the nights are getting strange

OK, so I'm administering a final exam, and just now, outside the classroom door, I hear steps that sound JUST LIKE the steps that open The Cars' "Since You're Gone." How cool is that???

socially inept people

Spent the weekend scoring some 200+ English Placement Tests. The EPT is a writing exam that students who plan to enter the California State University system must take to be placed in the proper first year English course.

There was a dearth of howlers this time around, but here are a few. (The prompt basically asked students to indicate whether they were for or against same-sex public education):

"How in God's name are you going to get two socially inept people to procreate?"

For maelstrom = "malestorm"

"Chicks over dicks! Bros over Hos!"

"Girls rule, boys drool."

And my favorite, one astute thinker explained that same-sex schools were sure to "erect homosexuals." Well, that goes without saying, no?

Hopefully during the May exam, we'll get more laughs per hour. The scoring is a three day marathon in Concord, CA (East Bay, kind of). John and I ended up having a couple of enjoyable meals with another Jon--this one a Jonathan from CSU, Sacramento--at Turkish and Mexican restaurants. During breaks, the CSU faculty complained bitterly about the astoundingly corrupt and unresponsive CSU administration. My sense is that morale among the faculty hasn't been this low in a very long time. Still, it was good to commiserate with other mistreated CSU faculty.

last nite

Went to see the El Olio Wolof/Rademacher show at Full Circle Brewing Co. last night. This is a great venue for live music, and their beers are good too. First up was Uni and her Ukelele. (That's pronounced you-knee, as in short for unicorn.) Frilly panties over green tights and various layers of other random articles of clothing served as Uni's costume. She looks like she would simply be a novelty act, but the songs are solid, her voice good, and she finds her roots in the likes of Dolly Parton. In fact she performed a medley of Parton tunes toward the end of her set. Uni'scover of Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark" was particuarly good.

Next up was El Olio Wolof, a Merced band about which I'd heard many good things, so I was eager to see them. They didn't at all disappoint. EOW includes three men and two women--all seemingly so different from one another that you wonder how they all met, much less formed a band. One plays a snazzy accordion, and for a moment I fantasized about becoming an accordionist myself. Their sound is hard to pin down--at once mellow and compelling, accessible, yet weird. I picked up their ep, so I'm happy to start listening to them and perhaps playing them at KFSR.

Bodies of Water performed next. These guys had a lot of work to do to keep the crowd's interest. The audience had gone pretty much wild over EOF, so by the time these unknowns (to Fresno) started up, everyone had gone up to the bar and was in socialize mode. On top of this, one of the guitarist's strings broke during the first song, so the organist pleaded with the audience for a six-string guitar. "Is that too much to ask?" she said. These guys were perhaps the oddest of the bunch, but I really appreciated the strange vocals. They somehow reminded me of Animal Collective, a band I've begun to appreciate a lot over the past several months.

One of my favorite Fresno bands, Rademacher, was up next. But I'd seen these guys perform several times before, so John and I headed over to the Red Lantern for Meatball Madness. Here I boogied until one a.m., enjoying the 80s and 80s-inspired song sets by some of the funnest kids in Frenso. Many of them happen to be my students, which is always a little odd, but I have a good time, nonetheless. If you ever happen to be in Fresno on the first and/or third Fridays of the month, be sure you head over to the Lantern for a night of demented dance.

Poor John: I kept him up so late and he has a big day of Rogue Festival planning and preparation ahead of him, but we are going to finally celebrate Valentine's Day this evening at one of our favorite restaurants, Senses. A belated Happy V-Day to you all!

i love these friends of mine

So last summer I decided I would, on a regular basis (ha!), dedicate a post to a downloadable song that I'm particularly fond of. Many of you enjoyed the Jonathan Coulton track (see below), and I hope you've been visiting his website, where you can find his Things of the Week. These are musical musings that he posts on, yes, a weekly basis. My favorites have been "W's Duty" and his cover of Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back."

