tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27720063074724649432024-02-26T10:35:02.914-07:00Building Castles on the Beachstuff about being a father, a teacher, a writer...and some other stuff, tooBrent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.comBlogger129125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-12377153631289852132014-07-14T06:49:00.000-06:002014-07-14T06:49:03.561-06:0011 Reasons to Read My Blog. You Won't Believe What Happens Next!The interwebs sure have changed since I started blogging three and a half years ago. As I attempt to rebuild <i><a href="http://buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Building Castles on the Beach</a></i> after basically bypassing 2013 and the first half of 2014, I notice that many of the sites I read and enjoyed before when I was a full tilt blogger haven't posted anything for months or even years, or have even discontinued their blogs altogether. A recent culling of the blogs I officially follow has shown that at least two of my formerly favorite websites have been co-opted by porn. These are blogs I had direct links to in the margins of my own posts. I would be embarrassed if I thought anyone was actually visiting my own site during the time those links would have been active.<br />
<br />
The other major difference is the kind of writing that seems to get read on the interwebs. I'm reminded of the commotion in the 90's about the popularity of the "newspaper" (look it up, kids!) called <i><a href="http://www.usatoday.com/" target="_blank">USA Today</a></i>. It was frequently criticized due to the nature of its short, snapshot articles and colorful infographics filled with empty calories. The "dumbing down" of America was not just Jim Carrey's fault.<br />
<br />
<i><a href="http://www.usatoday.com/" target="_blank">USA Today</a></i> still exists, of course, but now it's surrounded by even simpler sites and blogs and reddits and I don't even know what that last one is. But because I'm a quick study (it's only taken me twenty-some years) I've figured out what it takes to get read around here. And I'm going to start following these guidelines I've come up with all by myself--right after this post, of course. It's already too wordy.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">14 Ingredients in Diet Soda That You Didn't Know Were There. Number 9 Will Make You Throw Up a Little in Your Mouth. </span></b></blockquote>
<br />
<b>Titles</b>: Titles require numbers. Any number, apparently. Those of you raised on <a href="http://www.cbs.com/shows/late_show/top_ten/" target="_blank">Letterman's Top Ten Lists</a> might think that you should use a good, round number, like 5 or 10 or 25 or 100 or, you know, 10. But any number works. Use 9. Or 27. Even 32. It doesn't matter, as long as the readers know how many items they will be exposed to before they click on that link.<br />
<br />
Also, titles should indicate exactly what the article will tell readers, up to a point. No spoilers. In fact, the title should be a tease. A good title tells readers that if they click this link they will read about a man who had some really bad thing happen to him, but that something wonderful happened to him next. But DON'T TELL WHAT THAT WONDERFUL THING WAS! Not yet. Not in the title. If the title gave away the store, no one would ever click on the link.<br />
<br />
A great title, incidentally, adds an emotional tease. Like how inspiring the thing was that happened next. Or how shocking. How much the reader will not believe what happens next. How much the writer cried. Or how speechless everyone is.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Number of Words in This Article is Outrageous. Word 156 is the Absolute Worst.</span></b></blockquote>
<br />
<b>Content</b>: As stated above, I've already broken this rule, but I'm really counting on your <a href="https://www.google.com/webhp?sourceid=chrome-instant&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8#q=discretion" target="_blank">discretion</a>. Written content should never be too <a href="https://www.google.com/webhp?sourceid=chrome-instant&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8#q=verbose" target="_blank">verbose</a>. In fact, an article should not contain the word "verbose." Each item in the list indicated through your title should only include a few sentences of written language. For <a href="https://www.google.com/webhp?sourceid=chrome-instant&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8#q=instance" target="_blank">instance</a>, this item I've called "Content" is now five sentences, and you've probably already stopped reading.<br />
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Something else <a href="https://www.google.com/webhp?sourceid=chrome-instant&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8#q=vital+definition" target="_blank">vital </a>to the written content are links. Lots of links. I'm not sure why, but maybe it's because the writer has written so little that the reader will require more <a href="https://www.google.com/webhp?sourceid=chrome-instant&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8#q=information" target="_blank">information </a>if they wish to learn anything at all.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">A Bear Showed This Couple How to Care for Their Child. This is the Sweetest Video of a Mauling You'll See Today.</span></b></blockquote>
