All's Well that Roswell.

As a youngen', I used to love when my relatives got together and talked about times they saw UFOs. This happened to my family a lot more than should be possible and their stories of sightings used to fascinate me and spook me at the same time. There was nothing like getting mysterious, immortal feelings from the thought that life existed elsewhere and my family witnessed it! 

I carried this fascination with me throughout high school and when reading Whitley Strieber's Communion, I couldn't wait until the day I was abducted and studied. I knew I'd be chosen.  That is why, when I met a gorgeous woman who worked the counter at Estee Lauder, I thought my time had finally come. This model-could-be used to tell me that she was from another planet and was here on Earth to study humans so she could have a better understanding of how her species evolved as they did. I was happy when she'd take me to lunch and tell me about her latest return to her home planet and about the multiple scientists who were here with her taking notes on our kind.  I wanted to know, sincerely, what they were learning.

Years passed and my fascination of alien beings was traded in for an obsession with academics (another species that seem to be from another planet). I haven't thought about this alien fetish until yesterday, when my father and I drove to pick up my truck at a repair shop. He started talking about this cool film he saw called Roswell and how it was fictionalized truth or honest fiction -- he couldn't recall. The point was, while I was heading towards a steep indentation to my bank account - the truck - he was unraveling all that excitement I had as a young kid.
And then he raised the index finger of his right hand, which was a glowing, bright ball of red. He looked at me and said, "ouch" and I freaked out. Actually, no. That didn't happen, but how cool would it be if it did? I wouldn't be a son of a Butch, but I could be a son of Wutch, from the planet Woocha cha. But not today. Nope.  No abduction.  No strange lights in the sky.  Only the fact that my middle name is Ripley, the same name as Sigourney Weaver's character in Alien.

Yesterday was Sundae

My brother-in-law, Mike, and I are tele-pathetic and it is amazing how we can read minds four miles away. Because yesterday was the sabbath, a divine intervention overtook me and said, 'Call, Mike. It's an ice cream night.'

As soon as Mike answered I could hear his grumbling. He was slurping on an ice-pop and was not getting satisfied. "No frickin' way," he exclaimed, "I was just thinking the same way."

In a matter of two minutes we were on our way to Big Dip for, perhaps, our last hot fudge Sundae of the season. They close down on Wednesday and their supplies are short - they were out of waffle cones, for instance.

Even so, we got our treats and I even got extra fudge on my cookie-dough. Yo! If that doesn't bring happiness, I don't know what else will!

Some things Never change.

On a rainy, gray and sleepy day, my sisters and I all met at Elderwood homes to visit my lame mother (not that she's lame, but she's in repair from knee surgery). It isn't easy for my sisters and I to be together in unusual situations because they put words in my mouth and interpret my behavior in all the wrong ways. Then they start laughing and get mad at me AS IF I'm the bad guy. 

This has always happened. During funerals, weddings, or even strolling the mall, an unusual set of circumstances will arise and they look at me for my reaction and immediately start laughing. Actually, they begin crying and then get angry with me for my "inappropriate" etiquette in such situations.

Yesterday, lame duck mom was all peg-legged in her wheel chair and going on and on about the ruben sandwich she was ordering for dinner when an elderly man was wheeled outside the door who apparently was humming a broadway tune from the gargling of his throat and the neurological synapses of his past. The music was non-distinguishable, but the singing sounded as if he was a drowning frog becoming lyrical through a straw underwater. Sitting at our table I simply said, "Listen." I wanted to name that tune.

Nope. Wouldn't happen. Not only did Cynde and Casey start laughing, but Nikki began crying, which set me to giggling, too. When I see people laughing I start laughing and I never know what I'm laughing about. Here was this poor man in a wheelchair reminiscing to some melody of his past when my sisters start laughing because they think I'm laughing at him, but I'm not. Mom gets mad, I'm made to feel guilty and Sean asks Dave he can "kick Mimi's boo boo."

It's so strange how such laughter comes from absolutely nowhere ~ Rena's growling stomach during a funeral service is a good example. I guess it's just good to laugh when we can, because chances are, we don't laugh enough.

Cynderballs and Mike

Easy entry. Cynde and Mike showed up with beer and wine at 8 p.m. We watched the debate. All three of us had stressful weeks, and tonight we watched Barack Obama and Senator McCain debate how they would make our weeks less stressful. To make a long story short, we'd vote for Labatts Blue or Merlot if we could. Baby, of course, would vote for anyone who would snuggle with her on the couch. It's been a long while since I've taken a night off to chat and be silly. This is a must in 2008.

exhalation

Way back in the day, like 17 years ago, I read Terry McMillan's Waiting to Exhale. I thought of this yesterday when I admitted to the new professor we hired in our department that I feel like I'm breathing again knowing she's around. I told her, "Man, I know I have to hold my breath for all the stress yet to come in this process of higher education, but today I am breathing because you make sense to me."

phew.

