the highway together.

Dad lived an amazing life, a life that amazed most of the people fortunate enough to befriend him. He constantly amazed me with his hair-brained ideas, and just the right amount of luck and skill to make them happen. Dad always believed in himself, even when he had no sane reason to do so. And that, in my opinion, was Dad's most admirable quality: the ability to face any challenge confidently- with a confidence that bordered on a foreknowledge of success (or at least a good time).

I miss you Dad, and I know a solid handful of your mannerisms live on in me. And your spirit, it too animates me and drives me forward. Everyone loved you, and we all miss you coming through the door.

My father Thomas Neil Burrus II, was killed in a motorcycle accident on 29 June 2009. He was 53 years old. He leaves behind a boat load of friends, family, and my precious mother, all who miss him dearly. He went ahead of me, his proud son- the only one who can claim that honor.
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For my father's memorial service, my cousin Amy and I made the following video that was played in the chapel. I hope all of you enjoy seeing Dad smile as he did all the things that made him happy. Please enjoy:

Peace Always,

Justin Burrus

It Never Stops, Still Going Hot, it's a Stingray

2009-06-20T01:01:00.003-05:00

One of things I love most about being back stateside is working on motorcycle in the garage with the radio blaring rock n' roll. I didn't listen to the radio too much in Japan, but now that I'm back in the States, if I have wrench in my hand I've got rock in my ears.

It was during a wrenching session that I heard a totally insane song called "Stingray." I had no idea who sang it and I had no idea what in the hell the rockers were saying-- except for the word "stingray" haunting the chorus.

I kept singing that one damn word over and over in my head. There was something primal and vicious about the way the singer said that brutal word. Stingray, the word triggered so many images in my mind: a Corvette muscle car; a graceful terror of the sea; and just the pure sleekness and danger inherent in the word itself. A true word, one that expresses its meaning in a vacuum.

I spent the better part of an afternoon searching the web for the song. I came up with some bizarre results, mostly from the 80's when oceanic exploration and imagery ran rampant through American culture. After hours of surfing the stingray-less waters of Internet music charts, my fascination only grew.

Later on the evening whilst playing pool (the game of kings) with my buddies from work, I named my two man team "Stingray." My partner wasn't too thrilled about the moniker at the time, but after we swept the floor with the competition the name stuck. There's something 50's about it, something 80's about it, something hinting into the unknown future about it.

My friend was picking songs at the digital jukebox so I asked him to search for a song called "Stingray." He found it. Static X sings the song, and team Stingray marches the green felt of the pool table to its terrifying refrain.

The video really ties the song together, like a nice rug. It has all the elements needed in a kick-ass hard rock video: a psycho styled lead singer, a trollish bassist, a smoking hot and highly temperamental babe, a muscle car, hints of sex; all set in an abandoned crack house. High octane, neo-primordial symbols of chaos, destruction, danger, and coarse toughness. When I listen to the song I redline the throttle in my brain and I feel every surging blood cell speed through my tense muscles. That's what rock n' roll is about: venting the will to power--the ultimate aim of every organism.

Hawgs of Texas

2009-06-03T23:15:00.002-05:00

This past April my father and I headed down to south Texas for the annual "Hawgs of Texas" motorcycle rally held at Welch Park at Somerville Lake. It was a wild time full of the 3 B's: bikes, babes, and beer. An amazing time was had by all despite the turd-floater rain on Friday night. It was my first motorcycle rally and one that is tough to beat-- at least as far as the second B is concerned. Below is video I made from the "clean" pictures of the rally. Enjoy... and next year leave your golf carts at home.

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As a side note, I'm very disappointed with YouTube and the greedy music industry for muting all videos using unlicensed music. I originally set the video to The Doors "Roadhouse Blues," an amazing song that fully captured the mood and atmosphere of the rally. However, when I uploaded the video with "Roadhouse Blues" onto YouTube it was muted. YouTube sent me an email saying a violated a copyright. What a load of bullshit. I could understand if I was making money off the video but I'm not. This is just another example of the music industry cracking down on audiophiles with the hopes that the public will spend $18 on a CD with only one or two decent songs on it instead of listening to, or downloading, those songs freely on the internet. Shame on you Warner.

Book Smarts Podcast

2009-05-20T00:23:00.002-05:00

My first semester as a Texas Tech student wrapped up nicely and I have a slew of new skills for display, both in the classroom and here on my blog. The final project for my Instructional Theory and Design class called for a learning podcast for classroom use. My podcast aims at improving reading comprehension and enjoyment by teaching people how to read better using their hands.

I chose to illustrate a learning strategy because I think teachers spend to much time assigning homework and not enough time teaching students how to improve the skills needed to complete it. A study found that less than 10% of teaching time is spent teaching students how to improve their skills in a given area. With that said, please enjoy my prize-winning podcast dedicated to helping you read better.

This podcast was entered into the Texas Tech podcast tournament open to all students and spearheaded by the Colleges of English and Education. Six winners were chosen from the thirty plus entries to move on to the Digital Sandbox podcasting tournament which is being held this summer. I'm very pleased that my podcast, as monotonous as it is, was chosen for advancement. If you have iTunes you can listen to and watch the other entries on Texas Tech's iTunes University page.

Compost Happens (and smells like $hit)

2009-05-15T21:52:00.009-05:00

I've got a wooden box in my backyard that smells like shit. No, I'm not talking about the outhouse, I'm talking about my compost pile. Even though composting is a stinky hobby, it gives me great satisfaction knowing that I'm keeping reusable stuff out of the landfill.

I had the idea of starting a compost pile while working in the kitchen at my part time job. Over the course of a lunch rush a lot of little bits of food fall on the floor which get swept up and thrown in the dumpster. Tired of seeing all this food go to waste, one day after sweeping the line I put all that waste into an empty pickle bucket, closed the air-tight lid on it, and brought it home for composting.

Composting the process of decomposing organic matter in a controlled way. Decomposition happens naturally in forests and other wild places, but in the city it takes a little effort on our part to occur. The goal of composting is to combine left-over organic matter so that it creates bio-matter, a scientific term for good dirt, which can then be reincorporated into the ecosystem to help plants grow harder, better, faster, and stronger. In a way, compost (the finished product of composting) is like a nutrient rich super fertilizer that can be used with almost any planting application.

I left the bucket on the porch for about week while I went around town gathering discarded shipping pallets that most businesses toss by their dumpsters. After gathering enough pallets I set to work breaking them apart, cutting the pieces to size and building the frame and side slats. Using discarded pallets as material for a compost pile is not only free, but it also keeps those pallets out the landfill as well. It's reusing wood to help reuse organic matter.

My compost pile roughly measures 3' x 3' x 3', and has slatted sides and a chicken-wire back which helps with air flow (an extremely important ingredient in composting). It only took an afternoon to complete the build and only required a hammer, nails, and circular saw for construction. Later I'll hinge the side so I can easily access the finished compost.

Ingredients

There is a whole science to composting which can be intimidating if you lose sight of the fact that you're just making dirt, albeit super dirt. Ideally, a compost pile should have a 3:1 ratio of carbon to nitrogen. Carbon materials (browns) include: dry grass clippings, dry leaves, sawdust, hay, paper, and cornstalks, just to name a few. Some of these materials are difficult to find in the home but should be included in a good batch of compost. To boost the carbon matter in my pile I use sawdust, shredded office paper, and collected dry leaves.

The nitrogen (greens) half of the ratio is much easier to come by in the common home. Most vegetable and fruit wastes work great for composting, but stay away from meats and dairy products. Another great source of nitrogen matter is coffee grinds and tea leaves, as they decompose quickly and are fine in consistency. A general rule in composting is to break the matter down into as small of bits as possible so that beneficial bacteria have plenty of raw surface area to attack. So any matter you use in your compost, whether it is a carbon or a nitrogen, should be chopped into small bits. No one wants clumpy compost.

So far in my compost mix I have grass clippings, sawdust, leaves, and office paper, balanced with waste food from the restaurant which includes plenty of veggies and some bread. I also added dirt to give the mix consistency and some earthworms from the tackle shop, though the worms aren't required. Along with adding food to the pile, I turn it each day with a pitchfork (which adds to the "I'm a farmer, I work the earth" mentality) and add water to the pile.

Although I've only been composting for a week now, there's already a variety of insects like flies, ants, and worms dwelling in my pile that aid the decomposition process. A compost pile is a miniature and controlled ecosystem in itself, and I'm happy to give these beings a free source of food. Composting places me in symbiotic relationship with the material in the pile and the beings it feeds.

If you're tired of filling landfills with food scraps and grass mulch, I highly recommend composting. All these materials we usually throw away can be used to create nutrient rich planting soil which reincorporates waste into the ecosystem in a beneficial manner. Sure the process may be a little stinky, but it definitely smells better than a landfill.
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If you're interested in composting check out the compost manual.

地球は僕の下に

2009-05-01T10:54:00.006-05:00

後三ヶ月、新しい好きな歌を見つけた。今月の好きな歌は８０’ｓの音楽です。テレビでこのビデオを見た時にすごく元気くなりました。歌の名前はMajor Tom Coming Home、ピター・シリングが歌う.ピター・シリングはドイツ人ですから、最初にドイツ語原文の歌を聞きます。このビデオを楽しんで下さい！

すごいだいよね！声うまい、うまい、うまい。

次に英語の訳を聞きましょう！

素晴らしいーーい歌！皆さんこの歌を忘れないよ。僕がドイツ語ぜんぜん分かりませんだけど最初のビデオのほうが好きです。あなたはどちのほうが好き？
＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿
もしい日本語を読めなればそれは大丈夫ですよ。その上僕があまり日本語書きません。

On the Behavior and Health of Organisms

2009-04-21T00:27:00.009-05:00

My Instructional Theory and Design class keeps me pretty busy these days making photo-essays and narrating videos on educational theories. The following video deals with the theories of B.F. Skinner, the lead figure in psychological behaviorism.

Skinner is a polarizing figure among educators because his research and subsequent theories focus solely on observable behaviors, and the powerful role reinforcement plays in shaping those behaviors. Skinner's theory in a nutshell (or in a "skinner bed") follows these lines: to achieve a desired behavior it is essential that proper reinforcements are used to encourage the behavior.

Skinner's research was interesting to say the least. His experimental animal of choice was the common pigeon; the "fresher" the better. He also experimented using rats, but he really loved his pigeons. Based on his studies he found that if you reward desired behaviors the organism will continue to do them because of the positive consequences. The question is knowing which reinforcements will motivate the behavior. Skinner solved this tough question simply by depriving the pigeons of food until they were operating at 80% of their normal body weight. I suppose after a good starving any animal would peck a dot or push a lever for a bite.

Skinner's theory of behavior makes perfect sense; the problem is figuring out what kind of reinforcement will allow students to reach the teacher's behavioral aims. In the following video I try to show how Skinner's theory operates, but I also ask an important question which I do not feel Skinner ever answered, namely: what makes a reinforcement positive?

In the video, the behavior I'm struggling with is studying. The cigarette acts as my positive reinforcement (or reward) for my work. Skinner's analysis of the video would stop here. What I seek to show in the following pictures is that my positive reinforcement actually interferes with the behavior it is supposed to encourage--the studying. Not only that, an addictive behavior begins to form: smoking, which not only interferes with the studying behavior, but has aversive consequences upon my health (the coughing). Now I need a need a positive reinforcement to counteract the smoking behavior which was meant to encourage my study behavior. And the cycle continues.

My conclusion: positive reinforcement must encourage the desired behavior and be healthy for organism doing the behavior; otherwise the adverse side-effects of the reinforcement interfere with the desired behavior (along with poisoning the organism). Of course Skinner never had to worry about figuring out what kind of reinforcement to use; he just deprived his subjects of food, and for some reason I don't think school districts would go along with that kind of teaching method.
_____________
I like this picture because Skinner actually made a pigeon-guided bomb for the U.S. Military. The "pigeon-guided bomb" proposal was rejected; but its development demonstrated Skinner's awesome ability to shape pigeon behavior. Imagine a world with pigeon-guided bombs...

Washinomiya Shrine: Animated Animism

2009-04-16T22:12:00.007-05:00

What I loved best about visiting Japan's shinto shrines was that everyone's welcome. It doesn't matter what you believe or what you're praying for; you may not even know what god you're praying to anyways. That's the beauty of shinto: everything has a spirit, real or fictional. And that brings me to this piece I wrote almost a year ago about the amazing happenings at Washinomiya Shrine, the oldest shrine in the Tokyo area which was only a 6 minute walk away from my apartment. I sent this piece to the editors of two of Japan's leading English newspapers and never heard back from them. So finally, after almost a year of procrastination, I'm publishing the piece myself for my greatest fans.

Anime Craze Enriches Small Town Washimiya
J. N. Burrus

On April 6, 2008 over 4000 anime fans gathered at Washinomiya Shrine to walk in the fictional footsteps and meet the real life voices behind the Hiiragi sisters, the lead characters in the smash anime/manga Lucky Star. The event was held at the shrine but organized by the Washimiya Chamber of Commerce. The festivities came after Mayor Kenji Honda made the sisters “special town residents,” solidifying relations with the anime series and easing the locals’ anxiety about the visiting fans and cosplayers. The huge event brought devoted members of the anime sub-culture to the conservative small town that is relishing the attention, and the business.

“Washinomiya Shrine is a sanctuary for anime fans,” said Lucky Star fan Masashi Yamada, 29, an apprentice kimono maker from Washimiya, Saitama. Yamada was thrilled to see so many fellow fans welcomed to his local shrine. The event celebrated the animated sisters’ official, albeit special, residency status. The mayor’s gift of citizenship signals a new milestone in the unfolding relationship between the townspeople and fans. The same fans that were once thought strange and stereotyped as otaku are now welcomed by city officials and marketed to by businesses lining the roads to the shrine.

Visits to the shrine skyrocketed after the popular anime magazine Newtype released an article detailing how to reach various Lucky Star locales around Saitama in August of last year. The article called the locales “holy places” and Washinomiya Shrine is, hands down, the holiest place of all. Though most at this latest Lucky Star event hailed from the Tokyo area, some fervent fans made pilgrimages from Osaka, Fukuoaka, and even Hokkaido to attend.

Long before becoming the home of the fictional Hiiragi sisters, Washinomiya Shrine was famous for being the oldest Shinto shrine in the Kanto region and home to Saibara Kagura, a Heinan period ritual dance that is designated an important national cultural property.

At first the townspeople didn’t know what to make of the “strange” anime pilgrims drawing cartoons of big-eyed girls on the shrine’s prayer tablets. Every so often a handy fan will make a mega prayer tablet and fill the thing full of high quality work. These pieces are true works of religious art, most of them at least.

While the prayer tablet manga adds a modern touch to the ancient shrine, not all the pilgrims express their fandom with markers and wood. After all, an anime sanctuary without cosplayers is like a church without a choir. The cosplayers (people dressed in costumes playing like they’re anime characters) show up wearing red school girl uniforms and neon pink, blue, and purple hair just like the Hiiragi sisters and their animated friends.

Despite the appearance and practices of the fans, the locals are warming up to them, or at least to their wallets. Tape a Lucky Star poster on your shop window and watch business boom.

In a highly successful move, the town Chamber of Commerce printed up 10,000 crisp color copies of the Hiiragi sister’s “special residency certificate,” put them in a Lucky Star poly-folder and sold them for 300 yen a pop. The certificates went on sale just before Sunday’s event outside Washimiya Town Hall. Commerce head Shozo Suzuki said that on the first day alone 2,763 copies were sold raking in 828,900 yen. 1,000 more copies were sold before lunch the following Monday to late coming fans. [That's $11,000!] Sales will continue until all 10,000 certificates find homes.

Washinomiya Shrine has never been so active. The first Lucky Star event held in December gave fans their first chance to meet the Lucky Star voice actors. This first event brought over 3500 people to the shrine and helped spread the shrine’s name around just in time for the 2008 New Year’s celebration. Suzuki stated that over 300,000 people worshiped at the shrine this past New Year; almost four times the previous year’s 80,000 visitors. 2008’s New Year’s attendance is especially staggering considering the town’s population only sits at 34,866 people.

The influx of visitors to the town’s greatest (and only) landmark worried townspeople at first but shrine priest Hideo Watanabe said they haven’t had any problems with the non-traditional visitors. Just the opposite is happening, instead of bringing problems and worries to town, anime pilgrims bring prosperity and a sense of unity to the shrine and the surrounding community. Watanabe is glad Lucky Star fans feel welcome at the shrine because “a shrine is supposed to be a safe place for all people.”