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<b>Visuals</b>: Video is best. If an article isn't really an article, but just a conduit to someone else's previously published video, with perhaps a vague sentence explaining the grand import to how it has changed lives, then no one really has to read anything.<br />
<br />
However, I've noticed that in lieu of a youtube or questionable news outlet video link, two other kinds of visuals will do the trick. Animated GIFs are fun and, best of all, animated. I don't know what a GIF is, actually, but when the dude on the skateboard won't stop hitting his groin on the railing until I scroll past the image, I think I've just seen a GIF.<br />
<br />
And if you can't afford the bandwidth for animation, then a simple "meme" will suffice. Find a handsome picture of Ryan Gosling, type "Hey Girl," above his head, and there's no need to actually make a comment on the state of the union or how bad the new Transformers movie is because the meme is "So True."<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">You Won't Believe What They Allowed This Student to Say in Her Graduation Speech. Liberals Everywhere are Speechless. Some Conservatives Have Been Neutered.</span></b></blockquote>
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<b>Politics</b>: I've deemed this a very important aspect of internet writing today. When writing an article that will be in any way political, you must be sure to first and foremost alienate anyone who may disagree with you. Begin with an insulting title about those thin-lipped liberals or those stringy-haired conservatives. The insults continue throughout the article, of course, but don't make any kind of coherent, rational argument because that's not what the interwebs are for. You just want to inflame opinions. There is no changing minds. Make your partisan point and get the hell out of there. Let the facebook comments do the talking for you.<br />
<br />
<b>Lesson Learned</b>: You won't believe your eyes when you see what's in store for the future of <i><a href="http://buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Building Castles on the Beach</a></i>. Post number 18 will take your breath away.Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-64255611917011384842014-07-10T21:02:00.001-06:002014-07-10T23:31:23.137-06:00World Cup Soccer Explained. Finally!<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
I'm still not over my disappointment in Brasil's sleep walk of a performance against Germany. So I'm not going to talk about that. Instead, with the finals looming, this might be my last chance for four years to defend some aspects of the World Cup that neophytes and ardent fans alike don't seem to appreciate.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://i.imgflip.com/9rken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://i.imgflip.com/9rken.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is funny. But patently untrue. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The first thing I want to mention is that soccer is a contact sport. I don't share this now to make some tired comparison about how American football requires all kinds of pads and aren't soccer players tough and such. I say this to direct your focus as a viewer away from the sprawling green field the television camera shows you for most of the game. The pitch is long and wide (I won't say it's the longest and widest of all the sports because I don't know all the sports, but it's got to be close), and if you tend to get bored when one team passes the ball around for an interminable amount of time, back and forth between two or three players then all the way back to the goalie then up the sideline almost to the penalty box then back again when the player finds his way blocked--well, then perhaps you're neglecting the skill inherent in such accuracy. The opposition, for their part, isn't just standing there or even walking (well, maybe Lionel Messi is). It might casually appear that way momentarily, but these moments are rare and really happen quite quickly. The vast majority of a soccer game is played in close quarters, with players on either side hacking away at each other's lower appendages as they attempt to gain some semblance of control over the ball. </div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
In other words, in soccer you run in to each other. A lot. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/08/05/article-2184122-1466A5A4000005DC-186_964x676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/08/05/article-2184122-1466A5A4000005DC-186_964x676.jpg" height="140" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's just a jump to the left...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Imagine what would happen if there were someone standing near the finish line of a 100-meter dash, and as Usain Bolt reaches his top speed, he's tapped on the shoulder. What might such a minor, slight touch do to his balance and trajectory? Now imagine the push comes from a linebacker (not wearing pads) who has timed his hit exactly so that he will knock Usain Bolt off of the track entirely.</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