The two of us planned a collaborative research project for next semester, an independent study, and the goal to publish our thinking together. It is wonderful to have another adolescent educator aboard the U.S.S. S.U. taking the helm as I mop the decks. I am feeling relieved to know I now have two English Education supporters pushing me forward.

Ah. Inhalation. Bring on the next adventure. Ahoy.

Meta-morphosis-analysis

I'm thinking about constants as I wake up. Yesterday I bought my mom wine-colored mums to look at in her knee recovery and I deliberately picked them for their color, but also because as Autumn arrives, mums add flavor to the world...mums for moms. Just when flowers begin to hibernate and reload for the winter, mums show themselves as a last reminder that times are changing.

I am pondering how such a cyclical change is good. In the metaphor of the caterpillar to butterfly, I am seeing that metamorphosis is something to keep an eye on. The monarchs are currently flying back to Mexico as the mums are blooming with pre-hibernal thoughts. In terms of my own life, I am in the chrysalis, redefining what I once knew and currently know, transforming to what I'll discover tomorrow. This human condition will be my blessing (notice I didn't say curse) until my pulse is no more and gives energy to a new earthly force.

Change is good. Nature is good. Cycles are good. The cyclical changes in nature equals happiness.

Macy Gray as a Part of My Day

Here's a secret. After being at a local high school from 7:15 a.m. until 9:30, I snuck home to let my dog out. I then stripped from my tie and put on shorts, a hoodie and my sneakers. I grabbed my ipod and I took off. I stole a forty-five minute run. What was spectacular about this was that Macy Gray's "Moment to Myself" song came on and totally set my groove.

How rare is it that we actually jump out of our routine to make a moment for ourselves? Sure, running is a routine, yes, but doing it in the middle of the morning is unusual. I came home, showered, got back in a tie and then went to another high school. From there, I had classes until 7 and didn't get home until almost 8. For the last two hours I was writing up student observations and now I am extremely thankful I took that moment to myself. I encourage everyone else to do the same.

Checking Myself, Checking Checking

When I downloaded the side image (called, coincidentally, checklist) I noticed a peculiar thing. On my desktop, it is one of five or six documents that are called checklists. This one, of course, is the only jpeg checklist, but that's not the point I'm trying to make. My younger sister makes lists before she goes to the grocery store and crosses off each item. My mom (whose knee surgery went well today) makes lists on all times of paper about any sort of thing.

I've never been a list person, but when teaching I was known to scribble items of import up and down my arm. I used it as a filing cabinet for items that were of immediate attention and it worked wonderfully. Yet, now I am supervising student teachers while supervising myself, while being supervised by mentors and I am recognizing I am becoming a master of checklists. I check articles I read, schools I've visited, meetings I've attended, stores I need to stop at, hours I've been able to get a run in, and I realize I'm just becoming a check list checker of proving my humanity. I think this is good. Checking the list helps me to see all I've accomplished in a given day and helps me organize for my tomorrow to come. It keeps me focused, prepared and reliable. I feel such checking is a peculiar way to be happy and I laugh to think how I must be perceived by those who know me, checking off everything as I do. Ah, c'est la vie. I can check today's blog entry off my list.  Woot Woot!

Lakes

Yesterday, Kathy Hinchman invited people from Reading and Language Arts to her camp north of Altmar, Parish and Williamstown. Sitting on the front porch drinking a beer, I was reminded of the view of Lebanon Reservoir near Hamilton, New York, where I spent most of my childhood summers.

No, there weren't the hills nor Grannie Annie's ceramic frog collection, but the lake was small and beautiful, similar to the damned water where we used to watch the stars bathe during the day. I decided to look up my grandmother's lake, Loch Lebanon as she called it, and found these two images. One is an aerial focusing on the campground (our camp was on the other side of the lake) and the other is the entrance way to the path that lead to the candy store. Many times, Casey, Cynde and I walked to get treats or icecream by this path. It looks cleaner now and more floral.

