Wednesday, 08 August 2012

Unbeknownst to me, my friend Ryan Sutter participated in the Wire’s 2012 RPM Challenge back in February. For those who don’t know, this annual event encourages musicians to record an entire album within 28 days. The only rules are that the album consist of either 10 songs or 35 minutes and that recording transpire entirely within February. I don’t know if everyone got an extra day this month due to February’s lengthened status this Leap Year, but either way, it’s an ambitious endeavor.

In a way, it’s kind of silly. There are no artistic parameters – and I’m not sure how to define them even if there were – so participants could, in theory, just play a few notes on a Jew’s Harp, feed it through a synthesizer, and include the most asinine lyrics they can think of on the spot. In fact, the site even says this is entirely permissible on their FAQ page.

But in another way, it’s a good idea. Any musician who calls him- or herself such is bound to try to do the best they can. And for many artists, my friend included, it’s too easy to set a project aside and let it languish for months, even years. The RPM challenge has given my buddy the kick in the pants he needs to finish at least two other albums in previous years.

This year he recorded Blood and Scotch/Valentine. I don’t know what the slash is for. But it was most famously used in Outkast’s 2003 album Speakerboxxx/The Love Below and in Justin Timberlake’s FutureSex/LoveSounds. So, I don’t know, maybe it’s some sort of inside joke between Outkast, Timerlake, and my friend.

Anyway, Ryan’s album is available here. Go ahead and listen to it streaming, or download it for the grand total of name-your-price. My favorite tracks are “Serene” and “Uncle Ghost,” the latter being a tune Ryan already forwarded to me over a year ago – albeit with a slightly different arrangement – claiming it would be part of a new album titled The Universal Thump (still forthcoming, I guess). There’s a nearly half hour track (“song” would be too strong a word for it) titled “Valentine.” I’m not sure what’s going on there. Just some strung out notes and random sound effects. Without it, Ryan wouldn’t have met the RPM goal of at least 35 minutes of “music,” so that might explain its inclusion. The other tracks, all in the manageable realm of one to five minutes, are solid. Go get it.

Thursday, 09 August 2012

So, I just found out I won Hamline University and Homewood Studios Art Gallery’s writing contest. Back in May, I picked up a flyer on campus announcing their collaboration on a contest to pick the best short story and the best visual art that follows the them “Malaria in Africa.” The piece was due by late May, and the only stipulation was that the piece concern itself with malaria in Africa (makes sense) and includes a net in some fashion. The kind of net people sleep under to avoid mosquito bites, that it.

So now you’re thinking: “James, how could you possibly win a contest about malaria in Africa? – that sounds like something you know nothing about.”

Yep. You’re right. To an extent. Back in mid-May, I really had no idea what to write about. In fact, I considered letting this contest slip by without submitting an entry. But three things made me change my mind:

1. Cash prize! Hell yes, I am totally about getting paid to write.

2. The winning piece will appear in next year’s The Fulcrum. I submit something to Hamline’s literary journal every year, so I might as well submit something now in preparation for 2013.

3. I could learn about malaria by reading a book about it. (And that’s just what I did.)

Friday, 10 August 2012

The big news today was attending a St. Paul Saints ball game.

Ever since attending a Twins game back in May, I wanted to take Owen to a Saints game, assuring him that the Saints are way more fun to watch. I was going to just go online and buy tickets for some random game, but then the Minnesota Atheists came out with an offer to get discounted group tickets. “Sure,” thought I, “I’d love to get cheaper tickets, with drink and food voucher, and attend the game on the same day as many people I know, including a family whose son is one of Owen’s good friends.”

But no sooner did I buy the tickets, then this upcoming game became a BIG DEAL. I mean it. Every paper in the Twin Cities covered it, lots of people blogged about it, and it was even covered by the Washington Post, Sports Grid, and even the UK’s The Guardian. The Minnesota Atheists even put up an article addressing some of the more common issues some people were having with this.

All of this is very good. Atheists should be more recognizable in today’s world. And ball teams should sponsor group outings that feature freethinkers just as they feature religious groups. The team changed their name to the “Aints” for this game, and the sign out front welcomed attendees to the “Mr. Paul Aints” game. In between innings, the announcer played Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing,” cleverly editing out the word “don’t.”