You see, it's all about physics and slow motion. The soccer pitch is really just a containment field for a bunch of atoms spun around the Large Hadron Collider and made to smash into each other. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01606/lhc-460_1606906c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01606/lhc-460_1606906c.jpg" height="200" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This isn't a time machine. Or is it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
If that metaphor doesn't work for you, I'll put it simply: those blokes are really fast and really strong. I mean, have you seen their thighs? You probably haven't since, like, 1990, but before then soccer shorts were built to allow the thigh muscles all the freedom they needed. Anyway, when they come in contact with one another, it's mini-Big Bangs all over the place. Who needs CERN?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2010/06/03/article-1283105-09DF9AB1000005DC-984_468x348.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2010/06/03/article-1283105-09DF9AB1000005DC-984_468x348.jpg" height="237" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In 1986, your shirt had to be tucked in, too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So physics means that players fall down. It's true. Sometimes it's on purpose. Sometimes it's not. I know well the satisfaction of taking down a sprinting forward with a graceful slide tackle, the ball knocked away, the forward sprawled out with his face in the grass. I haven't really experienced that since high school, of course. The indoor league I play with these days doesn't even allow your knee to touch the ground. And what would it look like if I went around slide tackling my own players as a coach at practice? Weird. That's what. Anyhoo, sometimes as you slide, you lift your foot at the last minute on purpose. Sometimes that happens whether you want it to or not. Sometimes the forward just falls whether you made any contact with him or not. And sometimes he falls on purpose, but sometimes not. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s.ndtvimg.com/images/content/2014/jun/806/arjen-robben-penalty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://s.ndtvimg.com/images/content/2014/jun/806/arjen-robben-penalty.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I liked Robben. He's clearly one of the fastest, strongest forwards.<br />
Then he did this. Lame.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Professional soccer players take dives. It's pretty clear that Arjen Robben took a dive against Mexico in the final seconds of the game, and the Netherlands won with a penalty kick. Diving is probably the most ubiquitous complaint against the game. It gives soccer a bad rap, certainly, but I think many World Cup viewers think that diving is the norm. And my point begins and ends with "soccer is a contact sport."<br />
<br />
The slightly lesser criticism of how much pain the player actually suffers is only exacerbated by slow motion video and high definition broadcast technology. On TV, of course, it sure doesn't look like those little taps on the shin would make a grown man cry. But, trust me, the pain in the moment is real. Crashed shins. Cleats at the knee or on the foot. Heads knocking like coconuts. That's a common occurrence in the World Cup. When two incredibly determined athletes leap into the air in order to be the first to reach a ball with their heads, skulls will crack, arms will flail, elbows will jab. I've been on the receiving end of one of those headbutts. Concussion put me out for two games.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1c/CMS_Higgs-event.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1c/CMS_Higgs-event.jpg" height="184" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what happens every time <br />
there's a foul during a soccer game.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But let's return for a moment to the analogy of the Large Hadron Collider. It wouldn't mean anything to run atoms into each other if we couldn't take pictures of every single nano-moment of the collision and the resulting explosion to see if anything actually happened. That slo-mo video is essential to the discovery.<br />
<br />
So, too, it is with the slo-mo instant replays of not only every shot ad nauseum, but every foul. But these players have got to be kidding, right? These virile chaps contort their faces into the most ridiculous expressions. Nowadays only to be caught on an HD recording to relive in all it's grimacing glory. But that's just it. I mean, what expression you would make if you were minding your own business, one minute just out for a jog, then the next minute you're on your butt through no fault of you own? And what would people say if they saw a picture of it?</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br />
To be honest, I don't like how they take so much time. Even players who are fouled and get the call stay on the ground and arrange their socks and shin guards and tie their shoes again. They give the other team all the time they need to form a wall and set their defense. I don't quite understand why they don't just bounce up and walk it off without taking their time first. I know when I've felt that jolt of pain, the fastest way to get over it is to keep moving, not stop and pout. Or fix your clothes. I dunno. Maybe they're all worried that every time they get knocked over, their livelihood is on the line, which is entirely probable. One wrong step, one missed tackle, one swollen ankle or bruised kneecap (not to mention fractured vertebrae), and your career may be over.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://rack.2.mshcdn.com/media/ZgkyMDE0LzA3LzA1LzcwL25leW1hci45NjY0Yi5qcGcKcAl0aHVtYgk5NTB4NTM0IwplCWpwZw/190084b3/3c1/neymar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://rack.2.mshcdn.com/media/ZgkyMDE0LzA3LzA1LzcwL25leW1hci45NjY0Yi5qcGcKcAl0aHVtYgk5NTB4NTM0IwplCWpwZw/190084b3/3c1/neymar.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously. Ow.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br />