Watanabe had no theological hang-ups about the secular event held on shrine grounds as "the most important thing,” he said with a glowing grin, “is that people are visiting the shrine and learning about its long history. That’s good for the heart.”

His words were right on target. Throughout the day I spoke with many fans that aside from being Lucky Star aficionados have also become shrine historians and armchair Shinto theologians. Local fan Masashi Yamada gave me a tour of the shrine where he told me the details about everything, from the shrine’s ancient ritual dances to the gnarled old trees planted by rulers past.

While showing me around the shrine Yamada also told me his interesting anime theology. “In the West,” he explained, “you have the word ‘animism’ which means that everything, rocks and trees and so on have spirits. That’s what Shinto teaches. Anime works the same way because it makes still images move, it gives them life and spirit.” Yamada doesn’t just watch anime; he engages it in depth.

Yamada is not the only one expanding his knowledge. On the organizational side of the event, Suzuki of the Chamber of Commerce said the shrine’s growing popularity among the anime community inspired him to start reading the comics too. Everyone is curious about what is happening at the shrine - both in the comics and in real life.

The Lucky Star events held at Washinomiya Shrine mix Japan’s modern anime culture with its traditional cultural heritage like no place else. The encounter between these two worlds enriches, both financially and spiritually, anyone who is willing to look past stereotypes and open their mind to something different.

Washimiya machi is located in northern Saitama just one hour north of Tokyo on the Utsunomiya Line. At Kuki, transfer to the Tobu line and get off at Washinomiya station, the first stop after the transfer. Washinomiya Shrine is a ten minute walk from Washinomiya Station on the Tobu Line.

To learn more about Washinomiya Shrine and its Kagura dances be sure to visit the shrine museum located on the second floor of the town library located across from Town Hall.

________________________

Here's a video showing all the Lucky Star "ema" boards. These boards are bought for 1,000 yen ($10) and are traditionally used for writing prayers on. The boards are left at the shrine keeping one's prayers close the gods. In the case of Lucky Star fans, many of them use them to draw their favorite characters. See, real or fictional, everything has spirit.

Imaginative Encoding: Fun Ways to Remember Things

2009-04-15T23:16:00.009-05:00

My educational theory and design instructor has us making more movies explaining learning methods and psychological theories. For this assignment we were to make a "photo essay" depicting scenes from the Cognitive Information Processing theory. I chose imagery and mnemonics as my theme and used the learning of Japanese characters as my example. I hope this video causes you think about the little tricks we use to help us learn new, and sometimes foreign, information. Enjoy:

I chose Japanese Kanji as my example for two reasons: 1) they are pictographic in nature, and 2) this is the way I really learned to read Japanese Kanji - at least the nouns. It's easy to see the chicken and the elephant in the two kanji below, all it takes is a little imagination.

90 seconds

2009-03-14T16:04:00.006-05:00

In one of my graduate education classes at Texas Tech University, my professor Dr. Hamman assigned a multimedia project. The assignment was to compare and contrast the developmental learning theories of the psychologists Piaget and Vygotsky. The only requirements for the project are that the pieces must have intro and exit music, and a voice recording discussing the two figures. And, oh yeah, the explanation can only be 90 seconds long. Here's the video I created. Maybe you'll learn something new.

This is the first video I've ever made on my own. I used Window Movie Maker that came with my 2003 PC. Aside from my computer freezing up on two occasions, the software was super easy to use, and, best of all, I never felt that my creativity was limited by the software's capabilities. Though some the slide transitions are bit choppy and the sounds levels are touch off, I'm really pleased with the video.

The course I'm taking is called "Instructional Theory and Design," and the title is an apt description of the course. Thus far we have studied the learning theories of Dewey, Popham, Vygotsky, and Piaget. By reading these theories about how people develop and learn, we are enacting Dewey's ideal of the "linking science" wherein educators study such theories in order to teach their students better. On the design side of the course, we've mainly dealt with how to present classroom material using self-made videos. My professor Dr. Hamman is a bit of a tech-head and he's trying to pass his passion for technology on to us students. The video "How We Learn" is my midterm project, and for the final project, each of us will make a longer podcast that will be entered into an educational podcast tournament.

Making videos about the class topics isn't the standard for assessing students' comprehension, but it's perfect for this class where we need to know about developmental theories and present those theories with multimedia projects. Creating your own videos is definitely an innovative to reach students and to challenge your own creativity; I just wish the process didn't challenge my computer's processor so much.

I've been Schmapped!

2009-02-25T13:35:00.008-06:00

One of my pictures of downtown Austin was recently selected by Schmap Online City Guides for their website! This fortuitous publication of one of my favorite pictures, though small (only 150 pixels to be exact), is a tremendously satisfying experience.

To the left is a screen shot from Schmap's website displaying my picture of Frost Tower in the top right corner.

The coolest part about this digital publication is that Schmap contacted me about the photo after finding it on Flickr. They emailed me saying that the picture was shortlisted for inclusion in their new Austin guide. About two weeks later it was selected and now flashes before visitors' eyes.

I took "Downtown" in early September while visiting my cousins in Austin, just after returning from Japan. I'm sure I looked like the stereotypical tourist, walking around downtown Austin taking pictures with my big Nikon (standard equipment for all dedicated tourists). A mesh khaki pocket vest would've completed the outfit, but I'll be damned if I wear that without a press pass.

Here is a larger version of "Downtown" complete with a link to my photostream on Flickr:

I took the shot with a Nikon D40 using a polarizing lens. The cloud pattern was not my doing, but being in the right place at the right time is, for better or worse, necessary for taking decent pictures.

So thank you Schmap for selecting my photo for your travel website. Everyone, keep on traveling!

Frames Like Mine

2009-02-21T22:34:00.010-06:00

Earlier this month on February 3rd, was the 50th anniversary of the death of Lubbock's number one son, rock n' roll pioneer Buddy Holly. It's impossible to talk with anyone here in town who hasn't heard of Buddy Holly; he's got a street named after him and another one named after his band "The Crickets," his bronze statue stands in front of the Civic Center, and a museum dedicated to his life sits in downtown Lubbock. Though everyone knows of Buddy Holly, not too many know about him, especially the young'ns (me included), so I took a trip to the Buddy Holly Center to learn more about this enigmatic rocker.

The museum itself consists of a large, one room exhibit, a video room that rolls a biographical feature, and a small gift shop. I thought the place would be bigger than it was, but as I wandered through the exhibit and learned more about Holly, I began to understand why the museum is so small: Holly's career only lasted three short years before the plane carrying him and his band crashed outside Clear Lake, Iowa.

Although Holly's career was cut short, it was action packed and truly international. Long before the "world touring rocker" was born, Holly was off touring in Brittan and Australia, inspiring some of music's greatest talents along the way. His appearance on a London band show sparked the creativity and admiration of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and George Harrison, aka the Beatles, who chose their band name reflecting Holly's own band, the Crickets. Buddy Holly influenced so many bands and songs, e.g. Weezer's "Buddy Holly" just to name one, that you'd think no one had heard the electric guitar before Holly started strumming it. Now if only Bono would give him a shoutout.

I've been listening to Buddy Holly's music for a couple of years now, but it wasn't until I visited the museum that I learned how groundbreaking much of it was. Because I wasn't a part of Holly's era, I really don't have the cultural experience of hearing his music as it shakes up the status quo. A sign of the times, it's easier for me to appreciate innovations in electronic music by Daft Punk, or identify with "geek rockers" like Weezer. But a lot of what Holly cut onto records was innovative and utilized every circuit of the day's technology.

One example of Holly's inventiveness can be heard on the cheery song "Everyday." The drum beat behind the chimes doesn't quite sound like a heavy drum smack, and that's because it's not. Holly wanted a lighter sound to express the light-hearted spirit of the song, so instead of using drums, he placed a microphone up to his knees and slapped out the beat with his hands, giving him just the sound he wanted. Holly had a clear vision of how he wanted that song to sound, and he devised a way to realize that vision using the resources he had--low tech or not.

As a son of Lubbock myself, Buddy Holly's short but packed career is inspiring and challenging to emulate. I'm not saying I long for rock n' roll fame, but I do aspire to creatively actualize my passions and see where those passions take me. I wonder what Holly's friends and family thought when he came back to flat and dusty Lubbock with tales from Europe and Australia. Shoot, in his day flying anywhere-and landing-was a story in itself, much less flying overseas with a guitar in hand instead of a machine gun. Holly's ambition must've been bigger than the State of Texas, and ambition is well worth emulation.

Even after learning about Buddy Holly's life, I can't say that his music moves me. It is nice to play while lingering about the house, but it definitely wouldn't carry a road trip. No, his music doesn't make me like him, it's his qualities like his work ethic, his uncompromising devotion to his craft, and his openness to the world that I admire.

I also like his glasses, the black horn-rimmed glasses that define his image. I think in his day those were the only kind of glasses for sale, but nowadays a pair of Holly-esqe frames are hard to come by. Almost three years ago before I left for Japan, I searched all the Lubbock eyeglass shops for a pair just like Holly's but came up short. Oddly enough, I found my Rayban Wayfarers in a small eyeglass shop in Kuki City (久喜市), a town half the size of Lubbock and neighbor to Washimiya Town where I lived. At least once a week I'm complimented on my glasses and asked where I bought them. "The closest place to buy 'em," I say "is just north of Tokyo." It's regrettable that in Buddy Holly-crazed Lubbock, you can't buy a pair his frames anywhere. (However, you can get the conservative-sheik Sarah Palin frames, the very same ones, at a few shops in town.)

So while Buddy Holly and I may have nothing more in common than horn-rimmed frames and being from dusty ol' Lubbock, it's what's behind the frames that counts, and his example is one that hits close to home.

___________________

Buddy Holly's real last name was spelled with an 'e' in it but was shortened for the stage.

21st Century Silence

2009-02-16T17:19:00.003-06:00

boin
voom

taka taka taka,,,tak tak, dum dum

ling ling ling

-Yeah it's due tomorrow
-Are you kidding me

click click, taka taka toka, dum taka taka click, click, dum toka

boin

fuip fuip fuip

-Spiritual stuff, remind me agian

taka taka
boin
boin

erooooun, erooooun, boin
taka taka tic tic tic click boin, erooooun, -um, we'll see what she wants us to do, posterboard

boin

ling ling ling, ling ling ling, ling ling ling, ling li
-hey,...I'm at the library

zi Daft Punk riotinae: Classically Modern

2009-02-06T21:50:00.009-06:00

Ever hear a song that throws you so far off kilter it leaves you asking, "where has this song been all my life?" Then you start imagining all the highlights of your life with the song playing in the background. Maybe that doesn't happen to you, but it inexplicably happens to me about every four months or so; and today was one of those days. The song: "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger (live)" by the French mixers Daft Punk.

I have a love / hate relationship with electronic music--a song is either total shit, or a hyper-creative work of mind blowing genius on par with the best of Beethoven or Def Leppard. Since I don't write about shitty things (well there was that one post;), it's safe to say that Daft Punk is a powerful composer of the electronic symphony, an art elegantly unleashed in "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger (live)." Watch and listen:

Many people I know find techo music annoying, and many of these same people tend to think classical music is boring. I think they feel this way because 1) they haven't heard exemplary pieces from the genres, and 2) because they don't have the mental framework with which to appreciate what they are not hearing. Connecting classical music and techno is not a stretch even though the two genres sound completely different and presented in drastically different atmospheres: you hear techno in dance clubs and classical in concert halls.

Underlying techno and classical music is a detailed and delicate mode of progression wherein a theme is built upon, dissolved, and recapitulated in a tsunamic climax. The theme is the baseline, the familiar musical phrase that hooks and carries the listener through the piece's movement. The dissolution of the theme, the breakdown, is the dispersion of the supporting elements built upon it during the rising action. During the breakdown, the artist will slowly and carefully recapitulate the supporting elements of the piece, culminating in a massive emotional climax that hits harder than original theme did in the first place. Different musics with similar underlying structures.

With this structural similarity in mind, I wonder when electronic music will be classified as "classical," or "later classical." Although the genre term "classical" applies to music delivered using traditional instruments, i.e. violins, cellos, pianos, etc., "classical" music wasn't considered "classical" in its own time, it was considered extremely modern.

Moving forward to the present, stop and consider what instruments are used for musical composition: keyboards, synthesizers, electric guitars, and above all, regardless of the genre, the computer. Perhaps someday in the future, when computers become tools of antiquity, techno music will be seen for what it is: the creative use of the era's breakthrough instruments, those powered by electricity whose sounds are compiled in bytes.

The future of music has already arrived, carrying its past upon its technologic shoulders.

the Amazing oBA Man!

2009-01-30T18:22:00.011-06:00

Over the last 6 months, Barak Obama has been on the cover of every major U. S. magazine, but I never expected him to be on the cover of The Amazing Spider-Man. Though Spiderman has never been one of my favorite superheroes; Barak Obama is. I've seen presidents make cameo appearances in some of my favorite comics, like when Regan appeared in Frank Miller's Dark Knight Returns, but I've never seen a president star in his own special feature like Obama does in this latest edition of The Amazing Spider-Man.

The Amazing Spider-Man #583 now entering its 4th printing, features a bonus inauguration feature where Spiderman saves Obama from the crappy character called the Chameleon (named so because he can shape shift). If your spidey sense is working you've probably already guessed where this moronic storyline is going. Chameleon disguises himself as Obama hoping to be sworn in as president and subsequently rule the world. Good thing Peter Parker is nearby photographing the event and quickly comes to the rescue. A punch, a web-wrap, and a sad villain later, Obama is sworn in and history is made.

Thanks for saving the day Spidey, and thank you Marvel for this cheesy commidification of our new president to boost your sales. Now that's American, all too American.

____________________

Pictured above is the 2nd edition of The Amazing Spider-Man #583. Spidey says, "Hey, if you get to be on my cover, can I be on the dollar bill?"

Zen and the Art of Self Maintenance

2009-01-28T22:42:00.006-06:00

As he was testing hypothesis number one by experimental method a flood of other hypotheses would come to mind, and as he was testing these, some more came to mind, and as he was testing these, still more came to mind until it became painfully evident that as he continued testing hypotheses and elimating them or confirming them their number did not decrease. It actually increased as he went along.

Over the last 10 nights I've read a chapter out of Robert M. Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance before going to sleep. It's a big book, but at my current pace I'll finish it in a few more weeks. Though this sounds like a slow way to read a book, Zen Moto. is a book that should be read slowly and pondered. It a spiritual journey driven on two wheels across America.

Many times this book has made me pause and reflect on my own life's journey and future course. With this new year comes a new course for America and a new course for my life as well. Three weeks ago I began taking teacher certification classes at Texas Tech University here in Lubbock. Though I've still got a few semesters between me and my goal of teaching high school English, I feel like my life is on a good course.

Pirsig's round and round thoughts on the scientific method and testing hypotheses struck a deep note within me; not because I had never thought about my life in such terms before, but because I know that he has thought about his life in a way I have, too. I've viewed my life as an experiment or a test many times. I didn't start thinking this way until I reached a sort of emotional literacy wherein I'm somewhat capable of relating my innerworkings to external experiences.

My own self literacy began as I packed for my journey to Japan. I was nervous, unsure about my sucess, but confident I would suceed nonetheless. As the plane's wheels left the earth I looked around at the jet load of new JETs flying into the unknown. Everyone seemed pretty excited, and I posed as much. Yet inside I kept asking myself if I had made the right decision. That's when I realized, "This what I feel like when I take tests." I've always passed tests but how well I passed them is another issue. In school I had always envied those kids who walked in, took a test, and walked out like it was no big deal. I always posed and acted as if it wasn't a big deal either.

I had a simuliar feeling when I left Japan, only then I had a tender mass thoughts and emotions running through my 心 that I hadn't experienced before and had nothing to relate them to, except maybe a test I was still taking and wasn't quite sure I was passing.

What Pirsig writes about the struggle in the face of multiplying hyotheses is what I felt, and still feel inside. In the laboratory of life, hypotheses are commonly called "hypothetical situations," and these situations tend to multiply as well. One "What if..." question quickly leads to more "What if..." question until one's whole life is up for grabs. The real problem with multiplying hypotheses is that there is no way to test them all. I am a being in time; I cannot go back and alter my life, nor can I try on different roles and return to point X in time should a role not work out. I am a being in time, and truth is in the present; as Pirsig asks Einstein, "did [you] really mean to state that truth was a function of time?"