One song that I listened to over and over last year--and which made its way onto a number of mix cd's I made for friends--is Marianne Faithfull's "My Friends Have" off her 2005 release, Before the Poison. The album is very solid; she collaborates with the likes of PJ Harvey, Nick Cave, Damon Albarn, and Jon Brion. "My Friends Have" is a work penned by PJ Harvey, who accompanies Faithfull on this track. Yet, even though this is unmistakably a Harvey composition, Faithfull makes it all her own, infusing the lyrics with her trademark rasp. The lyrics are surprisingly upbeat for a song that, I believe, is written in a minor key. "You're a friend of mine / I love these friends of mine," Faithfull sings. But listen to the way that Faithful enunciates the words "friend" and "friends": she growls the word, allowing her lips and teeth to tear into the letters "fr" with a sensibility that may suggest desperation, gusto, or irony. But then, at nearly the two minute mark, the drums, bass, and backing vocals subside, Faithfull shifts up a register, and, with a strained fragility, she acknowledges that "my friends have / always been there / to help me change my / crooked features." Her voice perfectly sets off the edgy, gravelly guitar which strums its two chord refrain throughout the song. Meanwhile Harvey's rich backing vocals provide a heartfelt backdrop and, at times, a soaring sense of gratitude and hope. This is a song which convinces you of the importance of friendship, even as it complicates this notion through the roughing up friendship receives from Faithfull and Harvey's unusual treatment of the topic. This is no greeting card doggerel on the virtues of companionship; this is a consideration of friendship in all its complexity.

You can download the song here, off the Anti- label website. You can learn more about Faithfull and her latest release here.

on the radio

Today was my radio day. Not all of you know this, but for the past several months I've been a DJ for the CSU Fresno radio station, KFSR. My monker is DJ Prof, and I'm on from noon to three on Wednesdays. This afternoon I blessed my listeners with a handpicked 2005 retrospective, playing some of the bestest tunes of this past year. Head over to the website and check out my playlists. (OK, you can look at the other DJ's playlists to, if you want.) You can also stream the show live and listen to me over your tinny little computer speakers. Want to make a request? Call your pilot of the airwaves at 559-278-4082. But remember, when you hear me on the air, I'm not so likely to pick up the phone and start chatting. Call me at the beginning of a song.

false alarm

OK, so maybe the good luck did set in. The blue-screen-of-death scare that I wrote about yesterday has dissipated. My old laptop is working properly, but just to be sure I'm backing up all my files--including the 30 gigs worth of music I have on my hard drive. Turns out that it had to do with my very temperamental wireless card. I just popped it out of the one card slot and stuck it in the other, and--voila!--no blue screen of death. This isn't to say that I don't need a new computer. I always need brand new, shiny electronics, so I'll take your advice, lecram, and troll tiger direct.

This afternoon John and I went to see the new Harry Potter flick. Not the least bit disappointing, although the poor actress who plays Hermione is still struggling with her furrowed brows and fed up harrumphs. The boys who play Harry and Ron are really getting good, however. I think my favorite scene was the one in which Moaning Myrtle joins Harry for a bubble bath. And did anyone guess that that was Jarvis Cocker heading up the band at the ball?

my stupid laptop

Well, the Hoppin' John tasted good, but I'm not sure it had the desired effect. All evening my laptop has been victim to the formidable blue screen of death. And this problem cycles in a loop, for just as the icons on my desktop begin to appear after starting up my computer, a blue screen with a lot of text--important information, I presume--appears for a split second, and then the computer begins rebooting itself. This loop would go on endlessly if I didn't intervene with the mighty F8 key. It's this sort of behavior that makes me loath Windows and Dell and Intel and anything remotely associated with the PC. I then yearn for an apple computer--like the one that John has and that I'm using to create this very post--a computer with a reputation for working properly, a computer that isn't prone to incessant crashes, a computer that has no idea what a blue screen of death is. And while it is true that I need to send the old lapdog off to its final reward, I can't afford any sort of computer, much less the ever pricey apple brands. I've flirted with going apple before, but whenever I seriously begin to contemplate the change, I just can't get beyond my petit bourgeois sensibilities, and I tell myself that I can get so much more computer for so much less if I stick with wintel. This is an ongoing dilemma; just ask John. But now it's off to pricing ultra-lite laptops with ultra-huge hard drives.

i'm back!