Then there's the on-field complaining. When you don't get the call your way, apparently in World Cup play it's okay for several players to approach the referee, heatedly plead your case, then walk away shaking your head. That, of course, would earn each of those players yellow cards in a high school soccer match. But I get it. Yell at the refs. Complain about calls. It's understandable. As a coach, my communication on the field is a good 90% yelling at refs, with only ten percent of the time left to work with my own players. I don't expect the refs to change their calls. I have never once in ever seen a ref change his mind about a call. I can't imagine these professional players, who've seen much more soccer than I ever will, might think that the ref will change his mind if they get up in his face after a call. Besides, they've probably got at least three different languages being tossed around out there. How does anyone know what anyone else is saying?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/gc/451391254-players-appeal-to-referee-bjorn-kuipers-gettyimages.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=2&d=GkZZ8bf5zL1ZiijUmxa7QRckR%2FagV%2BgZPgConM3TTs%2BsFkccWxzKqGD5whz%2Bgijv" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/gc/451391254-players-appeal-to-referee-bjorn-kuipers-gettyimages.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=2&d=GkZZ8bf5zL1ZiijUmxa7QRckR%2FagV%2BgZPgConM3TTs%2BsFkccWxzKqGD5whz%2Bgijv" height="209" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notice the smirk on the ref's face. He doesn't understand a word.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Still, I believe in making the officials aware of what they missed. For the next time. I've seen it work. Say a certain player is repeatedly evading calls for fouls. If I point it out to the referees, that player is not likely to keep getting away with it. And though I've never witnessed an official change his mind, I've seen refs deliberately make up for a bad call by making a bad call the other way. Maybe that's why players like Robben get calls their way just for pretending to be kicked in the shin. </div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br />
Perhaps the most grievous grievance about soccer (by Americans, at least) is the low scores. But I like how a goal in soccer actually means something. You have to admit that for most basketball games, nothing really matters until the last five minutes, right? Basketball players might as well just sprint up and down a court for about 35 minutes, then take five minutes to see who can make the most baskets. In soccer, each time the ball goes into the net, it's a big deal. That's why they run around crazy after scoring, doing dogpiles and dances. That's why (all but the demure dudes they get on ESPN) announcers scream "Goooooooooool!" for about four minutes. Because it matters. Because it's rare.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://soka360tz.files.wordpress.com/2014/06/kompany-and-belgium-players-celebrating-goal-qualification-brazil-2014.jpg?w=600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://soka360tz.files.wordpress.com/2014/06/kompany-and-belgium-players-celebrating-goal-qualification-brazil-2014.jpg?w=600" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After this, the player who scored was injured for three games.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Germany's 7-1 victory over Brasil the other day has served at least to show that points can add up on the board, but that's not the kind of game we like (and not just because Brasil was on the short end of that one). The drama in soccer happens as tension mounts. A couple of goals here and there just make it that much more important to play well, defending your lead or coming from behind. Every second counts. Every touch, every foul, every shot matters. That's the beauty of the game.<br />
<br />
End of sermon. Amen.</div>
Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-40492755612449317512014-06-23T08:57:00.000-06:002014-06-23T08:57:26.544-06:00Father's Day and the World Cup<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I don't follow sports. I don't watch the Super Bowl, not even for
the commercials. I don't know who's in the NBA finals right now, though I am
mindful of professional sports seasons and don't quite understand why the basketball
season extends into the summer. And while I coach soccer and even play it
myself (old man, coed rec league), the last time I watched a soccer game on TV
was four years ago when Spain beat the Netherlands in the 2010 World Cup final.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQohr-wDMH0bCnzvorQbdsyjbq91tNUPAUcC1n56S2vwju5uXS1Xw" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQohr-wDMH0bCnzvorQbdsyjbq91tNUPAUcC1n56S2vwju5uXS1Xw" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only the guy on the right is supposed to use his hands.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Growing up, I loved soccer but was only