It is impossible to test all the hypotheticals in my life or your own. At bottom of all these hypotheticals is "a gap of pure nothing." Maybe you've tried, as I have, imagining a bridge between life and the hypothetical life that might've been or still could be. I've imagined amazing lives for myself, and thus far I feel I'm reasonably passing the "Are you living a fulfilling life test."

Marking this new year, 2009, I've chosen one hypothesis out the infinite before me: to become a high school English teacher. There is no way of knowing now, in the present, if this choice will be better than the other choices might have been. But that is not a question to ponder on too deeply; because like all hypothetical questions it has no bottom. A man is not judged by what he could've done but what he did; for, unfortunately, it is only the man's 心 that judges him by the former.
_______________________
All qoutations from chapter 10.
If your computer can't read Japanese you will see a box where a more meaningful symbol resides. I feel this Japanese symbol better expresses my sentimets than multiple English words.

Running of the Tumbleweeds!

2008-12-08T18:14:00.004-06:00

It's a cold, windy, and dusty day here in Lubbock, Texas. Most people stay in their homes on nasty days like this one, but not me. I went out to film the west Texas treasures stirred awake by the winter wind: the tumbleweed! I took this video from the cab of my truck outside a car dealership just down the road from the house. I couldn't believe all the tumbleweeds that had collected on the west facing fence. For those of you who have never seen a tumbleweed, I hope you enjoy my little video.

After shooting the video I checked out the overrun fence for myself all the while taking pictures like a gawking tourist. I wasn't the only one outside taking pictures of these marvlous things, for right there next to me a woman shooting the action with her own digicam. I said "howdy" to her with a big smile and thought to myself, "I'm glad I'm not the only moron out here taking pictures of these things." She was so thrilled to see the tumbleweed mound, saying, "I'm from Houston and I've never seen a tumbleweed before. This is great!" I agreed, not having seen any tumbleweeds for almost 5 years myself.

We took turns taking pictures of each other standing in front of the tumbleweed pile. The picture below should give you some idea just how many tumbleweeds had blown from the fields.

The running of the tumbleweeds is just one of the many things I love about my native land: Texas.

Thrifty Finds a Camera

2008-12-03T22:42:00.005-06:00

I went to the thrift store for the first time since I've been back in Lubbock, and it was awesome! I love thrift stores, especially the ones that sell a bunch of random things people don't want anymore.

Thrift stores in Japan were anything but thrifty. Most of the ones I went into only sold used clothes, I mean "vintage" clothes, at astronomical prices. I once saw a worn out pair of Converse All-Stars selling for 8,000 yen ($80); the new ones: 4,000 yen ($40). Go figure.

But there I was, wandering the isles of the great American thrift store, trying on polyester sport coats and plaid breeches with no intentions of buying. I try on the most outlandish garments in sight attempting to try on the past; older fashions, a different way of life. Usually the old-times constrict and itch.

Finding nothing worth $5 on the racks I ventured into the rest of the store and looked at the unwanted artifacts of years past. White plastic TVs, plastic woodgrain VCRs, and mobile phones the size of footballs sent out their rescue cries. Other peices of the past just sat lifelessly on the shelf waiting for the dumpster to ease their rejection pains.

Walking slowly to consider each object, I stopped in front of purse sized, duck-vomit green leather case. I knew there was a camera inside, probably an old winder-upper. I never expected what I saw inside: a 1957 Keystone Capri K57 8mm Cinemaster II movie camera.

"Wow!," I thought, "This things gotta be worth more than the $9.99 tag." Along with the camera was the tattered original instruction manual and a mail in waranty postcard. The action on the reels still worked so I bought it. I'm sure 8mm film is next to impossible to get these days, but what the heck.

The camera has three Bausch & Lomb lenses to shoot through: a 9mm f/1.8 wide-angle, a 12.7mm f/1.8, and a 25mm f/1.8 telephoto. An exposer ring helps the user control the shot with 5 simple settings like, "hazy sun," "cloudy dull," and "bright sun" to name a few. In 1957 this camera must've been the bees knees.

With my new old movie camera in hand, all I have to do now is find some 8mm film (tough), a place to develop it (hard), and way to watch my movie (don't even know where to start). Sounds expensive but it's worth a shot, at least once. Maybe I should go back and buy a polyester jacket to complete the look.
________________________

If anyone has any information about purchasing or developing 8mm film I'd love to hear from you. Here's the wind-up... Action!

The Sunflower Scandle

2008-12-02T22:15:00.009-06:00

This past growing season my family raised a crop of sunflowers at our farm near Olton, Texas. The beautiful, and highly alergetic, flowers are more than just eye candy- they're a cashcrop. We grew the sunflowers mainly because sunflowers are a low-maintenance crop. Sunflowers, if I understand them correctly (though we never talked much), are in the weed family, and if there's one thing our dry dirt farm knows how to grow, it's weeds.

We contracted 130 acres of sunflowers to a panhandle company called High Plains Oil Seed at the to-good-to-be-true price of 28.95 cents per pound. After harvesting, our crop was valued around $14,000. We thought we had a hell of a deal, and so did a lot of other farmers, until...

High Plains Oil Seed didn't honor their contracts, leaving a lot of sunflower farmers penniless and faced with unpayable water, land, and fertilizer bills. Outraged, the farmers hired a laywer and threatened to sue High Plains Oil Seed for the contracted price. The company's response was the same as the farmers: we're broke. Not only was High Plains Oil Seed not willing to honor their contract of 28.95 cents/lb., they said the sunflowers would only be released from the worthless contract if the farmers did not sue. About this time the irrigation bill comes in the mail and my family is forced to take out a loan (against the farm land) to pay it.

Eventually High Plains Oil Seed released our sunflowers. The seeds are now sitting in a barn on the south side of Olton; and their current market value: 14.2 cents/lb., about $7,000; nowhere close to the originally contracted price.

It's hard being a farmer these days, just like it's always been. It's hard enough suffering nature's unpredictable whims and the high cost of diesel and electricity used to run equipment and sprinklers, without being financially crippled by a crooked company who doesn't honor their contracts. And if you think my family has it bad, imagine the farmer who contracted 1,000 acres with the High Plain Oil Seed comany- imagine the financial blackhole he's in.

The woes of small farmers continue to ring over the flat Texas plains, and sunflowers don't look so cute to me anymore.

Cold Air, Hot Engines

2008-12-01T22:49:00.005-06:00

85 mph is freezing on a screaming motorcycle. But my god, it's awesome to roll the throttle and feel the beast surge forward faster and faster. The Virago could accelerate forever, pulling up its wheels and taking off with one sharp flick of my wrist. The engine blows and blasts fire like a contained volcano warming my thighs with its fire-breath. A Dragon that lets me believe I control its raw power.

Hands frozen. Tinseled chin-whiskers grow brittle and blow away as filings. Chapped lips crack out a insane smile; a hedonistic revel. Pure Being at 5000 revolutions per minute: outrunning the speed of life down a backroad. Raaaaeeeeiieooouuaaaaw-----

Grey Wolf and I burned down the road out of Lubbock and swung into a small canyon on the outskirts of Slaton, Texas. Down the winding asphalt into a canyon floor. The trees had shed their leaves as our spirits quickened. All is right in the jungle.

Grey Wolf and his '00 Yamaha 1100cc V-Star Classic

the Man on his '95 Yamaha 1100cc Virago

Learning What the Buddha Never Taught

2008-11-28T23:09:00.008-06:00

Many of my favorite books are the ones I've bought at used bookstores and just tossed on the shelf without reading them for months or even years after purchase. I'll buy cheep books based upon nothing more than the coolness of the author's name; like Ngugi, author of Devil on the Cross; or because the book has a stellar cover; like all of the Vintage editions of Haruki Murakami's books; or because the book has a thought provoking title, like the one this post is about: Tim Ward's What the Buddha Never Taught.

I picked up What the Buddha Never Taught at Boulder's Red Letter Books (the best used bookstore in Colorado) almost 3 years ago. Here was a book about Buddhism I didn't own and it had the added bonus of being signed by the author for a fickle woman named "Anne." I slotted it on my shelf where it aged like a fine wine, for when I read it a few weeks ago I was astonished.

What the Buddha Never Taught is an entertaining travelogue about the author's stay in a Buddhist temple in Thailand. Like all good travel writing, the author is witty and deeply reflective as he records his temple stay. Ward writes as a questioning outsider living in a foreigner run Thai temple. His philosophical questions guide his own spiritual development as a practitioner while spurring the other monks to think about their own commitment.

While at the temple, Ward never receives any formal training in meditation or any words of spiritual development. He is simply told to "follow the rules" by the temple abbot: an ex-jazz guitar playing, Australian. Though Ward resents the abbot's lack of teaching, he slowly begins to find his own methods and motivations for meditation.

As you might guess, the monk hood of the temple is a motley assortment of international folk of all ages, each seeking something different from the Buddha and their own take on Buddhist practice. One thing Ward does extremely well is sum up the various personalities and idiosyncrasies of each of the monks he lives with. Of all the folk Ward lives with, he spends most of his time with Jim- a depressed American college student looking for release.

One of the most insightful chapters I ever read about Buddhism shows Ward and Jim sitting on a moonlit porch debating and dreading the consequences of enlightenment, namely, the death of the ego. That is a very scary idea to both men and me as well. When I finished reading that passage I realized that Buddhism isn't just about being compassionate and not killing things. No. The quest for enlightenment is an inward gauntlet that requires mountains of faith and relentless introspection than most people, including myself, are comfortable with. For the first time Ward helped me realize that Buddhism is a deeply serious philosophy, forcing its followers to explore their own souls before those very souls are snuffed-out with nirvana. This is lesson the Buddha never taught.

I highly recommend Tim Ward's What the Buddha Never Taught to anyone interested in Buddhism or Thailand. The book is a fine depiction of what Buddhist practice looks like in the real world. It is a finely crafted and fun book that effortlessly mixes profound spiritual insight with embarrasing cultural mishap. I wished the book kept on going, so I was thrilled when I learned that the book is first of three in Ward's "Nirvana Trilogy," where in each book he experiences life in each of the three schools of Buddhism. What the Buddha Never Taught is about Theravada Buddhism, the second and third books deal with Mahayana and Tibetan Buddhisms. I have those last two book slated for reading, though I haven't tossed them on the self yet.

Texas Tater BBQ: Treat for Your Mouth

2008-11-25T21:10:00.004-06:00

Tonight's dinner was a rare feast of imaginative Texan cuisine. With Thanksgiving rapidly approaching, I present a sampling of my father's culinary genius to the Inside Outsider audience:

If you'd like to wrangle up this delicacy for yourself and loved ones this Thanksgiving, all you need is 3 simple ingredients:

1. Betty Crocker four cheese instant potatoes
2. Chopped beef BBQ from your local smokehouse (Lubbock's J&M BBQ is a fine choice)
3. BBQ sauce- the spicier the better;)

If I had to choose one meal to eat before my demise, I'd choose Tater-BBQ, and die with spicy four-cheese smile on my face and beef 'tween my teeth.
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Should anyone out there actually try this dish I'd love to hear your comments!

mist

2008-11-16T23:34:00.003-06:00

I'm walking through mist. Opaque clouds all around that absorb the colors of my clothing and captures the exhalations of thought. The brush lining the thin dirt path rise up meeting the fog that blankets the sparse forest with its thinning late autumn trees. Leaves fall slowly and without spin into the vapor that arrests their decent, claiming them as it does my concerns that feel so heavy, yet, float for a time then evaporate into the grey. There is little recognizable around me; little to recognize walking into uncertainty.

Feet move on their own, treading upon moist earth sprinkled with dew and spent leaves. Hands tucked into the pockets of a black field coat. Chin tucked slightly keeping the drizzle out of my eyes. I hear nothing except textured foot-stepping and the mist's soft static which disappears when listened for.

I walk onward; not forward. Memories caught up in the mist which surrounds every being in this place. How do I reclaim my memories from the mist? Can I reach out a grasping hand and take an invisible key from the ghost? I know I can't. So I continue to walk...and breathe.

Horses Under the Hood

2008-11-14T19:34:00.012-06:00

The Lubbock Mustang and Corvette car club held a car show recently. It was a rare treat seeing so many well cared for high powered vehicles in one parking lot. My favorite cars at the show were the muscle cars. These long and low fat tired machines just made me want to jack the keys and smoke out of the lot.

The club organizers held the show to raise money for widow whose husband had been a member in the car club. Anyone could enter their car and money was raised by placing a can or bucket near each car. At the end of the show the car with the most money in its bucket wins the day. Now that's a full throttled way to help a widow in need.

Some family friends entered their cars in the show. At right is Rex's Corvette proudly wearing custom paint and wheels.

Rex's wife Jeanie also entered the show with her award winning "Small Wonder," a Volkswagon Bug with a forward trunk full trophies. The couple's cars balance their garage excellently: on the right rests a missle on wheels; on the left, a red toot-pooter.

The cars, most classic, some modern, and a few oddball, brought together a wide range of people of all age groups. The most refreshing sight at the show was watching a father explain to his young son the differences in each kind of car. He'd pull the wide eyed boy over to a car and say something like "You see how this car has the shiny metal here but this car doesn't. That's because this one's older than that one." The son studied his fathers words with scientific vigour. Then he'd peak into the cab and imagine himself driving a classic car that his grandfather probably raced down the street. Nothing brings generations of men together like classic cars and big engines.

Cattle Undone: Tour of a Panhandle Slaughterhouse

2008-11-01T00:20:00.005-05:00

My father works at a feedlot in Olton, Texas where cattle are pinned and fed until they reach cut weight. Freegrazers made barred gluttons.

My uncle works at a slaughterhouse, or "meat packing plant," in Cactus, Texas where the same cattle are sliced apart then boxed.

Sad seeing the creatures confined to dirt pins. Stomach-churning seeing them disassembled.

The entire beef production industry is a cold efficient machine wherein the living animal becomes a stock of raw material efficiently and economically manufactured from beginning to end. I've described feedlot life in my post, Sell by the Pound; below I describe slaughterhouse death as I witnessed it.

Cattle are offloaded 18-wheelers into pins outside the plant. As the cattle are led into the plant a worker sprays the cattle with a hose to remove any feces that may contaminate the meat lying under their tough hides. The herd follows the herd.

The knocker is a pneumatic gun that fires a rod into the cow's skull. The knocker is also the position title of the man who wields the device. He is a highly paid worker and wears a helmet with a grated face mask attached to it, similar to a baseball catcher's mask. Should the cow go berserk the knocker is protected. He must lay the cow down on the first fire.

A quick thrust of air and a stone like knock issues. Soon the hole left by the rod spurts a bright red blood that winds down the features of the cow's face. Sometimes the blood pumps steadily from the hole; other times the blood erupts like a rosy geyser. However the blood releases, the cow slumps down a lifeless mass.

With the cow dispatched, a worker underneath the knocking cage wraps a chain around a rear ankle and connects the chain to a ceiling mounted track that hoists the mass into the air and moves it to the next station. A section of the track pulses with electricity that zaps away whatever life may still reside in the animal.

At the next station one worker makes a horizontal slice into the neck large enough for the next worker to insert his knife and severe the jugular. The second man's cut is the bloodiest of the whole operation. There is no way to adequately describe how blood surges and drains out of the animal; it looks like a sheet of water poured from a 10 gallon bucket, only it's not water but, hot blood that splashes to the concrete floor. The second man wears a rubber apron and elbow length rubber gloves, yet blood still stains his attire.

The rest of the operation is worse but I won't write of it. I won't write about the peeling of the hide, the severing of the head, or the slicing out of the tongue. Nor will I write about the sharp-toothed tools that cut easily through both flesh and bone. I've seen these things, and they are for others to see as well.

The front of the slaughterhouse is called the "hot side" because all the work done there takes place while the meat is still warm. When the mass is cleaned and sliced in half it is stored in a massive freezer for at least a day, killing any bacteria that may damage the product. At the feedlot I saw acres of cattle standing and eating; in the freezer I saw acres of flesh hanging in halves from the ceiling.

After freezing the pieces for a day or so they are all moved into the "cold side" of the slaughterhouse. It is called the "cold side" because all the processing is done in a cold environment to cold pieces of meat. On the cold side the chunk is chopped down to marketable pieces of meat, like T-bones, ribs, and chuck. Every piece of cold flesh is used with extremely little being wasted. Droves of workers in chain male make one slice all day long as endless slabs of meat move down the conveyor belt. The workers come from all around the world making the slaughterhouse an international workplace. Muslim women in head coverings work beside Latino men as they vacuum seal product for shipment. My uncle has learned standard greetings in many languages.