Yes, it's been an eternity, but here's to new year's resolutions! I'm trying to be a better blogger, even when my needy students tempt me into holding office hours, preparing for class, and grading papers. First things first, and I'm numero uno these days!

Today is the first of the new year, and in our family, that means making Hoppin' John. Hoppin' john is a traditional southern dish consisting of, at a minimum, black-eyed peas, collard greens, and corn bread. I grew up on beans made with a ham hock, but in a vegetarian kitchen, that's not a possibility, so I make Deborah Madison's vegetarian version, a recipe I'm happy to reproduce for you right here:

Southern Style Black-Eyed Peas

2 Tbsp. safflower or olive oil
1 Tbsp. butter
1 onion, diced
1 small green pepper, finely diced
1 celery rib, finely diced
3 bay leaves
1/2 tsp. dried thyme
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 tsp. ground allspice
1/2 tsp. ground chipotle chile or red-pepper flakes
2 cups fresh or 1 cup dried black-eyed peas
1 quart water or vegetable stock
Salt

Heat the oil and butter in a saucepan or soup pot over medium heat. Add the onion, pepper, celery, bay leaves, thyme, and garlic. Cook for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, then add allspice and chile and cook for a few minutes more. Add the peas and water. bring to a boil and simmer, partially covered for 40 minutes. Add 2 tsps. salt and cook for 20 minutes more or until peas are tender. Serve with or without the broth.

--from Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone

Eating this dish on the first day of the year is suppoosed to bring you good luck throughout the year. And now I'm off to make it. Happy New Year, everyone!

even my henchmen think i'm crazy

I've been thinking about dedicating some posts to cool (and legal) music I've discovered through my roaming the net, so here goes.

A few months back I discovered a song by Jonathan Coulton that has become my own little summer hit. The title of the track is "Skullcrusher Mountain," and it features a lovely, upbeat melody and Coulton's smooth, rich vocals. Coulton sings in an alt-country vein--somewhat like a less depressed Richard Buckner--and when the chorus hits, the music swells and his voice climbs the scale in a dramatic and moving wail. The melody is so catchy that you won't be able to stop humming it. I loved the track at first listen, but it wasn't until the second or third time I played it that I began to pay attention to the lyrics. At the end of the chorus, Coulton croons,

"If you could find some way to be
A little bit less afraid of me
You’d see the voices that control me from inside my head
Say I shouldn’t kill you yet."

And the way Coulton intones "I shouldn't kill you yet," you might, if you're not paying attention, easily assume he's uttering something along the lines of "And she doesn't love me yet."

Soon you realize that the song is sung from the point of view of a mad scientist whose victim is being held at Skullcrusher Mountain against her will. He tries to win her love by giving her disturbing gifts ("What's with all the screaming?"), and with chilling calm he notes that "this mountain is covered with wolves / Hear them howling, my hungry children / Maybe you should stay and have another drink and think about me and you."

It's a love song for the ages! And it's a fiercely infectious tune that, unlike all those other tunes that creep into your head and won't leave, makes for fine mental company while you are fixing a blank stare at the boss/student/coworker who hasn't noticed your glassy, unfocused eyes. Give it a hear; you can download it here. Let me know what you think.

(The above link should allow you to download the song directly, but Coulton asks bloggers to direct traffic to his site, as well. So go here to read his blog and learn more about his recordings.)

moogy blues

I start teaching classes tomorrow. Am I ready? That would be a resounding NO! Think happy thoughts between the hours of 10 & 12 and 2 & 4.

My little sister started her blog today. I'm so proud of her. Blog, Polly, blog!

Robert Moog died yesterday.

stoney end

Last night we celebrated Charlie's birthday at his and Roxane's new pad (which they've decorated beautifully, by the way). After cake and ice cream, many of us headed down to Tokyo Garden for karaoke. TG is the first place I ever sang karaoke some few years ago: my stab was at Hank Williams' "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry," and then I warbled what has apparently become my signature karaoke number, Laura Nyro's "Stoney End." I don't think I've ever actually heard Nyro sing the song, but growing up, our family collected and listened to many of Barbra Streisand's albums (now aren't a great number of things about me beginning to become clear?), and one of these was her 1971 release, Stoney End. This is the only version I know.