vaguely aware of something called the World Cup. I guess I have a memory of
<a href="https://www.google.com/webhp?sourceid=chrome-instant&rlz=1C1CHMI_enUS316US316&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8#q=maradona%20hand%20of%20god" target="_blank">Maradona's "Hand of God" goal</a> in 1986, but I can't recall if I
watched it live or just heard about it later. I don't know if any TV station in the United States would have even broadcast the World Cup final at that time. In 1990, I was in Brazil, and
suddenly the World Cup actually meant something. As a missionary, I wasn't
supposed to be watching soccer, but literally everyone we would talk to was
engaged with the World Cup, and during the games (especially the matches the
Brazilian team played), it was no use trying to find someone to teach the
gospel. "Hi, we have a message about Jesus Christ. Oh, Pele's your
personal savior? Okay. Talk to you in three weeks." Instead, we
missionaries spent time in member's homes and--this sounds much worse than it
is--at the bar next door, watching <i>futebol</i>, and catching the fever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/4/4c/1994_FIFA_World_Cup_logo.svg/500px-1994_FIFA_World_Cup_logo.svg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/4/4c/1994_FIFA_World_Cup_logo.svg/500px-1994_FIFA_World_Cup_logo.svg.png" height="187" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I thought graphic design was better in the 90's.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Then, for some reason, in 1994, the World
Cup was held in the United States. I began to become obsessed with watching the games, even changing my schedule around for the first time ever just to be a part of televised sporting events. I received much grief from my first wife for suggesting that she find herself a ride to the airport when she had to fly to her mother's at the same time that the US team was to play Brazil. I only caught the last part of that match because I did wind up taking her to the airport myself, though hindsight says I probably could have stayed home to watch the entire game and my marriage would have ended the same.</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
In '98 and '02, my fascination for the World Cup percolated over low heat. I'd watch what games I could, but it remained difficult to find the time or the channel. Especially in 2002, when the games were played in Korea in the middle of the night. I mean, that's pretty inconsiderate. Because of this, any inclination to continue to watch the World Cup at all might have ended there if it weren't for TiVo.<br />
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://blog.tivo.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/TiVo-Guy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://blog.tivo.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/TiVo-Guy.jpg" height="200" width="166" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miracle drug? or Gateway drug? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
By 2006, I had a new wife who had come fully stocked with the
miracle of satellite TV and the DVR. That year, I recorded every World Cup game
and was thus able to fully realize my World Cup mania. I didn't watch every
match (I mean, who wants to sit through Angola vs. Iran?), but most of the games
passed before my eyes. I spent many mucho hours in front of the TV in the
basement, mostly by myself because I had no friends and my wife and daughters
had no interest, sometimes watching entire games, sometimes forwarding through
at double or triple speed, only stopping to watch a goal or a major foul. The TiVo fast forward was to me the most brilliant contrivance since the VCR. It was like I needed to view as much as I could. Like the experience wouldn't
be complete by just watching one or two games here and there. And fast forwarding through some of the games makes that possible.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The 2010 World Cup sped by in much the same manner.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But I almost didn't get to see anything this year. After<a href="http://buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2011/11/one-year-ago-photoessay.html" target="_blank"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"> </span></span>the first boy was born</a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>three and a half years ago, we had
little time for television had discontinued paying for cable and TiVo. I
thought, maybe, I would be able to find the games streaming for free online,
but the legit sites like ESPN need cable passwords and the unlegit sights scare me. I
actually clicked a link for one site that was supposed to stream all kinds of
live sporting events, and it opened to an FCC warning stating that the
government had taken over that web address. Not only did I not need viruses and
the FCC infecting my computer, but I didn't think I wanted to sit at my kitchen
table and watch hours of soccer on my laptop screen. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Instead, for Father's Day my wife solved my World Cup dilemma. We
splurged and reinstated the TiVo, but without the cable or satellite TV.