The slaughterhouse produces its own boxes and packages its own product in these boxes. It is a meat packing plant. The product is stored and dispensed when needed to grocery stores throughout the panhandle. An interesting operation from start to finish.

I feel privileged to have seen the death, separation, and packaging of cattle. Few people witness how beef is made. As I watched the knocker kill the cattle and the second man spill their blood, I wondered how these men could do such a violent job countless times an hour, day in and day out. But the more I thought about how repetitive the job was and how small a role each cut played in the entire drama, it dawned on me that it the workers too realized this fact. I suppose when you have a razor sharp knife or a pneumatic knocker in hand and are responsible for one precise cut every 15 seconds, you don't have much time or room for disposable, reflective thought. A worker can't step back and ponder the meaning of it all on the killing floor.

And it's not as if the workers are dismantling cattle one at a time. They're slicing and packaging thousands of cattle each day, like a professor reading a class full of 15 page essays at the end of a semester: each paper is special the student who wrote it, but after the tenth paper the professor's mind is numbed and she just wants to get through the stack.

Besides, the knocker is the only one in the whole works who sees the cow go from a living being to a dead one. Perhaps he's the only one who works with a "cow;" maybe all the rest of the workers, especially on the cold side, are just carving prime ribs or T-bones. Give me a knife and I'll cut a steak, but I'd never slay a cow.

It is more than gallons of blood spilling out of the cow, or perhaps I should say, the blood pouring from the cow's veins is more than liquid. Within the blood is the spirit of the animal. There is something extremely visceral and unsettling about watching the life-force of a great creature spill onto indifferent concrete. The initial movement from life to death, from breath and wandering eyes to de-animation and dead weight: the killing is disturbing to watch. But as I walked farther down the line I grew as indifferent the concrete. I didn't much enjoy witnessing the taking of life, but what disturbed me more was the mechanized dis-assembly line method with which the cutting was preformed. The cattle business is cold and efficient.

I think of the word "dehumanization," which means to remove essentially human qualities from a person. There should be a word like that to describe the shift in perception that occurs when a great beast of the field is viewed as raw material for packaging and consumption.

My uncle asked me a deep question as we stood watching the knocker struggle to make a clean shot on a fear stricken, bewildered cow; he asked me if I would file into stocks and sit still while someone positioned a device over my head waiting for the right moment to kill me? "Would you accept the fact that your time was up calmly, or would you struggle and fight to the end?" I told him I would fight to my very last; for out of all the thousands of cattle the knocker has laid down, I'd make damn sure he'd remember me.

An Honest Preface

2008-10-27T23:45:00.004-05:00

The great literary critic and fellow blogger M. P. Johnsen once wrote a brilliant post about wimpy academic prefaces in "Preface Par Excellence," on his blog Causerie. In the post he derides the standard preface as follows:

The preface of nearly every "academic" work I've read in college and grad school contains some form of disclaimer. The author goes about thanking everyone who helped in the writing and research of the book and concludes by saying that any faults or errors in the book are attributable exclusively to the author. The disclaimer is a gesture of humility on the one hand, a way of saying that the brilliance of the text was the product of many but the faults [of] the product of one. But on the other it's an empty formality. Empty because it appears in every book without fail & because books of that sort have been read and proofread so often that there should be no errors at all. It's not very encouraging, after all, if someone begins a persuasive argument by saying, "Here's what I think. . . . if I'm wrong it's my own fault." Just think of the legal nightmares if litigators began their cases that way.

M. P. compares this standard, wimpy, preface with those written by the mustached German philosopher Nietzsche, who basically tells his audiance that if they don't understand his book it's because the reader didn't read it thoroughly enough, i.e. "ruminate" upon it, or, the reader failed to read and comprehend all of Nietzsche's previous works. Nietzsche wasn't about kissing babies and keeping friends; he was about vomitting truth and letting the reader sift through the spill.

I like M. P.'s arguement because it cuts through the mutual academic hand shaking that doesn't extend to the reader. I also like Nietzsche's approach to preface writing because he makes no appologies about his work and makes the reader stupidly guilty of any errors.

With that background, I recently read a preface that takes a little of both approaches. In Randolh B. Campbell's Gone to Texas: A History of the Lone Star State, he writes the standard "thank you to all my colleauges..." preface but throws in a barb at the end, writing:

Finally, as is customary after acknowledging the help of others, I must admit that reamaining weaknesses and errors of omission or commission are my own fault. Why one of my friends did not catch them will always remain a mystery. (Just joking, guys.)

I wish Campbell would've omitted that last little "Just joking, guys," because I don't think he was joking. At least he shouldn't have been joking. I know the help of friends can't turn one's burlap manuscript into silk, but they should at least be able to blend it's patches.

Weezer, the Shout inside Your Head: or, Why Weezer Rocks!

2008-10-24T22:03:00.004-05:00

I came to Weezer a little late for a man my age. I remember hearing all my junior high classmates raving about them and their first hit video "Buddy Holly," but I didn't care; Weezer was just an act back then.

About a year ago I fell in love with "Pinkerton," Weezer's second and greatest album. (pictured left) Every song on the album rocks so hard. The guitars are rough and the lyrics are simple on the surface and addictively catchy. Songs like "Tired of Sex," and "The Good Life" complement each other nicely; the former bemoans a full life of empty sex; the latter wonders when and how old age sat in.

Though all the songs on "Pinkerton" seriously rock, it's "El Scorcho" that takes the prize. Combining a resounding chant that loops in your head for hours with smashing drums and edgy guitars, the song speaks from the heart, and, most importantly, shouts out loud what every guy on Earth has thought to himself upon seeing his dream girl(s). And that's the amazing power of Weezer's songs quintessentially displayed in "El Scorcho:" the power to crystallize and shout out loud the things we fantasize about, the lines we wish could say to someone, and the feelings that we wrestle with when sleep won't come.

The chorus to "El Scorcho" is simple enough: "I'm a lot like you so please, hello, I'm here, I'm waiting. I think I'd be good for you, and you'd be good for me." Everyone who's ever had a crush on someone has thought those very words. The chorus speaks loudly and the song hammers home the point at 2:13 with: "How stupid is it, for all I know you want me to, but maybe you just don't know what to do, and maybe you're scared to say 'I'm fallin' for you'." I still think these things; these words make-up a universal daydream; these words address the perennial uncertainties that plague human relationships! Listen for yourself:

Along with "Pinkerton" I really enjoy the "Blue Album," mainly because at this stage in the game Weezer knew how to channel the thoughts echoing in our heads. With the "Green Album," and whatever else came after that (I don't care about the 'later weezer') the band lost more than their bassist, they lost touch with their own internal monologues- or at least didn't include it in songs. Maybe something inside Weezer's head fundamentally changed when they came to stardom. Maybe they lost the insecurities that made their music so special. Success changes people.

If my theory here is correct then I'm extremely pleased that Weezer's latest album, the "Red Album" bombed. What a disgraceful piece of work. I was listening to it on my iPod shuffle and thought I had downloaded the wrong album because I didn't have any cover art telling me "yes, the disgrace you're listening to is Weezer."

Even though 90% of the "Red Album" is extremely bad, the hit song "Pork and Beans" shines like a diamond in the rough. In "Pork in Beans" I hear the same magic at work that launched "El Scorcho." Back to their old selves, we hear Weezer yelling an anthem of freedom- or at least what they'd say if they had the guts:

"I'm gonna do the things that I wanna do, I ain't gotta thing to prove to you. I eat my candy with the pork and beans, excuse my manners if I make a scene. I ain't gonna wear the clothes that you like, I'm finally dandy with the me inside. One look in the mirror and I'm tickled pink, I don't give a hoot about what you think."

Now that's the Weezer that rocks! Weezer rocks because they shout out what we're all too afraid to say for ourselves. The music connects with our own fears, insecurities, and uncertainties and shouts them out into the open. When I sing along at the top of my lungs I'm actually shouting out my fears, insecurities, and uncertainties. It feels so good to yell all those thoughts out my head. It's a rush to say what you want how you want to, and Weezer helps makes this expression possible and supremely fun.
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Sorry for the cruddy second video but all the real "Pork and Beans" video can't be embedded from YouTube. At least you can hear the song and read the lyrics.
Top: "Pinkerton" album cover features my favorite Japanese woodblock print (浮世栄) by Hiroshige (広重) called Kanbara (蒲原).

Riding Giants in Thailand

2008-10-23T22:39:00.009-05:00

Before leaving Japan my friend Calum and I took a week long trip to one of the most beautiful countries in the world: Thailand. While we spent most of our time in big Bangkok, on the third day of the trip we took a bus to Ayutthaya, the ancient capitol of Thailand which lies about an hour and a half up river from Bangkok. Ayutthaya is famous for its temples (wat in Thai) but for me Ayutthaya is all about riding the local giants; the ELEPHANTS!

Before leaving for Thailand I made the resolution, come hell or high water, to ride an elephant; even if I had to ride it bareback in the Thai jungles. Fortunately, for only 200 bhat ($6) a piece, anyone can ride an elephant outside Ayutthaya's most famous temple, Wat Mongkor Bopitr. I jumped at the chance, I mean, how often does a dude get to ride an elephant?

Riding that giant was a jostling dose of royalty. I can understand why the elephant is the vehicle of kings in many Asian countries; sitting atop the largest land mammal and looking down on the tiny people your giant could crush at will, fills one with a sense of raw power. And traffic accidents, forget about it- nobody wants to rumble with an 11 foot tall (3.4 m), 12,000 pound(5,400) elephant. Mark Twain summed up his elephant riding experience in a similar fashion, "I could easily learn to prefer an elephant to any other vehicle, partly because of the immunity from collisions."

As we tromped along the walking course I tried to talk with the driver but he didn't have much to say. He walked us quietly to the edge of a lake where we paused and looked out over shoe-string waves to an old temple on the far shore. The experience was priceless. In my opinion there's no better way on the planet to spend $6.

The elephant is a holy animal in many Asian cultures. In India, where Twain rode his giant, the most popular deity is Ganesha, a god with a human body and an elephant head helps people through troubles.

Elephants are also play an important role in Thai culture where they serve as the national animal and were once found on the Thailand's national flag. Everything elephants do has some special significance, especially breeding. After our elephant returned to the corral and we dismounted, I visited the nearby gift shop and bought an amazing elephant postcard which showed the sacred act of elephant coitus. With a scene so graphic, I'm glad it wasn't one of the sights I came across in friendly Thailand.

Winding Paths, Entangling Shadows

2008-10-17T15:30:00.009-05:00

What is the role of the philosopher and to what goal is philosophy written? I ask myself these questions often as I have a graduate degree in philosophy and fancy myself of a philosophical disposition. After two plus years away from academic halls I ask these questions anew and now with an ethical searchlight: to what extent should one's philosophy influence the thinker's behavior and ideological affiliations? Perhaps I should arrive at a solution before writing here, but, in the words of the late French philosopher Gilles Deleuze, "We write at the boundary of knowledge; for if we wrote only that which were certain no one should ever write anything."

My struggle to answer these foundational questions makes me consider the life of the German thinker Martin Heidegger. His philosophical mind is powerful and thought provoking, yet I find the most intriguing questions are asked outside the bindings of his books. Heidegger's life forces me to ask my questions earnestly, and, in some respects, judgementally.

Martin Heidegger seen by many the most influential philosopher of the twentieth century. His 1927 release of Being and Time, shook the foundations of western philosophy, mainly because it questioned the very foundation of western philosophy by examining Being. Yes that is Being with a "big B." For many people, me included, Being isn't a topic I ponder in my daily life. But alas, Heidegger pondered the hell out of it and wrote a 488 page book detailing his thoughts.

The book is a gauntlet. Of all the books on my self I am proudest that I read the whole of it. A monster text and imposing, I waded through it at a snail's pace of 5 pages/hour; meaning I spent 100 hours with the book. With 4 days of my life scribbled on its pages you might begin to understand the attachment I have to the book.

Heidegger's mind was sharp as a Ginsu -no one, whether they agree or disagree with his work questions that. The questions Heidegger's shadow faces most often are those of an ideological nature, and for no small reason: Heidegger was a Nazi. -Did you say Nazi? -Sure did, call Dr. Jones.

Yes, Heidegger was a member of the Nazi party until the party was over. During the first year of his Nazi affiliation he was appointed rector of the University of Freiburg, an occasion historically marked by his speech praising National Socialism and its merits. About a year after resigning as rector of the university, Heidegger, in his 1935 work An Introduction to Metaphysics, praises National Socialism and it's "inner truth" writing:

The works that are being peddled about nowadays as the philosophy of National Socialism but have nothing whatever to do with the inner truth and greatness of this movement (namely the encounter between global technology and modern man)-have all been written by men fishing in the troubled waters of "values" and "totalities."

Heidegger was greatly interested in technology's effects on humanity, effects most egregiously witnessed in the concentration camps, where Heidegger writes in his piece The Danger:

Hundreds of thousands die in masses. Do they die? They come undone. They are disposed of. Do they die? They become part of the stock to supply the fabrication of corpses. Do they die? They are liquidated inconspicuously in extermination camps.

Using Heidegger's philosophy of death, I interpret Heidegger's seemingly cold words to mean that those dying in the camps are being stripped of the human being's right to a meaningful death. Death in Heidegger's thought is the moment we face ourselves at our most honestly and authentically, and should no one should be robbed of that moment of vision. He roughs this idea out in the following paragraph:

To die, however, means to carry death out in its essence. To be able to die, means to be capable of this commission. We are capable of it only if our essence inclines to the essence of death.

Whether one agrees with my sympathetic reading of Heidegger's questionable "Do they die?" section, one fact is clear: it was the Nazis who created the means to murder so many Jewish people in their camps, thanks in no small part to their technological twistedness. "Yes they did die Heidegger, and your own Nazi party is wholly responsible for the genocide."

With the Nazi party dismantled after WWII, Heidegger was banned from teaching in German universities due to his involvement. Heidegger never apologized or offered a retrospective justification for his membership in the Nazi party. He never slapped himself on the head and thought himself misguided for his affiliations; at least not publicly, and I doubt he did so in private either.

Can one separate Heidegger's Nazi ideology from his written philosophy? Sure. It's easy to read books out of their historical contexts --it happens with the bible all the time. It's even easier to forget that Heidegger was a Nazi because he makes so little reference to the ideology in his published work, philosophical or otherwise.

And how does an examination of Heidegger's life and work help me answer the questions above? What role should philosophers play in society and how should their work guide their conduct and ideological convictions?

Well, philosophers are societies' thinkers, that's about all their good at, and they should be good thinkers because that is their speciality. Joe the plumber unclogs drains, Neil the accountant balances the books, Norm the carpenter builds cabinets, and philosophers think, teach, and write books. Each is held to standards of quality and value.

While the majority of philosophers' work takes place in the classroom and in the mind, the goal should, in my thinking, always be to illuminate the world in which we live by inspiring a thirst for deeper meanings, fed by limitless curiosity. Philosophers should embody their convictions and write from those convictions. While everyone lives out of different values, the ultimate value of any philosophy need be one that draws its readers closer to attaining their human potential.

This goal of bringing people into their full humanity is the chief aim of philosophy and education. Of course when we talk of values today we enter a battleground with muddy footing. The questions which occupy philosophy are questions of values, and they are difficult questions. On what scales are philosophers weighed? How does one determine the value of thought and what is worth thinking? What is ultimate value of Value? Tricky questions inspired by my first questions; a deepening of the issue by an uncomfortable excavation of the heart. Heidegger himself acknowledges the difficulty of securing values by anchoring them to a center, and I conclude this difficult blog post with one his thoughts:

Even if a future philosopher should reach this center [of value]-- we of the present day can only work toward it-- he will not escape entanglement, but it will be a different entanglement. No one can jump over his own shadow.

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Quotations: Line from Deleuze is from his introduction in Difference in Repitition (I can't provide more info because I seem to have left my copy in Japan. It's a tough book anyhow.) Heidegger, An Introduction to Metaphysics, translated by Ralph Manheim, (Yale 1959). Heidegger, The Danger, translated by Frank Seeburger, (from University of Denver in class discussion 2005). Final qoute from An Introduction of Metaphysics, ibid, brackets mine. Picture: Rodin's "The Thinker," the consumate image of the philosopher.