But…

When I read some of the comments online – people saying they were going to protest, others saying they were never going to attend a Saints game again, and others saying atheists are stupid to do this because, hey, why do they need to join together (since they don’t need to worship) and what are they promoting since they don’t believe in anything – I started to get worried. After all, I didn’t want to make a statement, I just wanted to show my family a good time watching a great team.

I needn’t have worried. There were no picket lines to breakthrough, and no boos or other harrassments from the theists in the crowd. My kids had a great time: french fries, pop-corn, a jumper to jump in and a playground to play on. We enjoyed the inter-inning antics, and we had a good time with the folks sitting around us, some who we knew, most we didn’t. The fireworks at the end were a special unexpected treat. The weather, by the way, was absolutely perfect – a rare treat this summer – despite the fact that a Fox News pundit said all “good Christians” would be praying for rain.

Thank you, Fox News, for confirming my belief that one thing all Christian denominations have in common is hypocrisy.

When we got to our car, there was a tract from some religious group. Oddly, the cover said “Thanks for your hospitality.” The inside – which my wife read to me with great merriment during our drive home – was pretty much just a bunch of scriptures and an exhortation to read the bible. Hilarious!

The Saints – or should I say “the Aints”? – however, left somethign to be desired. After seeing them score 10 and 18 points in the last two games I’ve attended, respectively, they failed to score a single run the entire game. In the bottom of the ninth, Owen sat on my lap and we watched our team, down two to nothing, with two men on base, try for a three-run homer. It brought back memories of our Twins game together. Sadly, it was not to be this time, and the Saints struck out for the last time, losing the game. A sad, “awwwww,” swept the crowd. Oh well. I suppose they just didn’t have a prayer.

Sunday, 05 August 2012

Owen and I are currently reading Ron Roy’s The X’ed-Out X-Ray. This strangely titled book is named what it is because it’s part of a series of books, the A to Z Mysteries series.

I’m always curious about what authors do for the letter X. In most adult books, it’s a non-issue, but it comes up quite regularly in kids books. There are tons of A to Z books. Often, I think the choice for the X word is a cop-out. For examples, we have the book V is for Viking: A Minnesota Alphabet. As the title implies, the book donates one or two pages to each letter of the alphabet featuring something relating to Minnesota. V, as you probably guess, is for Viking. W is for Walleye. Guess what X is for? It’s for “X marks the spot” on the map where Laura Ingalls used to live. Totally cop-out.

Slightly better is Gone Wild, an alphabet book of endangered animals. For the letter X – and only the letter X – the author flips his otherwise consistent practice of alphebetizing the animals by common name first, then scientific name.

A weird case is Dr. Seuss’s ABC. When the good doctor arrives at the 24th letter, he doesn’t even bother to list any words that begin with X; he just lists off a few words that contain the long-suffering consonant: ax, extra, and fox are among his choices. This is the only letter for which he does this. It’s weird because, come on: this is Dr. Seuss! He can just make up any damn word he pleases. And he does – two letters letter, he offers up a zizzer-zazzer-zuzz as an example of something that begins with Z.

So, part of me appreciates what Ron Roy did here: he managed to remain consistent, which is more than most authors can say. But part of me thinks “X’ed-out” is a really stupid word. But maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on the guy. After all, he didn’t make up the word; it’s even been used in other book titles (albeit without the hyphen).

See?

Anyway, my son must’ve noticed my moderate revulsion. Today he asked me to names ten words that begin with the letter X. And…it’s really hard. Especially because he specifically told me I couldn’t use x-ray. My nevxt selection was X-mas, but my wife was nearby, and she said that didn’t count. I don’t know who made her senior editor of the Oxford English Dictionary, but I attempted to muddle through with my son’s and wife’s restrictions.

Here’s what I came up with:

-Xylophone

-Xenon

-Xenophobia

–Xeric

–Xebec

-Xylem

-Xerxes

-Xerox

-Xeroxed

-Xeroxing

 …Yeah, total cop-out at the end there.

Monday, 06 August 2012

I met with my advisor this afternoon as part of my summer internship program. Upon arriving at his office, I complimented him on his glasses. They looked like this:

I guess these things are all the rage now. Or should I say, again? Two co-workers have recently updated their eyewear, and they both opted for the clunky Wayfarers, too. One’s a guy and one’s a lady, so evidently this fashion statement is not held back by gender restrictions in the same way, say, lipstick is.