Being by such water is a piece of heaven and smelling lake air last night made me really miss the ritual of seeing Ann and Spence every weekend. There will be a time again, though, where "dam car, five points" will be in my ears. The popping of a can of beer, the sound of a lighter going after a camel, and the beauty of my grandmother's latest poem all being heard as the sun sets behind the cabin. Such simple happiness, really.

Star Bellied Thoughts Again

Dr. Seuss had a happier ending than I see usually occurring when he scripted his Star Bellied Sneetches Allegory, but I love it nonetheless. I spent a portion of today reading theoretical writing that tried to place "other" in context with the dominant discourses of western society (see dead white guys) and of course I thought of the green stars upon thars. That's what it is and will always be. During my Environmental Masters I did a paper on Dr. Seuss's yellow critters -- emblems of the postmodern conundrum because Sylvester McMonkey McBean gets away with the cash while the "others" are left with frankfurters and friendship. That was a late-capitalistic reading though.

Now, I'm transcending McBean's role to the University. They cash in on the power of knowledge, but this power plays into the socio-economic structure of a larger culture. Those there speak academese and police, via peer review, those who aren't worthy of their hot dog parties. The current structure operates this way because knowledge is not democratic by the Germanic model of eugenics that created higher education. The result is, even though cultures are more global and multiple, and many institutions have had to change, the university's way of "measuring" knowledge, quantitatively and qualitatively, has not. Esoteric rambling in a game of language gymnastics blurs the important points such writing is trying to make.

I am feeling like actions speak louder than words. I prefer doing over pontificating, but I value the interplay between them. What I'm trying to say here, however, is thanks Theodore for a metaphor I'll use throughout my life. Too bad Bizarrely Bonked Bryan, McBean's crazy nephew, was never written into the story.

The American Dream

Today begins the first day of the Togetherness series at Northern Onondaga Public Library in North Syracuse. Working for the New York Council for the Humanities, my task is to work with 6th graders and their parents to discuss books. Why? Studies show that it is this period of time that kids lose interest in chapter books; such distraction hurts their academic life later on (I know, there are studies out there that say everything).

Looking at the theme of WE THE PEOPLE, all the books I've chosen are geared towards living an American life. Can this be done in 6 texts? Absolutely not. Yet, preparing the discussions has me thinking hard, once again, on the pursuit of happiness and the opportunity to at least try to make dreams come true. 

I pulled out an editorial and a personal narrative that Khang Nguyen wrote when he was at Brown. I read both and smiled that a young man, now a medical student at Johns Hopkins, could be so astute at his young age. What gives him a drive, however, is his father's history in Vietnam. For him, not pursuing education and possibilities would be the best way to shame what his father endured.

We forget that life elsewhere is not life here. It is an election year -- an important election year -- and for me, I'm not going to neglect that our ancestry is typically the immigrant's story. Perhaps this writing is more patriotic than I usually get, but that is what is driving me towards serenity these days.

Let a thousand flowers bloom

Thursdays are philosophy nights, so Fridays are meant for intellectual meandering. Last night, Emily Robertson let out a poetic line about research and the creation of ideas, "Let a 1,000 flowers bloom." I loved it and wrote it down. In a land of freedom, trusting others to be themselves and to foster their own ideas is admirable. The irony is, however, that Mao Zedong of communist China said this in 1957, or at least that is what one website reports. Actually, he said, "let a thousand flowers blossom." In retrospect, I imagine he would have been proud of this year's Olympics.

I digress. The sky went to 35 degrees last night and the leaves are turning. It is not the season for things to bud and pop up, but I'm going to try to live my friday with the motto of letting a thousand flowers blossom. Perhaps they'll find some bees that mysteriously are disappearing or be picked for a beautiful funeral arrangement.

Ah, my humor shows again.

Drums

I like the cadence of drums. I wish I could summon them as I walk from point A to point B to help me keep my groove, but I can't. Instead, I have to think about the beats that are in my heart and memories of the rhythm I left behind. But what if? What if everyone had their own drumbeat they moved about to, and when individuals were seen moving in their daily routines, they were followed by a beat. This is sort of Ally McBeal, I suppose, but like her theme songs, what if we had drum rhythms?

Okay, yesterday was a long day and I was thinking about how I needed a new strut to my step. I thought of the film above, and listening to the tip-tapping makes me happy.

I am an Ape in a Cave

Growing up, I watched Captain Caveman all the time. Reflecting on this, I think it is humorous to think of a less evolved version of myself solving riddles for today. Maybe this is the same appeal for the Geicho caveman. It is Geicho, isn't it? A neanderthal helps us, like Encino man, to see the silliness of our today.