Motor Head

2008-10-11T18:20:00.004-05:00

It's been a busy month for me. I did a huge trip through huge Texas; first to visit my cousins in the Austin area, then to visit my grand mother in the Dallas area, and, finally, I went back to Austin to pick up my newest and greatest treasure: my 1995, Yamaha 1100cc Virago. I found the bike on ebay and got a great deal on the beast, which remarkably only had 4,500 mile on it. I'm the third owner of this pristine motorcycle. The gentleman I bought the bike from said "this is a true motorcycle: it's a big motor with a gas tank and wheels strapped to it." I couldn't agree more. So, without further adeu, here she is:) I love this bike! It's my treasure. I can honestly state that burning 90 mph down the highway is the most fun I've ever had with my pants on (though I haven't ridden it naked yet)! I'll be posting more pictures of it on my Flickr page so check them out.

これは僕の新しいオートバイ！オートバイは１９９５年ヤマハ１１００ｃｃバラゴ。これは僕の宝物です。この写真で僕の鷲宮を着いている！父もヤマハのオートバイが持ている。日本のオートバイは一番うまだいよ。毎日乗り、毎日は大冒険！

Check out my feedlot post below...

2008-09-12T00:17:00.007-05:00

Hello readers, due to one of Blogger's many quirks, one of articles was ordered incorrectly. My latest article about my time at Cattlemen's Feedlot called Sell by the Pound is located below my Hesse article.

I began drafting the article on September 8th but just published it today. Blogger being what it is, published my article according to the date I started drafting it. So just scroll down, click on the link above, or click on the picture of Earl below to read my latest and most informative piece yet; it just might change your life.
But really, if you're relying on me to change your life I suggest you look elsewhere. You might try Safely Framed's photos or MP's Causerie. Thought I'd give a shout out to my bros;)

Peace,

Japanhandle Justin

Hermann Hesse and my wandering life

2008-09-10T11:29:00.010-05:00

Hermann Hesse (1877-1962) is one my favorite authors. I've had one his books in my hands every time I've faced a life-changing decision, which, in my relatively short and inexperienced life, has only been twice: once when deciding to go to Japan, and now as I decide a career path in America. Hermann Hesse's novels serve as bookends to my Japanese experience, and guideposts on journeys awaiting.

I first discovered Hesse in graduate school when I picked up his most famous work Siddhartha, the coming of age story of a young Indian searching for spiritual fulfillment during the time of the historical Buddha. The protagonist's spiritual wanderings away from the established religion and his sexual exploits, which Hesse writes so well, made Hesse an instant literary superstar and secular guru to the hippies during the 1960's counter-cultural movements following the book's translation and American release in 1951. As a wanderer of spiritual paths, I found Siddhartha a pleasure to read because of it's slow poetic sentences and delicate descriptions of a heart's desire.

Though Siddhartha is Hesse's most well known work, my favorite of Hesse's books is the brilliantly written and highly emotional Narcissus and Goldmund (English ed. 1968). Revolving around the relationship between the two title characters, Narcissus and Goldmund, the story follows the lives of these two men (though Goldmund receives most of the attention) as they develop intellectually, artistically, and spiritually.

The story begins at a Catholic monastery in Medieval Germany where Narcissus and Goldmund first meet. Common for the period, parents sent their young boys to monasteries for an education and to get them out of the house. Narcissus has been at the monastery for some time before Goldmund is dropped off there by his father. Goldmund is placed under the care of Narcissus, a straight-laced, studious young man who excels in Latin and aspires to become an abbot. Goldmund, on the other hand, is a starry-eyed youth who views rules more as guidelines. Hesse describes them both so:

Narcissus was dark and spare; Goldmund, a radiant youth. Narcissus was analytical, a thinker; Goldmund, a dreamer with the soul of a child. But something they had in common bridged these contrasts; both were refined; both were different from the others because of obvious gifts and signs; both bore the special mark of fate. (17)

From the very beginning of the novel, Hesse sets the two boys as friendly opposites and, sooner than later, Goldmund leaves the monastery after catching sight of a beautiful gal while fetching herbs in the field. If you think Bond girls are hot, wait 'till you come across one of Hesse's, they'll make your blood boil; Goldmund's sure did as the girl fetched his twig and berries. After this first of Goldmund's sexual encounters, he knows he's not cut out for life as a monk and he hits the road.

While on the road Goldmund experiences a dash of everything Bob Dylan sings about in "A Hard Rain's a Gonna Fall." He sleeps in peoples' hay and sometimes rolls in it with the women. He is taken in by various families, creating quiet sanctuaries where he can catch his breath- at least until the women take it away. He picks up travel companions, some good and others bad. He wanders through the decimation left in the Black Plague's wake. At last Goldmund takes up a trade and works as an apprentice where he refines his artistic vision, a vision that he's been chasing his entire life.

Though the story is primarily about Goldmund, Hesse uses both him and Narcissus to illustrate two ways of life; the life of the priest, and that of the artist. Hesse defines these lifestyles by contrasting the two characters lives, each representing a side of the classical, age-old dichotomy between law and love, order and chaos, piety and passion. Some literary critics, drawing on Hesse's admiration of Nietzsche, describe the book as Hesse's novelization of the Nietzschian concepts of the Apollonian (from Apollo, Greek god of order) and the Dionysian (from Dionysus, Greek god of wine and dance), with Narcissus embodying the former, and Goldmund the latter. I'm inclined to follow this analysis though it does lack a little imagination.

As I mentioned above, I read Narcissus and Goldmund during a transitional period in life when a big decision needed making. I was finishing up my M.A. at Iliff School of Theology, and had to choose between staying in America and continuing my education by going for my doctorate, or flying off to Japan, a place completely unknown to me, to start a life I couldn't even imagine. Do I stay in the monastery, the ivory palace of the academy, or, do I cut to the fields and explore another country and another part of myself? I chose to live the unexpected life and leave the tower just as Goldmund did. Like Goldmund I encountered many sights, beautiful people, and, at times, depression during long cold winters. Hesse helped me make my decisions, and I wonder if he would've made the same one. I'd like to think he would've.

When I arrived in Denver after two years of living in Japan, I stayed at my friend Jeremiah's apartment and, while perusing his book collection, came across one of Hesse's novels I had heard about but never read, Beneath the Wheel (English ed. 1968). I just finished reading the book last night and feel that this novel will impact my very near future as I decide upon career paths. The novel's message comes more as warning than inspiration.

Beneath the Wheel, like Narcissus and Goldmund, is a bildungsroman, or a growing up story. (After reading most of Hesse's novels, easily 2/3rds of them are bildungroman.) The main character of the novel is gifted young Hans Geibenrath who lives in small town Germany. Hans starts off as a quiet teacher's pet who excels in Latin and Classical Greek. He loves to pull a reed and fish alone at the river with his sparce free time, i.e. when he isn't learning New Testament Greek with the liberal pastor or studying for his state examination. Hans is a fragile little genius and the pride of his small town.

The story kicks into gear after Hans aces his state examination and is sent to the academy with a bunch of other boys from all over Germany. While at the academy he continues to blow his teachers away with his knowledge and learning ability. However, after meeting his first and only friend at the academy, the imaginative poet Hermann Heilner (notice the HH), Hans's grades begin to fall as Heilner's rebelliousness rubs off on him. After Heilner is brought in after running away from the academy he is expelled, an act which drives the coffin nail on Hans remaining interest in school. With his best and only friend expelled, Hans goes from bad to worse, both in terms of his effort and his health. His headaches intensify and occasionally cause him to faint. Han's is sent back home for health reasons and never returns to the academy.

Back home he is considered a failure. The same schoolmaster and pastor who once praised him now have no time for him. Instead of idling away at home, Hans takes up a trade, mechanics, and begins working in a metal shop filing cogs off a metal wheel. The rest of the story came as quite a shock to me and I won't retell it here. It is tragic.

Just as Narcissus and Goldmund, represent two ways of life, letters and spirit, we find the same relationship between Hans and Heilner, only with drastically different outcomes. Where Hesse focuses on the wandering man in N&G, in Beneath the Wheel he examines the strait-lacer, Hans, who is disowned by the same society that once promised his dreams. The novel is often interpreted as Hesse's attack on the elitist, overly academic, soul-draining German education system which he went through as a student, at least until one school expelled him. I can go with this interpretation is it well grounded (see last page), but the book struck me in a different way for a different reason.

I always end up seeing myself in all of Hesse's protagonists; it feels good. His characters always have a special irresistible spark to them. They are all men of genius and usually full of common sense as well- and that's rare. I enjoyed seeing myself as Goldmund, traveling around, getting in adventures like Cane on Kung-Fu, hell, the end of N&G brought tears to my eyes and left me an emotional train wreck for a week. But it's not so much fun walking in Hans's shoes. Here's a fellow on the decline. He comes back from the highest academic halls to walk the muddy streets of the guilds. From translating Hebrew to filing metal off a wheel. He comes home depressed and his ultimately tragic fate is left intentionally vague by Hesse.

Well I'm a bit like Hans now. I'm back from an amazing experience in Japan- I left a success thankfully!- but I'm back in a small town without much going for me at the moment. From the heights back down to earth. From doing a decent job in an exotic foreign land, to possibly doing mundane work to earn a paycheck back in Lubbock. Like the classically trained Hans grinding a wheel; the same wheel I don't want to fall beneath.

Beneath the Wheel served as warning sign to me. There's nothing wrong in finding some work to make a living; the struggle is keeping one's passions and talents alive under the grind of a job that fate, or perhaps an innate self-affirmation, has not designed. And that is my current struggle; to locate a career path that works toward my ultimate goals of happiness while keeping me happy and satisfied in the process. The lesson learned from Hans is not let yourself sink too low into an unsurfacable melancholy: the wheel can only crush those who do not pick themselves up.

Sell by the Pound: Observations from a Feedlot

2008-09-08T20:58:00.014-05:00

For one week in mid August I worked at Cattlemen's Feedlot just outside Olton, Texas. Every morning Dad and I pulled into the office at 6:45am, punched the clock, and went our separate ways to do our separate jobs; he to work the books, me to weigh the trucks, three of which were already waiting for the scale to open at 7. The sun hadn't even finished waking up yet; neither had I.

When I say trucks I'm talking about big-rigs, 18 wheelers, each hauling just over 25 tons of corn, wet distillers grain WGD, and supplements- all the ingredients that get mixed together to make over a million pounds of feed the cattle eat each day. These trucks pull onto Cattlemen's scales everyday to replenish the mills storage hoppers so the cow can keep putting on the pounds.

My job was simple: when the trucks pull onto the scale I print the trucks weight- minus the driver- and give the driver a ticket which they will give to the mill operator for inspection purposes. This first weight is the truck's gross weight, its loaded weight.

When the truck finishes unloading the driver will pull back onto the scale and I'll print the truck's tare weight- again minus the driver. The tare weight is the weight of the truck minus the product. Subtracting the truck's tare weight from the gross weight gives me the load weight. The driver then comes to my little window I prop up with a piece of PVC pipe, and returns the mill ticket I gave 'em earlier. If the driver was hauling corn he'll also give me Ziplock bag filled with a sample from his load. I put a copy of his ticket in the bag and save it for lab boys to analyze. With all the forms finished I'll send the truckers on their way, giving them an adios as they leave. And that's the job. It's quick, easy, and stress free; of course my first day even these simple processes seemed a bit overwhelming.

There's not a lot of interaction between me and the truckers. Often times the trucks are lined up waiting to unload so they can go back and haul some more. I did get a chance to meet some the truckers and share a few pleasantries with them. I'd never talked to truckers before, and by and large they're a hard workin' breed. One of my favorites was Larry, a wirery dude in his 40's with a handlebar mustache. Larry hauls corn, and I'd see him about two or three times a day. Larry makes his runs with his little son who's probably about 8 or so, and was out of school on summer break. Instead of daycare, Larry just loads him up in truck with him. The boy gives me the corn sample on his way out. Larry was one of my favorite truckers and I'm glad I got to chat with him three minutes at a time as he gave me corn samples. He delivers a lot of corn for the feedlot, and it takes a lot of corn to feed the campers.
Cattlemen's Feedlot is one of the areas biggest feedlots. The whole operation sits on a half section of land. That's 320 acres, which is 13,939,200 square feet, roughly the size of 242 football fields. On this piece of land sits the base, where the trucks are weighed and the all the bookkeeping is done; the mill, a massive structure webbed in a maze of pipes and hoppers where the feed is made, and, last but not least, the cattle, about 37,000 of 'em. Although the cattle are the most obvious and smelliest part of the operation, the mill is where all the action takes place.

The mill looms large over the whole feedyard. It's the highest point in Lamb county. It's towers are so tall in fact, cell phone companies put their antennas on top of it. I was given a tour of the mill by Earl Ford, head mill operator and general fix it man. He's also a Harley rider, and like most Harley riders, wears a Harley shirt everyday of the week. My biggest question for Earl was how does all the product I'm weighing go from the truck to the cows stomachs? The answer was not simple.

After the corn trucks are weighed they pull into the receiving bay and position the load over grated openings in the floor. Before the load drops, the mill hand will collect a sample of the load and take it in for inspection. A scoop of corn is poured into a sifter, a brass machine that spins the corn at high speed, thus separating the foreign matter- pieces of stalk and what not- from the kernels. This sifting is done three times to make sure all the foreign matter is spun out of the corn. The tester will then calculate the percentage of the foreign matter to corn. If the foreign matter to corn percentage is too high, the load is rejected and the corn truck is sent back to where it came from. If the percentage falls within acceptable limits, the truck driver is given the go ahead to dump his corn. Along with assessing this percentage, the mill worker will crush and bake some to the corn at high temp to assess the moisture levels of the corn. If any of these measurements don't meet government regulated specs, the corn is rejected. These sample checks are just a small piece of the product analysis process. Every ingredient that goes into the feed, and subsequently into the cows, and ultimately into our bodies, is thoroughly tested and must meet strict government imposed guidelines.

Once the corn is dropped into the bay floor, oggers feed the corn up one the tall pipes and into the cylindrical storage hoppers. From the hoppers, the corn is fed inside the mill to the first stage of prep: the flakers. From a smaller hopper the corn falls into the flakers where it is chipped and flattened by the roller spinning inside (seen left). The rollers are serrated steal drums whose surface is rough like a metal file. The corn must be flaked so the cows can eat it. The roller room resounds with a loud din and smells like a big bag of Fritos; a welcome change from the sweet smell of money outside. When the rollers finish flaking the corn, it spits it out underneath into an air tube that suctions the corn up and out to the mixing bay.

From the mixing bay, a dude in a front-end loader begins shoveling all the ingredients into a mixing hopper equipped with a large ogger; kinda like mixing ingredients for a cake on a massive scale- instead of a teaspoon of sugar it's a bucket full of flaked corn. The mixing bay is a tight space and the fella driving the front-end loader maneuvers the machine with a sniper's accuracy. He scoops from the piles of corn, wet distillers grain, and chopped hay that amass in the holding bays.

Mixing the feed is the most critical operation within the mill. Computers help ensure the correct proportions of ingredients are added and will shut down if the batch isn't prepared properly. The control panel looks like something Spock used to fiddle with and attests to Earl's invaluable feedlot knowledge. While the loader adds the hard materials to the mix, the computer squirts in the vitamin finisher and other supplements completing the feed. With that, so far as I somewhat comprehend it, the feed is complete and loaded into a truck that delivers it to cattle for to chomp on.

There's much more to making feed than I covered here but that's about all I could understand. At every step of the way there's quality control checks- starting before the corn leaves my trucks and ending when the computer gives it final approval. The whole process of making feed starts about 2am and finishes around 4 each afternoon. Once the mill has done its job it's up to the cattle to EAT IT UP.
And here's the moo-cows, all 37,000+ of 'em, lookin' up with their longing eyes hoping for a bite to eat. All these cattle started off chewing grass at a ranch somewhere until they put on around 5 to 600 pounds, then their owners will send 'em off to the feedlot to feed on the hot stuff.

Now you've probably never seen cows out grazing in a corn field, and for good reason: cows stomachs aren't built to handle corn. The difficulty lies in their second stomachs inability to ruminate corn like it does grass. In order to ease the new cows transition to a corn based feed, supplements are added to mix, and, in the beginning, chopped hay as well. This first type of feed with the hay additive is called the "starter ration." As the cows put on weight and their stomachs adjust to a corn based feed, they are moved up the ration scale and when they reach second ration are weaned off hay entirely. A heavy cow, say one weighing upwards of 1,000 pounds, eats the "hot ration," the highest level of ration specially blended for optimal weight gain. Those skinny cows that arrived at the feedlot weighing a mere 500 pounds will more than double their weight in under a year eating feedlot chow.