My advisor used to have thin-wired, nearly circular frames, and I took the opportunity to remark that Buddy Holly must be winning out over John Lennon in the optical fashion world right now.

             Buddy Holly:                                                                                    John Lennon:

Tuesday, 07 August 2012

Here’s an interesting question: Could the upcoming US Presidential election be a tie?

Well, of course it could be a tie, just like there could be an all-powerful god in te sky, but we all know the real answer, right?

Not so fast argues THIS FASCINATING ARTICLE. Of course, the author admits this is highly unlikely, but it is more likely than it has been during the past several elections. I should mention he’s referring to electoral votes – not actual votes. Remember back in 2000 when there was a near tie between that one wooden detatched automaton and that other wooden detatched automaton? Yeah, see that was just a tie in the popular vote, and it was, strictly speaking, a tie anyway. Regardless, back then the electoral vote was never an issue: as soon as Bush Jr. was declared Florida’s winner, it was a no-brainer who won out in the electoral department.

No, what this article is discussing is the possibility of a tie on the electoral level which, to me, seems like more of a mess than what happened in 2000. The author admits the supreme court would likely get involved, thus speeding up the process and getting the job done, but also raising all sorts of questions about the constituationality of their power…again, like what happened in 2000.

Anyway, just go read it.

Saturday, 04 August 2012

Today, Jennifer and I attended an authors’ Book Release Party. I didn’t really know what to expect, but we had a good time.

The book Atheist Voices of Minnesota is being released later this month. I volunteered (and interned) as an associate editor for the book. Both Jennifer and I have essays that were accepted for inclusion within the book, too.

I’ve been to a few other events similar to this, but this one was the first time I’ve been to one just for the authors and their families. Back in 2010, for example, I drove over to my old college and attended a reception for the authors and anyone else interested. There was live music and food, and several authors (me included) were invited to the lectern to read an excerpt from the book (Breathing In, Volume II). There will be something like that next month, at a local library – and stay tuned, ’cause I’m inviting everyone I know to attend – but today’s event was more informal and intimate.

Okay, first of all: Pot Luck! So already I love it.

Second: Meeting so many of the authors in person was awesome. Of course, some of the authors I knew quite well before showing up today. A few others, I had met briefly, but don’t really know them. Still others, I’d never seen before. It was great to put faces with names. I kept thinking things like: “Oh, so that’s the lady who defied her parents’ wishes when she got married.” And: “Huh. That’s the the guy who grew up with a mom and grandma that channeled the dead? Weird.” And: “So that lady’s a vegan. I wonder what she’s gonna eat from the buffet? Oh well, more for me.”

About 25 of the 35 essayists were presnt, plus most of the editorial staff, the man who penned the book’s Introduction, the woman who painted the book’s cover, and people who worked on the book’s design and on the publisher’s publicity team.

Among the authors are…

Greg Laden, who writes one of my favorite blogs.

Shannon Drury, a self-proclaimed “radical housewife.”

PZ Myers, who writes what is probably the most popular science blog on the web.

and Norman Barrett Wiik, who I’d never met in person until today. Thankfully, he and his wife showed up with their kids, so my kids loved jumping around the room and causing mayhem with them.

Anyway, the book is for sale now, so please buy a copy. It contains many moving, insighful, and sometimes funny essays. Besides seeing what my wife and I wrote, if you are an ex-JW, you might be interested to know there’s another essay in the book from a former Witness. And if you are my co-worker, you might be interested to know there’s another essay in the book from one of our co-workers.

The book is for sale at Amazon. It’s slightly cheaper at Barnes and Noble. If Kindle is your sort of thing, it’s available for that, too. And if you’re super cheap (and you live in Hennepin County), you can get it from your local library.

Friday, 03 August 2012

This evening, in an attempt to give my wife some time to run to the store and get the house ready for company, I took the kids to a local park. About a week ago, I saw a flyer advertising August 3rd (that’s today) as a family fun night; the highlight being an after-dusk showing of Rango. I had no intention of sitting through another showing of this boring and marginally-sensical animated film, but I thought the other activities looked fun.

I didn’t tell my kids there was anything special going on at the park, I just asked them if they wanted to go to the park. They came running into the kitchen from the living room, both shouting “Yay!” and clapping their hands.

“All right, get your shoes on,” I said.