The album art is terrific: La Streisand sits atop a bordello-red antique sofa in the bed of a decrepit red pickup, which appears to have broken down at--you guessed it--road's stoney end. Streisand looks both pissed off and forlorn, huddled in some black gauzy wrap and staring at the viewer, whom she appears to blame for her predicament.

Stoney Endmay be Streisand's best album. Her earlier efforts established her formidable vocal stylings, and she proved more than capable to subdue broadway numbers and torch songs to her to her signature belt. She ahd turned "Happy Days Are Here Again" into a slow, haunting melody that evoked almost every emotion but happiness, and wowed audiences with her powerhouse performances of numbers like "Don't Rain on My Parade." Later efforts include disco dabllings and a slough of ill-advised duets. (Remember that one with Don Johnson?) But with Stoney End, she proved herself capable of taking on singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell, Randy Newman, Gordon Lightfoot, and Carole King, who were then dominating the early seventies airwaves. Although not a songwriter herself, Streisand made these songs her own, and as you listen to Stoney End, you can easily forget that these were anything other than Streisand standards. In any case, the album is a collection of beautifully arranged and executed songs, with only a couple of poor choices toward the end.

But the highlight is the title track. Streisand isn't particularly convincing as a young woman "born from love," whose "poor mother worked the mines." Not does she sound like the type "raised on the good book Jesus." But she embodies a spirit of female liberation as well as any early seventies chanteuses, as she describes how "the fury and the broken thunder's come to match my raging soul." And when she sings the last instance of the chorus--"Mama let me start all over / Cradle Me Mama / Cradle Me Again"--she evokes both ferocity and helplessness. But as the chorus fades, you can imagine her jumping out of the bed of her truck and working her way across the desert expanse that begins at the road's stoney end.

The song is rife with camp value, and perhaps that is one of the reasons I find it so appropriate for karaoke. But even more importantly, I think that my vocal range encompasses most of it, and so it works as well as any karaoke number could for someone as tuneless as myself. So, on that dimly lit stage at Tokyo Garden last night, I did my best to go follow Ms. Streisand down the stoney end (the bar--with only three denizens beside ourselves--was itself a sort of stoney end). Given the rotten day I'd had up to that point, it seemed like the right road to take. Thanks to those of you who suffered through my rendition. Thanks for going down the stoney end with me, even though you never wanted to go, Mama. You never wanted to go.

all hail the hall of records

I have dealt with more than my share of hellish bureaucracy, and I'm sure you feel that you have, as well. Dealing with that shit drives me mad. But I have to give some snaps to those very humane humans at the Fresno County Hall of Records.

You see, recently I found myself needing to correct a mistake involving property taxes on our new house. Last year when we bought our lovely little home, I was very clear in requesting an impound account to cover the home insurance and property taxes. Little did I know that my mortgage broker--who in every other respect was exemplary--would flub up this simple request. It wasn't until earlier this summer that I evidence of this problem arrived in the form of a delinquent bill for the 2004-05 taxes on the home. (Previous bills had been sent to the previous owners.) In any case, I have been visiting and writing the folks at the F C H of R, and in every instance they have been helpful and informative. An example: because the taxes on the property were overdue, $200 in late penalties had accrued. But when I explained the series of mistakes that led to my having to pay the taxes late, the F C H of R folks readily waived the late fees.

Today I paid my last installment, and I needed a receipt for the payment so that I could get the impound account started with my current mortgagee. Even though my check had not yet cleared for the second payment (bwahahahaha...), the H of R people provided me with a document indicating that my taxes have been paid in full.

So I'm giving a shout out to the Fresno County Hall of Records. Thanks, guys. You've turned what I was certain would be a nasty experience into a rather painless one. The only injury I've sustained is to my checking account, but hey, that sucker has survived much worse than this. Sometimes you should ask my checking account to show you his scars.

two person army

Friday night I saw the White Stripes perform at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. I was more or less unaware of the Stripes until SPIN magazine named Elephant the best album of 2003. I went out and got it, and was pretty blown away. I picked up their new album a couple months ago, and have been grooving to it, too. Still, I haven't really considered myself a serious Stripes fan.