The cows' only job is to eat- and the more they eat the better. To help the cows pack on the pounds quickly, each cow is injected with a growth hormone as soon they step off the truck. Then the cows are separated into steers (males) and heifers (females) so the feedlot doesn't turn into a massive bovine orgy. Some of the steers however will still want to sew some wild oats and look to their pinned in brothers for release. These steers are known as "bullers" and they're bad for business because they get the pin moving and can injure each other. Remember, a good money making cow just eats, relaxes, and lets the pounds roll on- kinda like a sumo wrestler. The bullers on the other hand cause too much commotion and are separated into their own pins by the cowboys.

That's right, cowboys. The feedlot employs a group of cowboys to ride the pins and check on the cattle. The cowboys' job is weed out the bullers and, most importantly, identify sick or injured cattle. When they find a cow in trouble they radio the feedlot doctor to come and check things out. Unfortunately, when you pin up 37,000 plus cows, some of them are going to have problems.

Cows with medical conditions are tended to by the doctor in a separate area, though some cows will never recover. Cattlemen's Feedlot loses an average of two cows per day, a strikingly low number considering. When compared to other feedlots, Cattleman's losses are actually very low, meaning they take rather good care of the cattle in their charge.

Dead cattle are taken off in the "dead truck." Of the 30 plus trucks I weighed each day, I always hated weighing the "dead truck." After loading up the cattle the driver will pull in for weighing, only instead of a bag of corn passing through the window, he'd hand me a couple of ear tags no longer in service. I'd record the weight and not look forward to seeing him the next day.

For cows who are injured, with just a broken leg or something, anyone can walk in and buy the injured cow, its weight setting the cost. My dad will sometimes split the price of an injured cow and send it off the butcher for steaks and chili meat, and soup bones for the dogs.

Of course the whole goal of the operation is sell the cows off at a good ripe weight around 1,200 pounds. When the cows sell the feedlot and the cattlemen make their money. The feedlot makes money by housing and feeding the cattle; the cattlemen make money when their big fat cows sell. Cattle prices are set by the pound and the cattle market, just like any other market, can be unpredictable.

Once the cattle are sold the feedlot's job is complete. New green cattle are brought in regularly just as big fat ones are sold, and the cycle continues. From the feedlot cattle are sent to the slaughterhouse and eventually end up on America's dinner tables or packaged in fast food wrappers. I have no first hand experience of how the cattle are slaughtered, only what I've read in books. My uncle works at a slaughterhouse farther north in the Texas panhandle, so maybe someday I'll have a post about the aftermath.

I learned volumes about the cattle industry in my one short week at the feedlot. I met a variety of interesting people who are passionate about cattle and beef. Though feedlots take a lot of bashing for their quick mass production of beef, I was surprised by all the checks and balances in the system. Raising cattle is a business, and like all businesses there are ethical and professional standards, not to mention governmental standards, regulating the industry.

Feedlots may be the bain of some people's existences, but they are a central piece of a complex economic matrix. Because corn is the key ingredient in the feed, the feedlot purchases massive amounts it which helps support "small town farmers," like the ones farming around Olton, Texas, that liberals are always standing up for but rarely if ever meet. Then of course there's all that shit lying around that's gotta go somewhere. Cattlemen's outsources that job to a local fertilizer maker who cleans the pins in exchange for the shit to go in his product.

Whether you agree with feedlot practices or not, and I have my reservations about the operation, they are good for business. The beef coming out of feedlots may not be as healthy as a granola bar, but it does meet governmental standards. In the end it's up to us consumers to decide what we put in our bodies, but we already knew that.

My time at the feedlot, though short, was one massive learning experience. At the end of my week at Cattlemen's Feedlot, Roy the boss approached me:

-Well Justin, what do ya think about the feedlot business?
-I know I don't wanta make a livin' out of it. The hours are terrible.

______________________

For a great article about meat production from birth to dinner plate, check of Michael Pollan's New York Times article Power Steer.

All photos by me, Justin Burrus.

GTOh My God, You're Here!

2008-09-05T00:07:00.013-05:00

While shopping at a closeout book sale the other day I came across an amazing sight: my favorite manga series from Japan, GTO, selling in the bargin bin for only $2 an issue! GTO is the mind-blowing manga whose title character Eikichi Onizuka, teaches the roughest and baddest 3rd graders at Holy Forest Academy, a fictional junior high school located in Tokyo. The students in Mr. Onizuka's class are vile to the extreme and show no mercy when it comes to bulling the teachers, causing one teacher to commit suicide and driving another teacher insane. But while these students are nasty, they're about to meet a new kind of teacher who doesn't care for traditional forms of discipline and smokes in the classroom; in short they're about to meet GTO: Great Teacher Onizuka!

Manga, for those who don't know, simply refers to a Japanese comic book. In America the term can also denote an art style characterized by more edgy and oftentimes noseless figures with big eyes and hair, i.e. Dragon Ball and Yugioh. The style stands in sharp relief to American style comic book art which aims more for realistic proportions and detailed anatomical bulging muscles, like Superman and Batman. Yet in Japan, manga just means comics because, quite simply, there's no other drawing styles to compete with it.

Although I've been a regular fan of American comics since I was in middle school, during my two years in Japan I never really got into the manga scene. GTO is the only manga series that's ever interested me, mainly because I can both empathize with and look up to Onizuka. He's just a normal dude devoid of super powers (powers really aren't required to catch the reader's attention, but character development is, take note America) facing a group of heathens who make him wish he could zap them all down with heat vision. What he does have though is a black belt in karate, a kick-ass crotch rocket, and a killer German suplex. He uses all these tools to defuse heinous classroom eruptions and after school attacks.

The majority of my time in Japan was spent inside Japanese junior high schools teaching on the JET Program. Most of the students were well behaved, some were superstars, and others may already be in prison. The fact is, Japanese junior high school students aren't much different from their American counterparts. Most early teens worry about the same things and tell the same dirty jokes no matter where they live. I think there is a western image of Japanese students all being straight-laced, robot designers in the making. This image is more fiction than fact, and unfortunately, when confronted with those troublesome students, there is no way to react in Onizuka fashion and keep one's job. When I read GTO I tried to learn from what he did. How he was creative and genuine before he was physical and snide.

And speaking of reading GTO, I always read from the bilingual editions I occasionally came across in Japan's massive manga stores. The bilingual Japanese/English edition is shown on the left while the American all English version is on the right. I never picked up any of the Japanese editions because my Japanese wasn't, and still isn't, good enough to follow along. The bilingual edition was great for learning Japanese and my students really got a kick out of thumbing through it and seeing a major part of their culture being translated for the rest of the world.

Here's a sample of a bilingual page from GTO vol. 3. To set up the scene for you, Onizuka just a had an after school run-in with Kunio, his most troublesome student, at a video arcade. After demolishing Kunio during the non-violent arcade challenge, Kunio handcuffs Onizuka to a Buddha statue and makes a break for it. Onizuka, using his karate muscles breaks the Buddha and chases Kunio down an alley before Kunio's mother breaks up the commotion (I don't know why she's there). Well, needless to say, Kunio's mom is a looker, and Onizuka wants to see more.

In the scene all three of them, Mom, Kunio, and Onizuka are eating at a restaurant. The page on the right shows you exactly what Onizuka is thinking about. English is placed in the speech balloons and Japanese surrounds the frame. It's a really great approach to selling manga and a fun way for both Japanese and English speakers to study languages.

I loved reading GTO in Japan. Unfortunately I was only able to find the first three issues of the series in the bilingual editions so I kept reading them over and over. When I left Japan I thought I was leaving Onizuka behind with me. But at that book sale my world was rocked. Seeing GTO in that manga bin put a big ol' Texas grin on my face. I didn't think Onizuka would appeal to an American audience, but I'm extremely glad he did. The closeout bin only had volumes 16-19 so I've got a big gap in my collection; but at least I know my collection will survive across the Pacific, though I do miss the Japanese translation. Who knows, if there's enough interest in GTO stateside maybe they'll air the translated Japanese TV series and keep the Great Teacher Onizuka kicking ass on the boob tube as well.

Stateside, GTO is published by TokyoPop and carries a 16+ age warning on it for sexually sugestive themes and a lot of rough language. The bilingual edition is published by Kodansha in JapanI highly recommend it to all educators, and to everyone else looking to step into the world of manga but worry about finding strange un-dead Japanese zombies with blasting powers. At base, GTO is the story of an unlikely teacher making a big impact on a troubled class written off by the rest of the school and society. Check it out.

_______________________

If you didn't check out the link to the GTO TV series above, click here to watch segments of the show on YouTube. You're sure to love it.

GTT II: Enchanted Circles in my Mind

2008-08-26T21:58:00.019-05:00

Northern New Mexico is an enchanted place, and while the locals will tell you the whole state is enchanted- goes the state motto: New Mexico, Land of Enchantment- I think most of the enchantment lies on a 84 mile (135km), 2 lane route called the "Enchanted Circle." The Circle is listed as a New Mexico "scenic byway" because of its amazing views of Wheeler Peak (the state's highest point), the vast cacti spotted desert, and the diamond blue Eagle Nest lake. I love these sights and I'm glad I can see them all easily from my truck on a 2 hour day trip.

After my folks came and picked me up in Denver, we head down I-25 into New Mexico and spent a few relaxing nights in Angel Fire, a ski town on the south east end of the route. During our stay we took the obligatory trip around the Circle, driving clockwise around the route. Though I'd gone round the route plenty of times in the past, it finally dawned on me that the Circle is about more than majestic natural wonders: the Circle is a seer's crystal ball containing the entire New Mexican universe- from unchanged Indian dwellings to museums honoring Indian killers, i.e. Kit Carson's house; there's the impoverished Mexican, white, and Indian folk living in shitty trailer houses across the way from high class ski resorts nestled in the Sangre de Cristo (Blood of Christ) Mountains, and don't forget the long-haired, turquoise sportin' hippy artists selling blurry digital pictures in the town square, or the burly, chainsaw-wielding mountain men deforesting the hillside in order to carve depressed looking bears and goofy lookin' gunfighters out of timber, now toss in a some middle-aged biker dudes sweatin' their asses off in leather, add a dash of dying-breed cowboy, and lastly but certainly not leastly, throw in whole shitload of Texan tourists peeing their pants in excitement because after 8 hours of bash-your-brains-against-the-steeringwheel-driving they're finally in the mountains, breathing mountain air, and paying way too much for shoddy t-shirts- yep, the Enchanted Circle magically circumnavigates everything that is New Mexico, both geographically and culturally, so if New Mexico's got it you'll find it in the Circle. Now that's one hellova nice scenic byway for you.

So what did my family and I do whilst touring the Enchanted Circle? Well, we stayed at a hotel/ski resort called the Legends and ate great Chinese food in Angel Fire. From our base in Angel Fire we headin' clockwise into Taos and visited the eclectic town square before stopping by the "hecho in Mexico," southwestern store on the east side of 64 as you head out of town. We saw piles of Indian blankets and old-school furniture (painted so at any rate).

Then there were the ceramic chili peppers dangling from the front porch ceiling. It all looks cheap as hell- unfortunately the prices aren't- but it takes great pictures! Not satisfied with buying a t-shirt like the rest of the Texas tourists, ol' dad upped the stakes and bought 'em a poncho, and not just any poncho, but the biggest damn one on the premises. An elephant could wear this thing, leaving the newly clad Poncho Neily looking like a gringo in a blanket. What you don't see under that eagle curtain is dad's 44 magnum 6 shooter, so you best quit laughin'.

Goodies bought, it was off to the Gorge. The Gorge is just one of the places where the Rio Grande river cuts a scar into the New Mexican earth. This gorge is deep, hence the name, and is extremely difficult to photograph well.

Thank goodness I had my tripod (thanks CJ) with me so I could get this great shot of the fam in front of a terribly shadowed Rio Grande Gorge. *Future note: take pictures of gorges at high noon or not at all.

I got some of the greatest shots of my life at the Taos Pueblo Cemetery. We were gonna check out the tourist destination made famous in part by Ansel Adams's photography, but our wallets decided against it because of the $10/person entry fee plus an additional $5/camera fee. Too much for a family of 3 with a camera, so I just snapped some shots from the free parking area.

I'm sure we missed some amazing sights inside the place, but I'm extremely pleased with the way this photo of the cemetery, bell tower, and Wheeler Peak came out.

Making our way into the northern part of the Circle we made a soft right in Questa (a place not good for much but buying liquor after Der Martt closes) and cruised on into the small, one-street town of Red River. Red River is one of the most charming places on earth. Full of all things touristy, the town is home to a small ski resort, a few bars and steakhouses- one of which, Texas Red's, was the absolute, hands down best place to eat a steak before the place mysteriously burned down a few years ago only to re-open in a renovated gas station. Now the place sucks a fatty, making you feel like an idiot for paying $15 to eat a thunker steak inside a gas station. Come on Red. Texans love Red River more than any other stop on the circle because it is tourist t-shirt central. Fortunately Poncho Neily was driving so we passed the t-shirt shop but that didn't keep us from stopping at the chainsaw art shop.

Forget the great artists and mediums of the past; the chainsaw is the new paintbrush, and tree trunk the new canvas. This 5'5" (165cm) carved cowboy will run you $5oo, and you better have a pick-up and three corn-feds with you to help get it home.

The little swinging bear makes much more economical sense. He's cutest carved critter I've ever spied and seeing that flag behind him just gets me all fuzzy inside. Buy this little fella, give him a home. My mom bought my uncle Butch a bear that stands about knee high (my knee, not her's), and with a big ol' smile on his face holds a sign saying, "Go Away Asshole" in its cutely shaped paws. Just kiddin', the sign really doesn't say asshole.

Bear and poncho in tow we had gotten what we'd came for and it was time to head back east to Texas. We broke the circle by taking the road up the bald hill behind Eagle Nest, where I took a stormy shot of Eagle Nest lake, one the "proper" enchanted wonders.(I really like this shot and look forward to taking in again now that I have a UV Polarizing filter to sort out those blown heavenly highlights up top.) A little bit down the down the windy road that follows the Cimmaron river (best fly-fishin' river flowin') east out of the Circle, we stopped for a photo-op in front of the huge and steep cliffs known as the Pallisades.The Palisade are a big attraction evidenced by the big pull-off area and the marker in front of them. These cliffs are sight to behold for the flatlander, especially for the kiddies making their first trip into the mountains.

I took tons of photos along the way and began struggling with nature shots. The New Mexican skies are a blessing to any photographer as they transform any mundane object into a dramatic subject. I didn't remember there being so much sky in Japan; I suppose the Japanese traded it for high rises and power lines. With the big New Mexican skies wrapped safely in the globe of the Enchanted Circle, we pushed out east, making our way into the Texas panhandle; a story for the next and final installment of GTT-Gone to Texas.

___________________________

To see more of my photos just click here to visit my flickr page.

GTT I: 3 Friends and his Baby

2008-08-17T23:22:00.012-05:00

My good friend Jeremiah picked me up from the airport and let me crash at his place for a few days until the folks came up to get me. Hangin' out with J is always a pleasure and after a year without him it was double. J is the best listener in the world which makes us a good pair because I'd tell my whole life story to a fence post if I thought it laugh at the funny parts. I just walk around talkin' and J gives me a smile and a "yeah man, I know what you mean." We're yin and yang, near opposites except for our love of comic books, the 80's blockbuster "Major Leauge," and our shared histories with fundamentalist Christians, and, apparently, that's more than enough to keep people best of friends for years.

On my second day in Denver, J and I took the new "Light Rail" train from the University of Denver into downtown to take in the sights and eat some Arby's roast beefs. While downtown we took advantage of 16th Street's "Free Ride" eco-friendly bus to get up and down the avenue. At the end of the line and a block north sits Union Station, the city's landmark train station originally built in 1881. It's quite a sight, although it's unfortunate us Americans don't have many opportunities to travel by train anymore.

Union Station is located in LoDo (Lower Dowtown), that's where Denverites go to drink and eat at expensive joints. The district is expensive but it's one of the few place in Denver's smoggy urban sprawl that gives a glimpse into Denver's rich history as a frontier town. The old buildings really make you feel classy as you stroll beside them wearing a Batman t-shirt. After cruising around LoDo and visiting The Tattered Cover, one of my favorite bookshops, we headed on back to the Universtiy of Denver to take some pictures of its picturesque campus before meeting up with more old grad school buds.