The first thing I noticed as I pushed the stroller toward the park was a table with snacks on it. There was a jar with a sign indicating donations were welcome. Ugh. I left my wallet at home (I don’t often bring cash to the local park). I felt bed not having even a dollar to toss in the jar, especially since the jar was nearly empty.

We walked through the line, which went fast, and took some snacks. Volunteers helped everything go smoothly; one man was working a large grill, preparing several hot dogs at a time, and other volunteers helped us with cups of lemonade.

We sat on a park bench; Owen downed a hot dog, a bag of chips, and some pink lemonade. Isla had chips and yellow lemonade (her favorite color). We each enjoyed a cookie. Behind us was the open field, and several families had already parked themselves on the grass with lawn chairs and blankets in preparation for the movie. Owen, meanwhile, couldn’t keep his eyes off the inflatable jumper.

As soon as we were done eating, we ran over to the jumper, and we only had to wait a couple of minutes to have a turn. The folks in charge said that little kids could go in, too. There were only two other kids inside, so I told Owen to take care of his sister and sent them both in. This was Isla’s first time inside a jumper.

After the frenetic jumping session – which, I could tell from their expressions, didn’t last nearly long enough – we walked over to the crowd and sat down to watch a puppet show. Open Eye Theater was there, and, as part of their summer Drive Way Tour, they put on a showing of Katie Tomatie.

They both absolutely loved this show. They never took their eyes off the tiny stage. Even when it was tough to hear (lots of people were making noise on the playground and near the climbing wall), they kept watching. A loud noise in the show made Isla jump, and she got up off the grass and settled into my lap for reassurance. I asked her if she was okay, and – too engrossed to look away from the stage – I deduced she was fine.

Once the show, which lasted about 20 minutes, completed, Owen said, “I bet mama’s gonna wonder where we are! We’ve never been at the park so long!” I told him he was probably right.

If you live in the metro area, get to a Family Fun Night. And, if you have young kids, take them to an Open Eye production. You’ll be glad you did. Just try to remember your wallet.

Thursday, 02 August 2012

And here’s another topic, not related to today, that I want to discuss. Again, this involves my daughter’s birthday party.

My sister arrived at the party with, among other things, a small collection of papers. During a lull in the festivities, she explained that Nana – our paternal grandmother – recently mailed her a package of papers from yesterdecade. Some of the items were pictures my sister colored as a child, and cards she sent to Nana. Also included were a few notes my sister wrote to Nana during the meetings, and my sister showed me the ones she thought had personal interest. For example, in one, my sister mentions spending time with Jennifer (who was not yet my wife) and Jennifer’s sister. Also included in the package were two items relating solely to me. Though Nana did not tell my sister to give them to me (in fact, she said very little; a mere Post-It note stuck onto the top sheet said “I thought you might like to have these”), my sister figured I would want them.

One was a brief letter I wrote to Nana in 1982, when I was six years old. Another was the draft of a poem Nana was writing about how much Jehovah loves me. I don’t recall this particular poem, though Nana did write a few poems for my sister and me over the years. Maybe I only ever saw the final draft, and this rougher version (with losts of cross-outs and insertions) was thus new to me.

Anyway, here’s what I have to say about that: Why didn’t Nana just mail these things to me?

I can make several guesses as to why she didn’t. But what I mean is: what was going through her mind when she mailed them? If she was just trying to make contact with my sister (something she does about once a year), then why include items that “belonged” to me? And judging from the brief Post-It note, Nana didn’t care to engage in real conversation or invite much of a response…so, again, why not just slap on a note that said “Here James, you can have this stuff,” stuff it all in an envelope, and send it on its way?

This was the second time in as many weeks that I was reminded of the last time my sister had contact with Nana…

About a year ago, my uncle died. While he was sick in the hospital, my sister decided to pay him a visit. Many of my relatives, including Nana – my uncle’s mother – were there, too. My sister took the opportunity to show everyone pictures of her nephew and niece (those are my kids, for those of you who have trouble following this stuff). Nana took one of the photos of Isla, and showed it to her friend (who was also there to be with my uncle). As she did, she said, tearfully, “This is my great granddaughter.”

I also thought of that last week, when my wife went to the family cabin for a “girls’ day.” Her mom and grandma were there, as were her aunts, cousins, and the older of her two sisters. When my wife arrived home after the long day, she came bearing lots of food (including the faux-honey I whined about here). Among the leftovers was a plate of desserts from her sister. This is a good thing, because her sister is known for concocting tasty desserts. Jennifer said: “My sister said to tell the kids these are a gift from Auntie Myrtle.”