Realizing that Univision would broadcast every single game, I have been able to record the whole Cup without having to pay
for cable. It's more fun to watch the games in Spanish, after all. <span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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The following is a classic, but oh, so true. </div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Fortunately, my passion for World Cup soccer has not branched out to a desire to watch any other sports, including the MLS. But I'm pleased that every four years my wife bestows unto me a month-long Father's Day. Next time, I'm not going to skimp on the cost. My plan for World Cup 2018 is to watch it on my brand new holographic television with 22 point stadium sound system and available Smell-O-Vision package to really experience that balmy Russian summer.<br />
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<a href="http://tjatbass.mondoblog.org/files/2014/01/2014-world-cup-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://tjatbass.mondoblog.org/files/2014/01/2014-world-cup-logo.jpg" height="200" width="142" /></a></div>
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Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-49417014657285807532013-10-14T19:30:00.001-06:002013-10-14T19:30:35.824-06:00Respect is good, but latinum's better.I was coaching a soccer game last week and something happened that has stuck with me enough to kick-start my long-neglected blog. (Just don't expect this to become a habit again.)<br />
<br />
Okay, so the other team was leading 1-0. But that's not the thing that happened.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.toledoblade.com/image/2011/11/12/800x600_b1cCM/St-Ursula-goalie-Nicole-Vahalik-reacts-to-a-loss-in-the-state-title-game.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="120" src="http://www.toledoblade.com/image/2011/11/12/800x600_b1cCM/St-Ursula-goalie-Nicole-Vahalik-reacts-to-a-loss-in-the-state-title-game.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what it feels like when doves cry.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When your opponent scores first, things get tense. Your players on the field get anxious and start fouling more. On the sideline, your players on the bench start grousing more and want to tell the referee what to do. And you, the coach, yell a lot more, as if anyone on the field can actually hear what you're saying. There's this burden that wasn't there just a moment before: a weight on your shoulders or a wall to climb or a monkey on your back, and with every minute that passes without a reciprocal goal, the weight gets heavier and the wall gets taller and the monkey gets angrier.<br />
<br />
One of the opposing team's captains was this bigger kid whose mere presence on the field controlled a lot of the game. At one point he was fouled and went down loudly, maybe in pain, maybe just to get attention, and he stayed on the ground longer than necessary, as soccer players around the world are wont to do. The bench on our side began to murmur in earnest, commenting on this player's acting and whining skills. But he got up and play resumed and within moments the ball was out of bounds near our bench. The muttering about the other team hadn't petered out yet, and one of our managers (a young lady who takes down stats like shots and goals and yellow cards) said, clearly but not loudly, probably to no one, "That kid just whines about everything."<br />
<br />
A defender from the other side had picked up the ball, just to the right of our bench. He seemed ready to throw it in, but instead he turned around, glared right at this girl manager and jeered, "Can you tell me what the score is?"<br />
<br />
I immediately said, "Hey!"--like, what else am I going to say? "Screw you, kid!"? I <i>did </i>use my most outraged tone, and I physically stepped towards him, cutting off as much visual access to my bench as possible, like a mother bear protecting his cubs. I knew that he had heard what the manager had said, got offended himself, and decided the clever retort was to counter by reiterating the score, the only thing that mattered in the long run. A logical move, to be sure, but still a taunt, and despite it happening quietly on the field between players all the time in every game, taunting is one of the taboos in high school soccer (indeed, in all high school sports) that could lead directly to a red card and possible further action against playing in the future.<br />
<br />
I promptly recuperated from my "Hey" and lobbed a "No one's talking to you" and then a "You can't talk to the players on my bench." This kid just smugly turned away, but before he threw the ball in, called back over his shoulder, "You respect me, I respect you." <br />
<br />
That's it. That lame, self-serving, know-it-all saying. That's what stuck with me. <br />
<br />
I've heard this before. Many students in my classroom make similar, if not exact, statements: "If you don't respect me, I don't respect you."<br />
<br />
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<br />