The University is Denver is one nice campus. Just about every building is plated in gold leaf or clad in cheap Mexican copper. Of course it's the students' tuition paying for all that architectural bling, but so long as they can take classes in these secular cathedrals of learning then everyone's happy; everyone with a hefty scholarship or rich parents at least.

Here's what I talking about: to the left is the clock tower that's connected to the gym and fitness center. To the right is the domed Center of Tourism and Hotel Management, and behind some new copper monstrosity. Fortunately for me, none of my borrowed grad school tution went to DU, no, it all went to Iliff School of Theology which allowed me take one class per quarter at DU under their much cheaper tuition banner. I learned how to doubt god and wrastle my inner demons (whether I had 'em or not) at Iliff, at DU I learned everything I don't understand about philosophy and matters of the soul while taking classes with good lookin' rich girls;)

I still had a few friends to meet in Denver so J and I went up to Kit's place and shot the shit for a bit on the porch. I do love chattin' on porches. If I were a business man I'd stoically do all my business in a plastic chair on concrete with a view.

Kit's a really smart fella who's passionate about social justice, football, chess, and free food. When I was in graduate school I played a couple hours of chess everyday. It really hindered our studies but we didn't care. We talked about complex global affairs like Latin American dictators, Bush, the seemingly violent core of Christianity, and spring time DU girls in short skirts. Rrrrr! I loved playing chess with Kit because I couldn't lose, really, the dude cannot seem to win a chess match. He either looses or stalemates! You'd think he goes out of his way to not win. I didn't care much though, chess isn't all about winning or not loosing when your sitting in front of the Rocky Mountains with a good pal shootin' the shit and pushin' the pieces.

That night J, Kit, and I met up with Marc-Paul, his wife Melissa, and their new adorable sweet little 8 month old littlin' Evelyn. What a great family those three make. Marc-Paul is a genius who has read every book I've ever thought of reading. He teaches GED classes at his father's inner-city parish to at-risk and in-trouble high schoolers. Every now and then he'll slip in a little Foucault and assign 'em a little Ayn Rand to read. Him and Melissa married during my first year in Japan and created Evelyn in my second. It's crazy introducing yourself to your buds little girl who's wearing her green peas (which are all organic and super duper sweet; I know cause Marc-Paul let me try some bright green goo). Hell, I'm not even married, and childern, at my age, well that's just loco.

But talk about one interesting family, they won't let Evelyn watch the TV. In her whole 8 months of birthed life that bright blue eyed little girl has only seen about 6 minutes of TV. Now how bout that. There's a genius in the making here, and when she changes the world or wins the Nobel Prize I'll be able to say that I ate a bit of her all organic green peas when she couldn't even stand on her own two feet- assuming I'm still alive then. My god, I'm already sounding like an old fart.

__________________________

Photos: top left, J before the Denver's skyline taken just west of LoDo. top right, J with his guitar. Jeremiah is an awesome guitarist who writes and sales his own music. He's played a few gigs where he showcases his soothing sounds. Next, Denver's Union Station in LoDo. Under that, me on a street corner in LoDo across from Union Station, photo and borrowed Batman shirt provided by J. Next at left, DU's workout center's gold-leafed clock tower, come on. right, more copper buildings. Next, Kit on his front porch at the Iliff student appartments. He just got out of the shower. Lastly, Marc-Paul, Melissa, and Evelyn, the happy family.

GTT!

2008-08-17T16:34:00.012-05:00

In the 19th century, people from across America began writing GTT on the doors of their abandoned houses before immigrating to the greatest state in the union. That state is Texas of course. And that's where I'm writing from now, from Lubbock, Texas to be exact; home of many a legendary musician like Buddy Holly and the Maines family. Lubbock is my hometown where, before I went off to graduate school in Denver, Colorado, I lived for 20 years give or take a couple.

It's good to be back home after a long stay in Japan. Of course I miss the Japanese community I was a part of in Washimiya, Saitama, and I miss the feel of Japan- the sway of commuter trains, the sight of old bent-crooked women digging up radishes from the neighborhood garden, hell, just the sight and sound of Japanese people in general. I miss Japan, but I'm learning to readjust to life in Texas though I can feel the wave of reverse-culture shock swelling towards me.

I left Narita airport on Wednesday, August 6th at 6:00pm and arrived at Denver International Airport on Wednesday, August 6th at 6:00pm. Lookin' at the times you might think I teleported, believe me I wish I could have, and in a way I suppose I did, it's that old school form of teleportation where you spend 10 hours flying in a dark bucket then, after a 3 hour pause in San Fran, do the same thing again for 3 more hours into Denver.

In the upcoming postings I'd like to share with y'all my journey back to God's Country from Denver; let me tell you my own gone to Texas story.

________________

Photo of me by Neil Burrus at the Texas Sign just outside Texline, Texas (that's a lot of Tex'es) on Highway 64/87. Texline is a small town in Dallum County, the north westerner most county in the Texas panhandle.

From the depths, farewell Japan. みんなへ、さようなら

2008-08-05T00:38:00.004-05:00

Tomorrow I will get on the airplane that will take me away from Japan for an indefinite amount of time. I already miss all the friends I've made here these last two years. You have kept me alive in this once strange land. You gave me laughter and food and, most importantly, a sense of belonging.

The greatest gift Japan has given me is indestructible self confidence. I know I can survive and thrive in any situation I find myself in, even if I don't know the way out or what the next step will be. It is this confidence that will and must sustain me in America, in that land that has changed over the last two years but at the moment seems so mundane in my mind. I don't worry about surviving back home; I worry about being happy while I readjust to my "home," a concept which is now filled two realities, my home in Japan and the place of my family. I will remain an inside-outsider for some time yet to come I reckon.

This will be the last post I write in Japan. I still have a few posts about Japanese matters to write and those will have to be written State-side.

It has been a dream here in Japan and now it's time to wake up and carry my feelings and lessons learned forward, across the Pacific and onto the American highway. That is where my future lies, a grand reunion tour across my native land on the back of a two wheeled beast that I won't have to pedal. Thank you Japan, and when I say that, I'm thanking all the friends and families, students and teachers, that made my life here brilliant. I will return.

みんなへ

二年間速いですね。今日は悲しみです。二年間皆さんは家族のよな感じでした。みんな一緒に飲んだり、食べたり、笑った。

日本きった時に私は日本語をぜんぜん話せなかっただけど、皆さんが頑張りました！その時に私は自分に自信がなかった、でも二年たてとても自信があります。多分自信がありすぎます。今どこでも行けるし、誰とでも話せる。どの生徒にも教えることができる。今怖いものがありません。この自信は皆が私にくれたプレゼントです。本当に、本当にありがとうございます。

またね、
ジャスティン

Seki Rocks Dylan: interview with an enigmatic music lover

2008-07-22T10:01:00.008-05:00

Over a year ago a new principal came to Washimiya Junior High. He looks like any other Japanese administrator I've ever met: short sleeved button-up shirt with tie, glasses, greying hair. Given his appearance, I was completely caught off guard when he introduced himself to me in English like this: Good morning, nice to meet you, I'm Yasuhiko Seki and love your American folk music.

I soon found myself in the Principal's office and having a blast discussing American folk music, especially Bob Dylan, and learning about 60's and 70's America, that confusing and changing time that gave birth to so many great poets, rockers, and social critics. Because of our conversations, and sometimes guitar playing together, I asked Mr. Seki (54) if I could interview him for Inside Outsider. Fortunately he agreed, giving the blog its first interview report about someone who's interests and ideals don't really click with the society around him. He too is an inside-outsider.

IO: When you told me about your interest in American folk music I was a little surprised. How did you start listening to folk music here in Japan?

YS: I was 16 or 17 when I first heard the music. I started liking Bob Dylan when I was in a record shop. I asked the clerk to play "Times they're a Changing" by Simon and Garfunkel. It was very pretty. After that he played Bob Dylan's version and I was moved. Bob Dylan's rusty voice reflected the pain of people's minds. That's when I started listening to Dylan a lot.

IO: Were a lot of Japanese people listening to Dylan at the same time you were?

YS: Not many because he sang all in English so people couldn't understand. Not many people could touch his deep insight. He digs the problems with U.S. society.

IO: Dylan emerged at a very difficult time in U.S. history. Was there a similar atmosphere here in Japan at the same time?

YS: Oh yes. Americans were totally confused during the 60's and 70's because of the war [Vietnam] and the civil rights movement. Then there was unemployment. In Japan, during late 60's early 70's we had the huge student movements at Tokyo University. The students were tired of the old style of politics and wanted something modern. All over the world people were revolting, in London, and Paris, it was a time of change.

IO: With all that happening around you, how did Dylan's music effect your way of thinking about the world?

YS: Dylan's music changed my mind from a child to an adult; early Dylan especially with songs like "Only a Pawn in the Game," "Blowin in the Wind," and "North Country Blues." His songs are truth and always reflect the culture. He helped me think seriously about politics and social struggles. Also, I started learning English by listening to his music; that's why my pronounciation is a little rough I suppose.

IO: What other musicians do you like?

YS: I like Simon and Garfunkel, Brothers 4, The Band, and Credence Clearwater Revival. Also Johnny Cash, Eric Clapton, and The Who.

IO: My dad really likes Simon and Garfunkel so I grew up listening to their music. It's so different from what you hear today. They focused so much on harmony and quality.

YS: That's right. I'd like to talk with your father someday. But you should remember that Paul Simon is a musician, not a poet like Dylan. Simon and Garfunkel's music is beautiful but it goes in one ear and out the other. It's all feeling and doesn't make you think. Compare Paul Simon's song "Boxer" to Dylan's "Who Killed Davey Moore" and you'll understand the difference. Dylan's lyrics accuse and question society, Paul Simon's don't. Dylan is a poet, not a musician.

IO: Thank you so much for your time. Can you play a tune for the Inside Outsider audience?

YS: Sure, how about Mr. Tambourine Man.

____________________________

Thank you Mr. Seki, you are, by far, the coolest principal in Japan. If you're ever in Lubbock Texas, be sure to stop by so I can take you to the Buddy Holly Museum. Peace friend.

JETジャナル２００８やった！

2008-07-18T20:55:00.022-05:00

三月に私はJETジャナルためにこの随筆を書きました。遂に後四ヶ月出版させました！すごく嬉しいです。私はこの随筆を英語で書いただから、JETジャナルの編者が日本語に訳しました。すごく嬉しいから自分で随筆を訳さなかった。全部日本の友達が読んでください。田中先生と杉野さんと内に本当にありがとうございます。（ごめん、私の日本語はまだ下手です。）この写真にクリクをしたら大な写真見て読める。（本の写真は違い人が撮りました。言葉だけ私のです）

2008 JET Journal Selected Essay!

Earlier this year I submitted the following essay into the JET Journal, a collection of selected essays written by JET Program participants about their experiences in Japan. I'm very glad my essay "Team Taught Face Punching," was selected for publication because the editors of the journal translate all the pieces into Japanese. Now I can show the piece to Tanaka Sensei and the others mentioned in the piece! I'm glad they'll be able to read the essay as it's about the best way I know of to thank them for all they've done for me. Thank you very much.

(Click on the pictures to view larger readable versions. The picture above the essay is not mine and has nothing to do with the piece. Pictures like this are randomly interspersed througout the journal.)

澤木道場で坐禅していた Meditating at Takubou Zen Center

2008-07-15T09:15:00.020-05:00

I felt a single bead of sweat creep down my forehead one pore at a time. The sweat would trickle in from above, fill the pore to capacity and gently overflow it, rolling on to the next pore in a never ending process. My head so still the drop felt like a glacier inching closer to the sea.

Then the train came ringing into Nippori station. "You've arrived at Nippori" the announcement said every three minutes as the Yamanote train ran circles round Tokyo. I heard it's steel wheels roaring down the track from miles away. My head so quiet I thought I was lying between the tracks as the train came in.

These were two of the hyper-sensations I experienced while meditating at Takuboku Zen Center 澤木道場 in Nippori 日暮里, Tokyo. The center is located just a three minute walk uphill from Nippori station on Tokyo's busy Yamanote line 山手線, making transportation convenient but concentration challenging.

The tatami floored zendo 禅道 meditation hall sits on the second floor of the center, and, true to Zen aesthetic principles, is sparse and serene. The only ornamentation in the hall was a Buddha altar (with doors closed in the picture), two hanging scrolls, and a framed piece of calligraphy at the rear. The framed piece says 直心道場 and translates roughly as "the heart is the real training hall."

Keeping with the Zen minimalism, there wasn't an air conditioner anywhere to be found; hence the sweat running down my face, chest, arms, and legs. Everyone was sweating their asses off- literally. All the screened windows were open but not a breeze stirred the 90% humidity, 90 degree day. With a new train arriving every three minutes and the heat unbearable, I wondered if I was wasting my time sitting there, because I sure didn't feel any closer to enlightenment. In fact I felt further from it than ever; I felt plain miserable.

But I endured and sat with my back straight and my eyes downcast. The evening session consisted of two 45 minute rounds of zazen 坐禅 (meditation) with a 5 minute break in the middle. About 15 minutes into the sitting, one of the priest stood up, walked over the altar and picked up the keisaku (japanese link here), the Zen whoopin' stick! (What is it with Japanese people hitting their friends with sticks anyway?) The priest then walked in front of the 15 of us, and, when someone motioned to him, after bowing respectfully, he smacked the shit out of their back 6 times! This is an old Zen tradition and is not meant as a punishment, but rather as a means to bring the mind back into focus. The smack that stick made was so loud, like a hollow thunder clap.

I sure didn't want anything to do with it at the time, but in retrospect I kinda wished I had tried it. Maybe next time. I've never been smacked by a Zen master before.

After the sitting was finished I went downstairs with the two priests who were smacking that day and had a really long and interesting conversation about Zen in America and in Japan. When I told the priests I had practiced Zen at the Denver Zen Center before coming to Japan they were intrigued and wanted to know how the Japanese experience ranked. I told them there weren't any whoopin' sticks in Denver. They laughed long and hard.

The older of the priests, Mr. Domyo Kurihara said that Takuboku Center is a tough place to learn meditation because they sit for two 45 minute sessions with only a 5 minute break in the middle. He was sure right about that.

The hardest part about sitting still for so damn long is keeping your mind focused and your eyes open. Takuboku Center practices Rinzai Zen 臨済宗, one of two main schools of Zen that encourages its followers to focus the mind on the breath and Zen sayings, or koans, i.e. "What is sound of one hand clapping," while meditating. In Japanese this approach is called 一念一想, or focusing on one single thought. This form of meditation differs from Soto Zen 曹洞宗 which propagates a "no thought," 無念無想 approach to meditation.

As instructed, when the bell rang to start meditating I began counting my breaths. I got to 13 and started thinking about everything under the sun. It's crazy what little minute things pop into the mind when you try to calm it. For some reason I started thinking about the strongest and least intrusive way to hang pictures on drywall. What the hell? Where did that come from. Well, after I finally treed that squirrel and started back at 1, I'll be damned if I didn't get stuck at 8; this time thinking about how a mosquito could have a field day in here with all the sweaty lumps of flesh just waiting to be suckled.

When I explained my difficulties to Mr. Kurihara and Mr. Chijo Seko (pictured above) they said it was very natural that my mind wouldn't focus. It takes years to get good at Zen. Mr. Kurihara, who has been practicing Zen for over 40 years, said that sitting still and counting the breath is easy in theory but extremely difficult to do well in practice. I completely agree.

I recommend a little Zen meditation to everyone. If you live in Tokyo and would like to join Takubuko's Zen meetings you can check there website here (in Japanese). The center holds 1 1/2 hour zazen sittings on Tuesdays and Wednesdays from 6:30pm, Saturdays from 5pm, and Sunday mornings from 7. If you are new to practicing Zen, please arrive 15 to 20 minutes early so a priest can teach you how to meditate properly. There is a nominal charge of 100 yen ($1) to participate. All instruction is given in Japanese although Mr. Seko Chijo speaks really good English. The center is affiliated with the Japan wide Ningen Zen Group (English link).

I'd like to thank everyone at the Takuboku Zen Center for a great day of meditation, philosophical conversation, and an after hours tour of the center I'm not supposed to mention.
_________________________

Top: Inside the Takuboku training hall. Middle: The coolest Zen man in Tokyo, Mr. Chijo Seko. Bottom: Outside view of Takuboku Zen Center.