I was thinking about cave people and their drawings as I read, wrote, reread, rewrote and tried to make sense of the constant stimulation of text in my life. It seems that a cartoon, or a cave drawing, could map out a lot more detail in a simpler way. We designed an alphabet, words, sentences and school to complicate what it is we know and don't know. Then, from the "art" of words, we created hierarchy, competition and status by who can communicate best with those words.

To me, a simple cartoon says a lot more and this one says it all. It is something that we "grade" one's depiction of their own reality and it is called education. I am hoping Captain Caveman will come and rescue our society today reminding us of more primitive ways of knowing that had the potential of being more to the point. Me Bryan. Me Hungry. Me want a Snickers bar. What's wrong with making knowledge accessible?

Call me "Crazy," Ike.

I know I shouldn't be happy about a hurricane, but I am truly amazed by their power. Ike blew through Central New York at about 2 a.m. Monday morning and the winds pushed against the back of my house, the south, for two straight hours. Actually, it popped a window out of the hinges and that is what woke me up. The air smelled like the ocean and the sky was bright gray. I can't even imagine the strength of it in Texas and I am now in awe of such might. In the end, nature always prevails.

And then, yesterday, the clean up began. Most of CNY was without electricity and many schools were closed. I did a couple of observations at schools that were open and then I came home to pick up all the debris in my yard. This might be mighty chimpanzee of me, but I love my garden tools. It is so great to pull them off the nails in the garage and put them to use. Such hands-on work is much more fulfilling that the labor of the mind and I simply love being outside, even if the temperature has dropped and there is still a wind. It is labor that is worthwhile.

Saucony for Sucky knees

My first pair of running shoes were a $20 dollar pair of gray saucony kicks that were cheap and not purchased for status. In years to come, I'd try new running sneakers; Nikes, Adidas, Reeboks, New Balance and Asics, but I always return back to Saucony shoes. Why? They last. They're beyond comfortable, and the grooves on the souls make for better traction. I couldn't count how many sneakers I've used and abused over the years, nor how much money I've spent on my road hobby, but it is a lot. Trying to put 25 - 30 miles in a week does cause wear and tear on the ol' shoes, but Saucony athletics hold up well. I was thinking about my history with sneakers when I ran to my sister's yesterday in extreme heat, but also when I took baby for a walk last night. I am a better man because of these shoes and if I was more affluent, I would own more styles - especially a pair of camouflage retro Saucony that I've yet to find for a price I can handle. Regardless, I continue to claim them as the happiest shoes around and I recommend them for happy feet.

Being a cookie Monster!

I am very intentional about not bringing cookies into my home. Why? I become blue and like a muppet creature; it is easy for me to fall into a fit of rage, screaming, "mmmm. mmmm cookies. mmmm" while crumbs fall into the air. It is my understanding that our politically correct culture has now banned chocolate chip cookies from Sesame Street and monsters must now eat carrots in a fanatical rage, and to me, this is sad. Cookies, especially chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the often, are the universe's way of saying "it's chaos, but don't let too much of it matter. Here's a glass of milk. Enjoy." Yesterday, Casey had cookies at her gathering and I loved them. Not only were they chocolate chip, they also had M & M's in them. PBS made a mistake: Cookie Monster deserves more and more Double Stuff Oreos and Nestle Tollhouse surprises! Shame on censorship. If you're related to me, you can always send me baked goods.

Hope

My cousin Mark is an amazing human being. Knowing the world as he does, he has given his life to the work of HOOPS4HOPE and bringing opportunity to youth of southern Africa and Zimbabwe. It has made me proud to know him and to witness the incredible perseverance and hard work of sharing America's abundance with populations that face struggles unimaginable to my growing mind.

Last night, Mark came to Syracuse and took me with him to the premiere of THE EXPRESS starring Dennis Quaid and written by Charles Leavitt. The role of Ernie Davis was played by Rob Brown and the direction of Gary Fleder is something to make every 'Cuse fan proud. The city of Syracuse should be impressed by the historical accomplishments this story reveals. Coach Ben Schwartzwalder led the orangemen during a time of racial unrest in our history and meeting his granddaughter and great grandson, yesterday, allowed me an opportunity to see how real the landscape of one lifetime can be. I will remember, always, the way the cinematic light glowed on the face of Syracuse Graduate, Bob Costas, who sat kitty corner from me and I will hear the applause of youth as the role model of Ernie Davis was revealed. He pushed forward in a time where history wanted to hold him back, and I see this film as inspiration for fighting forward to make America the democracy it has always built itself to be.