I can't count how many of my students have employed this notion in order to give me attitude about any little thing, whether I ask them to focus on work in class or I take away a distracting cell phone. Just this week, a girl in class was blaring music through her headphones so loudly she didn't even notice I was asking for her phone, so when I grew riled and reached to take the phone away (I knew she wasn't going to give it over willingly), she jerked her hand away and said, "You don't pay my phone bill. My own dad doesn't get to take my phone away." And while I contemplated the kind of parent who wouldn't take away his daughter's phone when she deserved it, no matter who was paying the bill, she added, "You can't disrespect me and snatch away my phone." The rest was chaos and the class laughed and the bell rang and she walked away, having saved face in the wake of my overwhelming disrespect.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure how much of that story is just me needing to rant at how inconsiderate the KIDS TODAY are, but at least some of it has to do with my point.<br />
<br />
The licence implied by such a philosophy (Respect Me, Respect You--isn't that a Lionel Richie song?) allows me to react callously at the slightest provocation. If you don't show me respect, then I can say and do anything I want to you because you were mean to me first. I mean, it seems like so many kids--<i>is </i>it just kids?--are walking around locked and loaded, angry at the world, at their circumstance and misfortune, expecting at any moment, someone, some adult, will disrespect them. How else are they supposed to react?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Their default is not to begin in a position of respect, despite the station or rank of the other person. There is no automatic respect given to teachers or police officers or parents or Presidents of the United States. No, the default position is to wait to until they are disrespected, because, ultimately, it's going to happen, isn't it?</div>
<br />
It's the self-satisfaction that gets me the most. Our children have learned that this behavior is totally expected. That they need to be tough and not take any crap from anyone. That they have the <i>right</i>--nay, the <i>duty</i>--to be nasty if someone is nasty to them first.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://th03.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/i/2011/267/0/1/nap_time_by_jackie_lyn-d4aty27.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://th03.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/i/2011/267/0/1/nap_time_by_jackie_lyn-d4aty27.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't think I'd wake up Jake the Dog.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One obvious problem with this knee-jerk reaction is, what if there is no disrespect intended? What if you've misinterpreted the situation entirely, but you react like a jerk anyway? I don't go around asking myself how I can disrespect my students every day. But lots of them seem to think I do. How dare Mr. Wescott interrupt my nap time and ask me to write a stupid college application essay? Who does he think he is? Maybe if I just ask him what the score is....<br />
<br />
Of course, my soccer manager meant the disrespect. She was being mean. So was the whole bench. So was I, for that matter, because even though I said nothing, it sure seemed to me that other team captain was being a bit of a baby. Therefore, the player who spoke to my bench had every right to taunt them with the simple fact of the score, right?<br />
<br />
Except, why can't he simply be content knowing that the complaints from the opposing team come from the frustration of being beat by his team's superiority? What does it take for my students to get past the automatic defenses and understand that no matter how I treat them or how they perceive I treat them, their education is more important than saving face?<br />
<br />
I know this sounds largely naive to a lot of people, youthful soccer players, high school students, and upstanding adults alike. I know this is like harassment, that perception matters as much as, if not more than, intention. But what if our young people learned not that if someone shows you disrespect, then you get to disrespect them back, but instead that if someone shows you disrespect, then you should just continue to show that person respect anyway? Isn't it more respectful to understand that the person insulting you is merely frustrated, not personally hateful toward you and your soccer team? Isn't it more respectful to see that your teacher is just doing his job and doesn't want you to fail and drop out and live in a ditch because you can't distinguish between a simile and a synonym?<br />
<br />
I know at the very least we'd save a lot of time.<br />
<br />
Now, watch the video for "Say You, Say Me" and marvel at the wonder that is Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines dancing. Respect.<br />
<br />