[Aside: Okay, my wife doesn’t have a sister named Myrtle. But Jennifer suggested I change the names of people who may be incriminated in some way or another. I guess, if you’re a JW, and you give a cookie to your ex-JW sister’s toddler, you might be questioned by the elders. So…Myrtle it is.]

Of course, I don’t mind telling the kids that these treats were baked by Auntie Myrtle, but I didn’t like that Myrtle wanted the kids to think they were some treat special for them – as if she baked the treats that morning expressly with the idea of giving them to Owen and Isla – two people she knew she wouldn’t be seeing. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever made anything for Isla. Not even when Isla was born. Heck, she didn’t even attend Isla’s first birthday party – you know, her baby shower? – the one time that Witnesses can celebrate births.

Anyway, Jennifer respected her sister Myrtle’s request. Isla, of course, didn’t care, primarily because she has no idea who Myrtle is. Owen asked Jennifer to repeat her statement: “Who?” he asked, and then my wife had to clarify, “Auntie Myrtle. My sister.”

I don’t like that sort of thing. I don’t like Nana showing off a borrowed photo of Isla and claiming it’s her great granddaughter, and I don’t like omni-absent Myrtle finagling a way remind our kids that, yes, they have an aunt out there somewhere on Planet Watchtower.

Now here’s what you’re thinking: “But, James, Nana IS Isla’s great-grandma, and Myrtle IS Owen and Isla’s aunt.” And, yes, I agree. The logical, black-and-white, by the book side of my personality fully acknowledges and agrees with that and would defend its validity.

But not really.

To explain, let me do what I always do: Give examples.

At a wedding I officiated last month, a man stopped me on my way out. He complimented me on the ceremony, and then asked, “Are you a minister?”

I said, “Well, it’s just a side job.”

Why didn’t I just say yes? After all, I did visit the Church of Life’s online monastary, I did agree to their tenets, I filled out their form, sent in the money, and then subsequently submitted my ordination to the State of Minnesota. The Chruch of Life confirms that I am a reverand and…a minister.

So, technically: Yes. I am a minister, and I could have honestly answered the man’s question in that manner.

But not really.

I knew what he meant. He meant: “Are you a person who has received theological training and credentials and now uses them to lead a church or congregation in their religious worship?” In which case, no. I am not a minister.

Several years ago, I was sitting at a table at a wedding reception, and I saw a woman fumbling with her glasses. A lens had popped out and, though she and her friend had recovered it from the floor, she was unable to reinsert it into the frame. So I went over, pulled out my opticians’ screwdriver, loosened the eyewire screw, set the lens bezel on the bevel, snugged the screw, then apologized for the fingerprints. The woman thanked me and asked, “Are you, like, an optician or something?”

I said, “No.”

But why didn’t I just say yes? After all, I had only quit the eyeglass industry – an industry I had been employed at for over eight years – a few months earlier. My certification as an optician – granted by the American Board of Opticianry by virtue of the passing of their grueling test, and renewed by me twice after submitting credits for continuing education – was still valid. In fact, even though I quit my job as an optician in September 2002, my certification remained valid for more than a year – until the final day of 2003.

So, yes, I was technically an optician, and could have honsetly answered the woman in that manner.

But not really.

I knew what she meant. She meant: “Are you currently employed in an industry where you manufacture, prescribe, repair, adjust, or sell spectacles?” The answer was no.

Many years ago, a friend of mine married a woman who had a child from another man. When I asked him how he felt about bringing the child, who was not his, into his life like that, my friend replied, “Maybe I can’t be his father, but I can be his dad.”

This maudlin and uncharacteristically syrupy statement wasn’t a contradiction in terms. Oh sure, I could have argued that “dad” is just an informal term for “father.” But I knew what he meant. He meant that, though he was not the child’s biological father, he was set to become the male role-model in the child’s life. My friend would provide food, shelter, discipline, companionship, and education to the child in a way that the other man – the one who only provided the sperm – never did and never would. The passing of years has borne out the truth of his pithy prediction.

So, yes, Nana and Myrtle are my children’s great-grandma and auntie, repsectively.

But not really.