The show was magnificent. White is mesmerizing as he struts around the stage, singing into a variety of differently placed microphones. He first appeared in a black costume reminscent of a 19th-century snakeoil salesman, but soon shed the overcoat and hat and sported a tight red t-shirt and black flared trousers. He alternated instruments, playing at least two different guitars, marimba, and piano. He milks his guitars for every ounce of sound he can squeeze, and his voice is a consumate rocker screech-and-wail. A typical complaint about the Stripes is that they have no bass player. But White plays bass and guitar--at the same time, and on the same intstrument. At times his voice recalls Robert Plant. Despite his costume (which he shed fairly early on in the show), Jack isn't prone to visual theatrics; his movement is controlled and measured. But his voice evokes plenty of drama.

But for me the real show stopper was Meg White on drums. Meg is often dismissed as a non-drummer--the less-than-kind argue that she can't drum at all, while those more generous are apt to charcterize her as a naïf. It is true that there is a primal quality to her drumming, not so far afield from the great Moe Tucker's pounding when she was drummer for The Velvet Underground. But Meg seems completely in control of herself, and, at times, of Jack, as well. She falls into a trance-like state in which she sways back and forth and flings her long hair back and forth across her face. Only occasionally does she seem to make eye contact with Jack, and when she does, she seems to be inviting a show down with her bandmate.

Our group included four straight men and a set of traveling binoculars, whose primary function was to close in on Meg's impressive rack. Now I'm not a tits man, but Meg's breasts are noteworthy, and her drumming only accentuates their amplitude. Even when her bongos aren't bouncing along with her drumsticks, however, Meg exudes sexuality. The simple motion of her hip moving up and down as she pumped her kick drum is saturated with eroticism. She created her own world with her beats, and I couldn't help but wish I could enter it with her. Watching her work her kit, and given the appreciative reception she received by the men in our group, I wondered why there aren't more women drummers.

The Stripes played all the tunes I'd hoped they would, including the singular covers of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" and Burt Bachrach's "I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself." The rest of the tunes ranged from the sweet ditty, "We're Going to be Friends" to the driving rock of "Blue Orchid." The Stripes cover a lot of territory, musically and sonically, and I was convinced that they are one of the great bands recording right now. If you get the chance to see them, take it. It will be the sort of show you can tell your envious kids grandkids about years from now.

hangin in myspace

I've been seduced by yet another online community. Myspace.com is a place where people who are either too lazy or too dim or both (like myself) to learn how to make a proper web page can create a personal profile with photos, a list of interests, a blog, and other features. You make "friends" in this cybervillage, and then you make comments about one another. From what I've seen so far, the comments tend to be pithy and cryptic. With the help of third-party software, myspace denizens can decorate their cyber-pads. So here's mine. Go for it. You know you want to.

By the way, surely you've noticed the way that everything related to computers and the Internet is becoming increasingly possessive in nature. The word my now precedes just about anything related to my computer. I save music files in a folder labeled My Music, while photos are stored in My Pictures, both of which are stored in My Documents. Everything is, of course, organized on My Computer. When I surf the web, I navigate to myspace, or My Yahoo!, or, to check anything related to my work, to myfresnostate.com. All this territoriality seems a little excessive; aren't we protesting a bit too much? Is the ownership of anything on my computer somehow disputable? Do I have to be reminded that the Yahoo portal page I see when I open my browser is mine? And how is it mine? I suppose the age of digital information has forced us to realize that issues of possession and self-possession are very cloudy. What we own and who we are are very much up for grabs. Perhaps this my-mania collective self-delusion: an attempt to continue to believe that we are self-contained individuals who can exert a measure of control over ourselves and all that surrounds us.

Or maybe my is just a catchy, cute prefix to all things cyber.