Religion in the Japanese Classroom, 神鉛筆

2008-07-11T03:08:00.011-05:00

Every year the 3rd grade students at Washimiya's public junior high schools 鷲宮町立学校, along with the rest of Japan's junior high students, take a three day class trip to Kyoto 京都, the cultural capital of Japan that was once the capital of Japan. (For reference, Japanese junior high 3rd graders are the same age as a freshmen in American high schools.) Some of the students along with teachers who chaporoned the trip brought me back some great souvenirs.

By far, the most interesting of the souvenirs I recieved was a pencil. Not just any pencil, a special pencil sanctified by the Japanese god of scholarship, Tenjin 天神, who makes his home at Kyoto's famous Kitano-Tenmangu Shrine 北野天満宮.

This auspicious pencil should help the 3rd graders ace their upcoming high-stress high school entrance examinations; examinations that very well could determine the rest of their lives.

The pencil is part of a special academic combo package the shrine sells to visiting student groups looking for a little extra help with their exams. The 5,000 yen ($45) package includes a pencil and bookmark for each student in the class, plus a sanctified wooden tablet to hang at the front of the classroom so its blessings can rain down on the student's study-weary heads.

These pictures are from Ms. Hirano's homeroom class. On the right of the tablet is written the school's name: Washimiya Junior High 鷲宮中学校, and the left is written the class's name: 3rd grade class 2, 3年2組.

I'm not exactly sure how this thing works, hell, I'm not sure anyone really does, especially the students. I asked some them if they believed the tablet would help their test scores. While a few of them believed it would, most of the students were of the opinion that it sure couldn't hurt any.
Even though I don't follow Shinto, I am a pragmatist, and I think my pencil just might help me on a future test (maybe doctoral comps or teacher examinations?), and because the pencil is a high quality #2 Tombow *HB* I can use it on pesky fill-in-the-bubble answer sheets.

Whether the academic combo pack works or not, the very smart and business savoy shrine is making bank off these packages by appealing to traditional Japanese religious sensibilities and offering a dash of godly help to scared shitless students.

Most Japanese people "follow" Shinto 神道, the native religion of Japan that, in a nutshell (literally) holds that all beings, and I mean all beings are endowed with spirits 神; from ancient moss covered boulders to a your fresh out of the showroom new car. Of course you and I and other animals have spirits too.

There isn't a lot of literature about Shinto in the west and what little of it there is makes it all sound new-agey and fruit-loopy, like worshiping tress or dancing in the forest naked. But in reality, Shinto seems to function more as a cultural constant that organizes Japanese life. Gods really aren't worshipped but they are prayed to, and that's when it's nice there's a god just for your test scores!

Roll On Black Beast

2008-07-09T08:16:00.009-05:00

Two years ago when I came to Japan I weighed around 190 lbs. (86 kg), but thanks to healthy Japanese food and lots of exercise, I now weigh 156 lbs (71 kg):that's less than I weighed in high school. While practicing karate for 3 hours on a hot and humid summer day will shed the pounds quickly, I owe most of my new found health to the ugliest bicycle in the world.

I don't drive in Japan because there is really no need for me too. Washimiya is only 13 km (8 miles) wide and is serviced by two trains, both of which take me to Tokyo in less than an hour. Having a car would be a huge waste of money, especially since gas runs 180 yen a liter: 3.78 liters to a gallon @ 108 yen to the dollar = $4.10 a gallon. Ouch! I haven't filled up a tank or put my foot on the gas since last summer when I went back home for vacation.

My feet do push the pedals though. They push them a lot. One of my schools is about a 2 mile ride from my apartment one way, the nice train station is about a mile and half out, and the cheap supermarket is about 2 1/2 miles out. I'd say on an average day I ride at least 2 miles, some days it's upward to 4 or 5 miles, and that's just getting around. Shit, every now and then I'll put on some ZZ Top on the iPod and drag main on my black, fire-breathing stallion from Hell!

And so without further ado, here's the bad som' bitch I've been shedding the pounds and shredding the pavement with. Don't look at it too long or it might bite ya.

This monster boast only the bare essentials: what it lacks in gears it makes up for in tote baskets- perfect for the 2 mile return trip from the grocery store. The dim headlight is friction powered off the tire and doesn't illuminate anything; I use it so cars will see me at night, that's its only job, and it's an important one.

You've probably already noticed the custom reflector work. That's all me baby; from the double striped detailing on the frame post to the French-inspired design on the chain guard. Not to mention the single wraps on the ape-hanger handle bars with the long, smoothly curved brake lines crossing in the front. And don't miss how stealthly the umbrella hooks around the seat post and rests on the rear basket support assembly. Like silk bitch!

Bikes don't come off the lot like this in Japan. Nope, I've got blood, sweat, and tears invested in this mofo (not to mention routine maintenance, like putting a new chain on her and changing flats every 3 months).

I think my bike kicks-ass, though most Japanese people mock and ridicule it, calling it a "mama chari," or an "old woman bike" used for fetching groceries. I don't listen their chides though, after all, I need those baskets damn it. Besides, I've grown close to my bike. After riding it for 2 years straight it's gonna be hard going home to my restored Peugot 12 speed and V6 Dodge Ram. I've gotta keep riding though. I like saving money and I enjoy living healthy, both for me, and for mother earth, whose back my 26" rims roll on.

My Final Japanese Karate Tournament 吉川市空手大会:僕の最後日本の空手大会

2008-07-07T07:44:00.009-05:00

Yesterday I fought in my final karate tournament. The tournament was held in the extremely out-of-the-way city of Yoshikawa, which meant an early start for Taka, Uchi, Calum, and I. Taka and Uchi are fellow members of the Washimiya Karate Club and Calum was there to cheer us on and take some great pictures.

Over 220 people, most of them elementary students, participated in the tournament. Only about 15 people were able to make it from the Washimiya Dojo but I didn't feel that was a bad turn out. Along with Taka, Uchi, and I, Mr. Sugino also came and competed in the men's sparring event. Mr. Sugino is great because he practices karate alongside his 3rd grade son, who I should add holds a higher belt ranking. It's great when sports become a family affair.

In my kata (pretend fighting forms done to practice basic karate techniques) division their were almost 20 competitors, all of which were better than me. I was eliminated in the first round of heads-up demonstration.

Kata competitions are done differently in Japan than in the States. Back home, each person performs individually and is given a score when finished. In Japan however, two people perform simultaneously in a match and the judges choose a winner from the two of them. I like the Japanese way better because its easier to choose between 2 people at a time than 20 all at once. Another interesting part of the arrangement is that if you win, you are expected to perform a different kata for you next match/performance. Kata's must alternate so the judges don't get bored I guess, I don't know. I do know I only got to go one time and sit on my ass for the next 30 minutes watching the winners do the same two kata's over and over again.

After kata and lunch finished up is when the real fun started. I'm talking about the sparring baby! Unfortunately it was hot as hell inside the gym, and it got even hotter after strapping on body armor and a helmet.

Unlike the Washimiya tournament from 2 months ago, the Yoshikawa one allowed competitors to choose one of two types of sparring: sundome and bogu. Sundome is sparring like I did in Texas; you wear gloves and head gear and the focus is about striking fast and getting points. Bogu fighting, or fighting wearing the protective helmet and chest piece, or bogu, also focuses on getting points, but the blows must be powerful, precise, and intentional; did I mention POWERFUL already? Points are only awarded for delivering strong clean blows to the protected parts of the body. Bogu sparring gets pretty serious, and unfortunately, among the more macho testosterone driven crowd, it even becomes violent -- more like street fighting in a karate uniform.

I won my first match with a solid head kick (see above picture). I was riding high despite the heat and was ready to face my next opponent, the massive brick-wall-of-a-monster Imai-san. Imai-san is 21 and about 6'3" 200lbs. He beat Uchi during his first match and now it was my turn to give it a go.

At the Washimiya tournament I defeated Imai-san in the first round rather quickly. When I saw him earlier in the day yesterday we chatted a little. Here's what went down:
-Hey Imai, long time no see. How are you? 今井さん、元気ですか。

-I'm fine. I've been practicing to beat you since the last tournament. Today I'll get my revenge.　元気ですよ。ジャスティンとくに練習した、今日僕の復習をする予定だよ。

-Ok, let's do our best alright. (I didn't really know how to respond to that.)
うん、じゃ、頑張りましょう！

Well he beat me this time. He got his revenge I suppose. Then he went on and beat Taka to win first place. I ended up taking third in the sparring division, a result I wasn't happy with at all. What really chaps my hide is that I won't have a chance to get my revenge because I'm leaving Japan before the next tournament in September. I guess Uchi and Taka will have to get for me.

In the end I left the Yoshikawa with nothing but decent memories and great pictures. They didn't award me anything for my third place finish; only first and second took home certificates and medals. Damn it, I wanted another cool Japanese certificate to take back home with me. I'll have to be content with my runner-up certificate and trophy from the last tournament.

On the bright side, here's my good friend Taka proudly displaying his 2nd place certificate and silver medal. It was his first time to win an award so we were all happy for him.
Well done buddy! Keep it up!

And so ends my competitive karate career in Japan. I'll still go to practice until I leave, but I already miss the thrill of competition against different opponents.

I do look forward to continuing my karate back in the States, hopefully under a teacher who will appreciate my Japanese experiences and is sensitive to the rich culture that molded this amazing physical and spiritual practice.

For me, karate in Japan has been more about training my spirit and growing confident in myself than practicing kicks and punches. It's also been about the amazing friends I practice with. The ones that hit me and I hit back; my strongest friends I'll never forget: Uchi and Taka. They are family to this homeless American living uncertain in Japan. 本当に、本当に、ありがとうございます。
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Pictures: Top: 3 Brothers: Taka, Me, Uchi. 2: Uchi performing kata. 3: Me in my borrowed, mangled helmet. 4: Head shot gets the W. 5: Taka and spoils of victory. All photos shot by Calum, thanks for the memories I'll always have man.

Stone Passages to God, Nanjundeswari Temple pt. I

2008-07-02T07:42:00.011-05:00

On our fifth day in India, Calum and I were taken to the magnificent Hindu temple of Nanjundeswari, located in the Mysore countryside. Leaving the hustle and bustle of Mysore on the long, flat, rice paddy and palm tree lined roads, we drove into the unknown, past rusty sheet-metaled cigarette stands and roadside coconut peddlers, zooming by old tanned-black farmers riding on turquoise carts drawn behind bony cows with yellow painted horns, sweat glistening, asphalt flying.

Turn left, get off the highway and onto the rough washed out road that's been under construction for the past century with only another century to go until completion --a microcosm for India, constant construction with no end in sight, rubble everywhere, nothing is clean, everything is gritty.

The crowds ignored our car cutting into its on the way to the parking lot. People, animals, and what must've been half of the world's children wandered and laughed, bitched and bartered with each other. The temple gathers everyone alike, a motley swath of people, some seeking divine favor by rolling on their sides (Lotan Baba style) in circles around the temple's expansive border, others seeking money by selling trinkets that no could appreciate, many longing for darsan, the moment God is both seer and seen, the divine meeting where two become one and wisdom is passed to the faithful.

"You won't need your shoes," Sharath told us before stepping out of the car. My eyes burned just looking at the sun-baked asphalt my curling-in-terror-toes were about the tread. Only 100 yards to the temple gate. I ran like a kid from the changing room to the pool on a blistering summer day. A small pipe with holes cut in it bled a small stream of water to cool and cleanse the feet.

People looked at my white skin as I made my way through the elaborately carved courtyard centered around a large bull statue wreathed in fresh flowers of all colors. A carpet was spread in the open air courtyard marking the path into the main temple and granting respite to scorched soles. I walked through the place oblivious of my own difference and smiled at all who cast me strange glance, "I'm hear to see God too you know," and by god I'll be seen.

Stepping into the wide seemingly-sub-terranean shade of the corridors was awe inspiring. The columns of stone were massive but in perfect with the rest of the structure, which was massive too. All was stone: the cool dusty floor, the hard pillars worn smooth by countless hands' rubbings, the 6' tall carvings of Hindu pantheon, all of it stone and most it smudged with red, orange and yellow curry powder and dripping with candle wax.

The total effect of the scene made me feel I was wandering somewhere I shouldn't be; like I was about to come face to face with someone or something that would just as soon mutilate me as look at me. Something other lived in these man-made caverns, something not to be touched once carved. I knew that eventually, if I stayed in this place long enough I would have to see God, and even worse, be seen in return...

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Top: Front view of the amazing temple crown. Bottom: view of the temple courtyard and colorful Indian women. Video: never before seen footage of a stroll through Nanjundeswari Temple, Mysore India.

Spiritual Camaraderie

2008-06-25T06:55:00.012-05:00

While I was in Bangalore India I met one of the most selfless persons walking the earth. Sharath is young lawyer and family man and a devout Hindu. He stopped eating meat because of his convictions that all life is sacred and God is One. He reads from the Bhagavadgita and offers puja everyday. He speaks Truth and lives upright.

On the sixth day of our stay, Sharath drove Calum and I, along with his friend Sathiya and Uncle Prakesh to Mysore, the cultural and spiritual capital of southern India. During the one hour plus (a very big plus) trip the five of us talked about a little of everything, from the goldmine that is Indian real estate to American politics, all heavily seasoned with uncle Prakesh's blatantly off colored jokes about goats hearders, sex workers, and Panjabis.

I forget most of the jokes and I'm not extremely interested in Indian real estate, but what I won't forget is the camaraderie that developed between Sharath and I as we talked theologically about India's rich spiritual landscape. He told me of the gods' outrageous misadventures with adultery, child delivery, and warfare, not to mention incest, elephant heads, and universal goof ups. I've never met a person who knew so much about Hinduism and could communicate that knowledge so well.

As we visited various Hindu temples, Sharath would use the carvings to reveal his faith to me. When we visited an exiled Tibetan community and toured their temple I was able to share my knowledge of Buddhism with Sharath in return. We became spiritual brothers, though I'm certain I learned more from him than he learned from me.

I left India wanting to be a better person, not because of some moral code or fear of damnation; no. I wanted to be a person and improve my spiritual health because of Sharath's selfless example, which in a land obsessed with monetary profit and technological progress, soothes like fresh coconut juice.

New Directions in Portraiture

2008-06-23T07:31:00.011-05:00

This past Friday I got to see my good friend Calum's (Safely Framed) amazing painting titled "Inside Outsider."(click link for large veiw) Though I'm not exactly sure how he created the base sketch I know he used a picture he had taken one day in Harajuku's Yoyogi Park, see "Spring Day Boots." The final result is fresh and spirited, just the way art should be.

I had the privilege to see the piece take shape, from Mamiya photograph, to sketch, to paint, and finally to completion, as Calum took pictures of his progress after each of his work sessions. Watching a piece of art develop was a new experience for me as I'm used to only seeing finished pieces. It's a long process from conception to completion, gruelling at times. The piece is shaped by the artist and, simultaneously, shapes the artist in return. I've seen the piece shape Calum over the past month, making him a more self confident and inspired person.

Calum has rounded a corner with this piece. There is an energy to it and an immediacy that hooks the viewer. What is most appealing about the piece, I believe, is that it is both modern and classic at the same time: concrete abstract, the kind that doesn't let the subject get lost in the expression. In fact, as I had the insider privilege of being outside at the park that day, I can honestly say that the piece captures the lighthearted optimistic mood we all shared that early Spring day.

To check out more of Calum's (Safely Framed) work be sure visit his Flickr page. Excellent work C. -The piece hasn't helped your dart game any.

I'm a Pepper

2008-06-23T03:59:00.008-05:00

The Japanese do things differently than Americans; they use chopsticks, go shoeless inside the house, and eat properly. They also package nectar of the gods, aka Dr. Pepper, differently; really differently. Check out the vixen to the left of the Dr. Pepper logo. You're looking at the wrapper from a 500 ml (16 oz.) bottle of Japanese DP. That tatooed tart ain't too bad looking, and what a way to be served a soda!

Dr. Pepper isn't very popular in Japan. I can count on one hand the number of places where I can get a DP, which stands in sharp contrast to my home state of Texas, perhaps the only state in the union where Dr. Pepper is more popular than Coke. I don't like Coke.

This wrapper really blows me away. There a ton of differences like this all over Japan. It's really cool to see the products I love from back home re-packaged to suit the Japanese market. Hell, I wish the DP bottles back home were this cool looking, hell, Dr. Pepper needs mascot instead of those damn maroon shirts. Let Coke have the endangered CGI polar bear family, I'll take a big bosomed sexy blonde haired minx in pink stockings and little else any day!