Attending the after party with my cousin and introducing him to Syracuse faculty who are guiding my path felt right because I admire his goals and dreams. Although it rained yesterday, this movie cleared the skies, and in the words of Dennis Quaid, Ernie Davis's story is of hope to do what is right and good. This is what we should all be working towards.

Thinking about the Brain

Yesterday, in a philosophy class, we began talking about the brain and recent research about how neurons develop around our perception of reality. We worked through a couple of illusions: the rabbit and duck conundrum and the old lady/young lady juxtaposition which reminded me of a painting I shared with seventh graders this summer to explain that every one event has multiple interpretations. If one can perceive an object in one way, and then another can perceive it in another way, and even some can perceive it both ways, while there are those that can't "see" it at all, whose claim is more valid? This practice becomes trickier, I suppose, when a particular set of knowledge claims are being made about how kids learn best or what structure will create the most productivity for any one corporation. Although researchers get closer to finding an answer, no answer is absolute. I find all this fascinating, especially since expertise and novice markers are placed on some having superior abilities to see over others in an academic setting. For me, it makes me happy to know that their are multiple perspectives and everyone is allowed to make their claim. I remarked to a classmate that I have always loved teaching, but have yet to feel comfortable with the idea of professing what I know. Ah, but a smile comes from my trying, I suppose.

Dog Bloggity Bam

I hope my entries are more about optimism and hope, but I liked this cartoon nonetheless.

If I had a dollar I would have a dream.

It is pretty remarkable what hope a dollar bill can instill. I heard a commercial singing "the dollar and a dream" slogan and I thought to myself, "hmm, it would be nice if I had a dollar." But then I thought, but I have so many dreams and it would be nice to have more dollars to carry them out: to create a school with individuals who share my vision, to set up the Mid York Writing Project, to buy groceries and to fix the zipper on my leather jacket now that winter is coming back. I then thought, hmmm, what if this blog could help me fulfill this dream and everyone who reads it sent me a dollar or spent a dollar to buy me a lottery ticket. Wouldn't they be helping me fulfill my dream? And what about Oprah? What if she sent me lots of dollars so I can make even more of my dreams come true. This went through my head while driving to work yesterday until I reached into my pocket and found pocket lint. I smiled. Sometimes reality is a whole lot better.

A happy short video to counterattack a crazy day or maybe not.

Accentuating the positive, I will continue not to gripe, but to focus on the good. I shall post Yoda wisdom. He is wise and he seems to know what to do on bad days. He, after all, has the force on his side and when I was a child growing up, I valued his wisdom in a little toy I had (which oddly foreshadowed my recent Buddha collection).

Crap. There seems to be a trend today. All the videos on YouTube that are available on Yoda have become recently unavailable due to lawsuits and copyright issues.

So: Screwed, I Think I Am.

I will settle with a photo and your imagination of Yoda's great wisdom.

Bunraku and you

Meeting with Newton in NYC reminded me of my short time in Tokyo, Japan, where I attended an exhibit for traditional Japanese Puppet Theater. Emily, graduating from an innovational theater program in Northern California has landed a nine month gig with Banruku puppetry where she and another fellow are running a show about a tiny prince. Emily was saying that she has to be strategic during one scene because she often holds a cucumber prop above her head which apparently gets in the way of one male puppet. If she doesn't hold the prop just right, it can result in very embarrassing images. Knowing her personality, I imagine her humor with such an occurrence could be remarkable and a source for great audience amusement. Pictured here are images of Bunraku, but also of Emily during a performance last Fall in California. Ah, life is improv and the theatrics are in the everyday. Drinking a coffee with Ms. Newton in some random cafe near Broadway made my NYC weekend extra special. Even more amusing were her tails of the theatrical events to come, including the Girkin and the Prince. I wish her luck.

A short-lived City Romp

I'm returning back to Syracuse this morning (the train again) after two nights at Gild Hall...a luxury hotel? It looks nice and was nice, but I'm not so sure about those prices or the quality of the experience. Really, people will spend anything just to claim what they can. I personally think the beds at LaFiesta in St. Augustine are nicer and they are $400 a night cheaper. Ah, but the New York Humanities Council foots this bill so I'm not complaining.

I spent last evening with Judy, Robert, and their two daughters, Ava and Sydney, in Brooklyn. I've known Judy for sixteen years now and that seems crazy. Odder yet is that Robert is from Louisville and his ex-wife student taught with Gay Rapley of the Brown School. To me, Judy and Robert radiate NYC, and seeing them as a family was an example of happiness. I'm not sure if City life is for me, but they make it work and I admire that in them.