R.I.P. Barbara Bel Geddes

Barbara Bel Geddes was certainly best known for her potrayal of Miss Ellie, the matriarch of the Ewing clan on the 80s TV series Dallas. But she was also one of the best things about Alfred Hitchcock's 1958 film Vertigo. In the film Bel Geddes plays Margaret "Midge" Wood, the plaintalking, upbeat, and pragmatic friend to Jimmy Stewart's Detective Scottie Ferguson. A police officer on leave, Ferguson has recently suffered a traumatic near-death from a rooftop while chasing a criminal, and he suffers from the psychological malady that provides the film with its title. Midge tries to helps Scottie overcome his fear of heights and becomes alarmed and jealous when Scottie becomes obsessed with a mysterious blond named Madeleine Elster. Midge drives Scottie away when she paints a parodic self-portrait of herself posing as Scottie's mystery woman. If my memory serves me, her last scene in the film is when she brings soothing music to Scottie, who has suffered a complete nervous collapse and is recovering in a mental institution. In this scene she demonstrates her loyalty and attempts to atone for her insensitive joke.

Critics have warmed up to Vertigo since its initial appearance. Apparently it was neither a critical nor a commercial success, and it was only nominated for two academy awards: for sound and art direction. Over the years it has ascended movie critics' collective best ever lists, and one year, I recall it supplanted Citizen Kane as the best film ever made, according to one list. (These days I think The Godfather has become the new best-ever.)

Vertigo is a good movie, but I think it is better-suited to theoretical analysis than to watching again and again for sheer enjoyment's sake. North by Nothwest, Psycho, and Rear Window all strike me as better Hitchcock films. This is partly because of the film's ponderous quality--it's pretty damn long--but also because of Kim Novak's lead performance. Her take on the dual roles of Elster and Judy Barton is melodramatic, and the film demands much swooning, lip-chewing, and hysteria of both Madeleine and Judy. Still, Novak doesn't infuse these characters which much nuance, playing the sentimental heroines with a large dose of drama, but with too small a range.

Midge, on the other hand, is a much more developed character, even though she enjoys only a fraction of the screen time that Novak gets. In the scene where Scottie coldly chides Midge for painting the parodic picture, Bel Geddes finishes the scene with an utterly convincing fit of self-loathing: "stupid, stupid, stupid!" she says in self-recrimination, giving Midge a very different quality than her otherwise stereotypical role as chipper sidekick. I think it's the most moving scene in the film. And Scottie's cruel treatment of Midge in this scene evinces those darker qualities in the hero that will become central to the film's climax--is Scottie a victim of circumstance and others' machinations? or is he an impetuous, overly passionate man whose obsessions inevitably hurt those he should love?

I've seen Vertigo many times (it served as a textbook example of psychoanalytical and feminist film analysis in the graduate courses I took), and while I'm sure she was excellent as Ellie Mae (I never got into Dallas), I'll remember her as Midge.

Bel Geddes died Monday of lung cancer; she was 82. According to the AP obituary, she was nominated for an academy award for best supporting actress in 1948's I Remember Mama, and she was the first Maggie the Cat on Broadway in Tennessee Williams' Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

under the banner of heaven

First off, thanks to Joel, Lelly, and Airplaynejayne for their recommendations for not-too-hot-to-produce taste treats. I will try them all. I think you're on to something with your recipe, Miss Jayne. Perhaps you should start your own cooking show.

Last night I wimped out again, and John and I ended up at Los Panchos, a nearby Mexican restaurant I had yet to try out. (This Los Panchos is on King's Canyon, not to be confused with the Los Panchos on Fulton Mall, downtown). Apart from the really sweet server who was desperate to refill our drinks, what most impressed me was the amount and variety of food you get there. For example, I ordered the combo no. 1, which features a shredded beef taco, an enchilada, and a chile relleno. Normally these sorts of entrees are served with the usual rice and beans, as was this dish. But on top of rice and beans, Los Panchos provides you a scoop each of chile verde and chile colorado! This is my kind of combo plate! I'll be back for more of the same at Los Panchos--located in the FoodMaxx shopping center on King's Canyon Rd., just east of Chestnut--let me tell you!

Saturday night entailed a lovely barebecue in Cindy Loo Who's pleasant, green backyard. We had to leave early, however, to catch Much Ado about Nothing, the first show in the first season of Fresno's summer Shakespeare festival in Woodward Park. I read Lecram's review of the performance, and I pretty much concur: snaps for getting this thing going, so onward and upward, people.

But what's really been absorbing my every free moment for the past few days is Jon Krakauer's book, Under the Banner of Heaven. This is the creepiest, page-turningest, and most affecting book I've read in a long time. The book tells the story of the Lafferty brothers of Provo, Utah, who murdered their sister-in-law and neice in 1984 to fulfill a "removal" revelation that the elder Lafferty had received some few months earlier. Krakauer goes on to suggest that the Laffertys--who had been swayed by arcane and Fundamentalist Mormon (i.e., polygamous) doctrines--are products of a culture whose history is steeped in violence and revenge, antagonism toward the laws of the U.S., and a narcissistic tendency toward seeing oneself as the Lord's chosen, "the one and the mighty." That culture would be Mormonism more generally.

I was raised Mormon, and my ancestors include members of the early LDS church who crossed the plains and settled Utah in the mid-ninteenth century. Some were polygamists: one ancestor, Dominicus Carter, a man who helped to establish the city of Provo, had eight wives and fifty-one children. Shortly after serving a mission in and around Santiago, Chile, I left the church for two reasons. Firstly, I was coming to grips with the fact that I am gay, and the LDS church doesn't provide much consolation for its lesbian and gay members. In fact, it wasn't long before I came out at Brigham Young University that lesbian and gay students were given electroshock and other forms of aversion therapy to eradicate their homosexual thoughts and desires. Secondly, I was simply tired of trying to reconcile so much of what I felt was inconsistent and wrong-headed about Mormon doctrine. I had decided that there were more important uses of my intellectual energies than endlessly worrying whether playing with face cards or drinking Coca-Cola were sinful activities.

My split with the church was initially painful--I was somewhat of a relgious zealot throughout my childhood and teens--but I eventually moved past the pain and the anger and into a more balanced relationship to Mormonism. It's what I'm from, but not what I am.

Krakauer's book roiled those placid waters of self-acceptance by making me think about myself, my family, and the Mormon communities I grew up in, in light of what I was learning about these Lafferty brothers and their ilk. On the one hand, the church is very clear about fundamentalist Mormonism: it's wrong, and you can be excommunicated for believing in or setting yourself up as an alternative prophet, for practicing polygamy, or even for delving too deeply into the murky historical and theological waters that make up much of Mormonism's fascinating history. Faithful Mormon historians have been excommunicated for merely publishing information that the Church leaders find in any way threatening or faith-shaking. Still, Krakauer makes a persuasive case that the history and doctrines shared both mainstream Mormonism and Fundamentalist Mormonism are the sorts of ideas and beliefs that make the Lafferty brothers--along with the child-loving polygamists on the Arizona Strip; and Elizabeth Smart's abductors; and those who currently believe in setting up a city of God at the base of the much prophesied about Dream Mine in Salem, Utah--had recourse to when deciding to kill Brenda and Erica Lafferty in the summer of 1984.

The LDS church's strict policy of secrecy and selectiveness when it comes to Mormon history goes some way to explain the motivations and activities of such "fringe" types. Now, some of the historical details that Krakauer includes in his book have long been disputed. But much of what I learned in the book was completely new to me. My version of LDS church history has largely been the sanctioned version, and I'm fascinated--and disturbed--to learn that the account of Joseph Smith finding and translating the Book of Mormon that I learned while going to sunday school and BYU is woefully incomplete and skewed. Turning page after page of Under the Banner of Heaven, I kept telling myself, "I had no idea just how weird this religion is!" But that weirdness isn't necessarily frightening or repugnant. It's fascinating. If Mormons were simply allowed to learn about and assess their fascinating past, would disgruntled members like the Lafferty brothers find the need to establish their own much more fundamentalist and frightening versions of God's one and only true church?

Clearly, the book has given me a lot to think about. Most importantly, I feel the need to reassess what it means to have been Mormon or to have come from a Mormon background. And strangely, while I read the book, I found myself almost nostalgic for Mormonism, drawn to the weird religion and culture I so resolutely abanoned fifteen years ago. Not that I'm dying to go to church again (although a web search helped me learn that I live in the Fresno First Ward.) The places, people, and yet, even some of the events, that Krakauer describes are so familiar to me. I know this stuff, and, for better or for worse, I emerged from it.