Now, the lights of NYC go away for a while and I hope to return soon. I'll leave the sirens, garbage trucks and honking cabs for the sounds of crickets and cicadas. I'll trade the air of subways and streets for the winds off of Lake Ontario. And I will be content knowing I'm only a train ride away.

Choo Choo.

I took the train into NYC from Syracuse for the first time. It was a beautiful ride and I'm glad I sat on the side of the Hudson River. New York is like no other place on earth, and although London and Tokyo, Chicago and LA, try to be a big apple, New York has its own flare -- hands down. I feel fortunate to have experienced this city like I have. Last night, I met up with Sean Fitzgerald and Emily Newton for dinner and coffee and we walked the streets. Sean and I also had an eerie experience at Ground Zero looking at the reconstruction of what was once the World Trade Center. The pace of people rushing by was as if it was simply a site of workers. Seven years growing accustom, I guess. But, I keep thinking about the train ride in and how happy I was to zoom across the Hudson. It was a perfect way to enter the greatest city on Earth.

Philosophy is the Top of a Cereal Box

Running this morning, I began singing Edie Brickell's "What I Am" song which is from the album, Shooting Rubberbands at the Stars. That was one of the few cassettes I owned in high school and it was my staple album throughout a lot of college. Knee deep in academic thought these days, I go back to Religion being a smile on a dog to grasp at a calm knowing, and from this I smile. Yes, Edie Brickell will always be a part of my circle of friends.

Yearbook photos

I as taught a great new website today where you can imagine yourself in every era.  This is my 70s look and I suppose I was the teacher that all those kids hated.  Check out your own yearbook at yearbookyourself.

Can you think of a happier way to waste a day?

See, I knew I had a parallel life and this is the real me.  This is the inner me that not many know.  Although I've always aimed to be Brad Pitt, the reality is that I'm Brett Armpitt and am often seen walking down hallways with toilet paper dragging from my wingtip shoes.

I suppose I'm married to a woman named Georgina and she has a plaid mini skirt to match my jacket.  She also has go go boots but I don't like when she wears them because they upstage my glasses.  

Ps: This is my sister's yearbook photo, and she oddly looks dead-up like my mom used to in her yearbook.



And Casey looks like Grandma Vera!!!

Startled

Last night, while nose deep against my computer screen in post academic hooplah, this gigantic moth-like swamp-thing flew out of nowhere and tried to enter my face.  Now, the summer season is winding down for exotic creatures to randomly attack me, but this particular bugger took me by complete surprise.  His wingspan was as wide as my face and he flew straight at my nose.  He got so close I could see the cones and rods of his eyes, and for a second, after freaking out at the fluttering, I had to smile.  I think he was wearing osh-kosh overalls.  It was nice to be visited by the likes of a creature I've never seen before and although my instinct was to use a fly swatter to whack it, it is still flying around my house quite ambitiously.  In my current mood, I couldn't decide who deserves this immediate space:  it or me?  It's good to practice tolerance every once in a while.

Dougie Coupland

As a college graduate, I picked up a book called SHAMPOO PLANET by Douglas Coupland.  I was living on the wood floor of a studio apartment in Old Louisville and fell in love with the way Coupland wrote.  Since then, I've always picked up his fiction and can admit to being a slight fan. I suppose, too, I envy his prolific writing career and wish I had his fortune with describing the world he does through his craft and originality.  One of his books, LIFE AFTER GOD, has been a bible of sorts for me and I think about it a lot, especially when posting onto this happiness blog. The conclusion of that text is we need God, and although the great entity isn't defined and enunciated into preachy pulpit benediction, his recognition of needing something to be out there connects to my world view.  I gave Kathie Maniaci, an art education researcher, a copy of POLAROIDS OF THE DEAD over the weekend and Coupland has been on my mind ever since.  He doesn't have a new novel on the horizon that is posted on his website, but I'm sure he's far from retirement.  I look at my youthful twenties and give a thumbs up for his writing and understanding of a bizarre world, and I am anxious for his next publication.  In the mean time, I'm content with what I've already read.  

Wordle in a Girdle Next to a Turtle

I was clued into a website that allows you to cut and paste words into a text area and then it reformats them into a piece of art.  I took my resume and this is what came out of it. It makes a word cloud and you can impress your friends. I've never heard of a wordle before, so I am delighted that a new cyborg-word has been made. For anyone who'd like to try, visit the WORDLE website.