And a final word on fundamentalism more generally: I don't get it. Riffing off what Krakauer confesses to at the end of Heaven, I may not know from whence I came or what will happen to me after death. I don't understand why bad things happen to good people, and I can't imagine what purpose, if any, our lives on this earth have. But I'm still having a pretty good time here. I can deal with the uncertainty. And the uncertainty is not only bearable, it's good. It sure beats absolute assurance and all the arrogance that comes with it.

toss it like it's hot, toss it like it's hot

Last night I made a meal for the first time in weeks. This heat wave has got me keeping a healthy distance from the kitchen stove, but I was just too tired of eating burritos and burgers. Both John and I were pleased with the results. Here is the recipe:

Pasta Salad with Feta and Snow Peas

1 lb. fusilli (or other short pasta)
4 oz. snow peas (destringed and sliced diagonally into 1/2 inch strips)
1 yellow bell pepper, cored, seeds removed, and cut into 1/2 inch dice
2 scallions, thinly sliced
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro
1 cup crumbled feta cheese (about 4 oz.)
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons white-wine vinegar
1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground pepper

Cook the pasta in boiling, salted water, per package directions. Add snow peas during the last minute of cooking. Drain the pasta and the peas, and rinse in cold water. Combine all the ingredients in a large bowl, and toss to combine. Add Serve at room temperature or chilled.

I got the recipe from the ever-trustworthy Everyday Food magazine, which I have been subscribing to and cooking from for some time now. I have even gone to eBay to purchase early issues that I've missed.

Anyway, if you have any great summertime recipes for meals that require a minimal amount of interaction with either the stovetop or the oven, then pass 'em along.

Re: the Bread and Butter Pickles post from last week.
My friend Kathryn contributes the following to the name debate:

My mom says that she always called them bread and butter pickles because one should eat them on sandwiches. I'm not buying it.

Perhaps. But I'm thinking, if you can't trust Kathryn's Mom, who can you trust? Yet one more reason I plod through this baffling world, beset with fear and trembling...

groovy chair

So John and I are eating breakfast at Al's--Fresno's hands down best breakfast joint--and I mention that I need to get a new office chair: something simple, made of wood. Over his plate of incomparable pancakes, John suggests we hit a thrift store on the way home, and over my plate of exquisite chicken fried steak and eggs, I concur.

We hit a new spot on Cedar--across from the Cedar Lanes bowling alley. I can't remember the name, but I think that the word "Veterans" is part of it. The place is cavernous, crowded, and a little unkempt. The furniture corner is sparsely populated, but then I spy it: the groovy chair. It's modern with a curved, oval shaped back and a woven textile seat. It has a sad sack companion--missing a rail, and sporting some ill-conceived drilled holes in the legs--so I take just the better-preserved specimen and part with a paltry $4.27

Back at home, I hammer some easily-applied, felt-covered gliders into the legs (gotta protect the hardwood floors), and give it a test sit. Lovely. Groovy. I'm grooving in its groove right now.

pickles

My friend Kathryn and I spent the day canning bread and butter pickles using Kathryn's grandmother's secret recipe. And apparently it is a secret--Kathryn's forebears are less than forthcoming about the quantities and kinds of ingredients necessary to making these bad boys. K. was dead set on using alum--something I've not used--so we'll see. Alum straight out of the container is the nastiest thing I've had in my mouth for a long time. I felt as though my tongue were covered in hair. Supposedly the alum makes the pickles crunchier. We'll see...

In any case, they look beautiful (those in the above picture are not ours; ours are even more dashing), and we plan to enter them into the Big Fresno Fair. So watch for out names in the papers as we rake in the big SEVEN DOLLAR first prize in the bread and butter pickle category!

I'm Goofy

So I'm reading some back posts on airplanejayne's blog, and I discovered that she is Peter Pan. I take the test and discover that I am...

You scored as Goofy.
Your alter ego is Goofy! You are fun and great to be around, and you are always willing to help others. You arn't worried about embarrassing yourself, so you are one who is more willing to try new things.
Goofy 88% The Beast 81% Peter Pan 69% Ariel 63% Donald Duck 63% Sleeping Beauty 63% Cinderella 63% Snow White 63% Pinocchio 56% Cruella De Ville 25%

I've always identified most with Piglet, but, hey, I'll take Goofy. At least I'm not Bambi's mother.