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<br />Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-49545997363929381592012-12-10T05:00:00.000-07:002012-12-10T05:00:13.204-07:00The Christmas Tree and Other IrritationsSo, mostly I just gush about the boy all the time around here.<br />
<br />
But I'm noticing our Christmas tree over in the corner and it's looking sad. In the past, dozens of different kinds of ornaments have adorned its branches. We don't follow any certain style; over the years, we've collected a variety of flavors. Some fancy crystal, some homemade felt. Some green and red balls, some tourist souvenirs. But place them all overlapping the festive blinking lights, fill the room with more eclectic tastes of the season, and the tree appears downright elegant.<br />
<br />
Here's what it looks like this year:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uaFTvQVEVmmaBWeWK-_YweapvIhHKar1iyEz5SKM_ybxzyx2sn7-B1oFV7ZPzdCAL5SMJrCY0UJLQLqIqAafkLBatYcJLhSFQ5-_nQdizDz9qkhyphenhyphenwBfP2xA0YR3BFkBBTOisXfEWWVAd/s1600/photo+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uaFTvQVEVmmaBWeWK-_YweapvIhHKar1iyEz5SKM_ybxzyx2sn7-B1oFV7ZPzdCAL5SMJrCY0UJLQLqIqAafkLBatYcJLhSFQ5-_nQdizDz9qkhyphenhyphenwBfP2xA0YR3BFkBBTOisXfEWWVAd/s320/photo+(3).JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
That looks even worse than in real life. Here. It looks slightly better with the lights on, but you can't really tell how the ornaments are distributed. It's just such a mess, I'm embarrassed to even post these pictures.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4vjrc30XOavEZKMrq-DbTMRnPrLLL-gp7xm-xQl9-50SH6Vvdboi1E-vyiDYTO3F9KvIDJ5VgEMR_MnCa-dOCOWWv9EzcCBKcW_vuWxOpBI8ci34egWfxQAgtbd6vpzdY_Ou6C9RIhW1I/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4vjrc30XOavEZKMrq-DbTMRnPrLLL-gp7xm-xQl9-50SH6Vvdboi1E-vyiDYTO3F9KvIDJ5VgEMR_MnCa-dOCOWWv9EzcCBKcW_vuWxOpBI8ci34egWfxQAgtbd6vpzdY_Ou6C9RIhW1I/s320/photo+(2).JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
Any guesses why it looks this way?<br />
<br />
Generally, Xander's pretty great. But the fact that he's turned our Christmas tree into this mockery of a Christmas tree is distressing. I understand I shouldn't expect much else. He's a precocious toddler with nothing else to do but run amok throughout the house. But he's broken at least four of the ornaments and I've punctured my foot on an ornament hook when he generously distributed a bunch around the floor. It hurt.<br />
<br />
So I'm in a mood to discuss a few other annoying aspects of the toddler and his ways.<br />
<br />
I wear glasses. Always have. My wife, too. If you're blessed with infallible eyes, I won't be able to explain in words the importance of fitting a pair of spectacles so well that you forget they're on your face. Seriously, when that child doesn't want to be held and he reaches up to grab your glasses when he knows how much it infuriates you...I can't even end that sentence. But once he has the temple in his little vice grip, you can't just move your head or he'll snap the little plastic piece in two. You can't reach up to stop him; your hands are full and busy holding on to his wiggles and squirms. He knows very well he has the advantage. You just have to let it happen. He takes the glasses off your head, and depending on his own level of frustration, might send them flying across the room or restaurant or holds them away from you, smiling broadly, a game of keep away at full tilt.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mezzmer.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/broken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.mezzmer.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/broken.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This happened to me once.<br />But it was a soccer ball, not a toddler's foot.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The whole issue is aggravated when he accidentally smacks his face or foot or something else into your glasses. Right there on the corner of the frame where the joints are so precariously fitted, so perfectly formed that the glasses stay comfortably on your nose without slipping, without pinching your ears. And when you collect them and put them back on, the chances of them being slightly askew, which means infinitely maddening, are so high that you almost just want to throw them in the trash and start over at America's Best in the morning. Of course, how would you get there if you couldn't see?<br />
<br />
And you already know my feelings about the <a href="http://buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2012/07/detritus-on-floor.html" target="_blank">detritus that gathers on our hardwood floors</a>. As the boy gets older and has graduated from a high chair to a booster seat at the kitchen table, the detritus has only gotten worse. He's still strapped down because if he weren't he would hardly eat anything before slipping under the table and running away with a curt "bye-bye" and a wave. So when he's through eating what's on his plate, he simply grabs it and dumps the remaining contents on the floor. It happens so quickly, no amount of watchful hovering can stop it. There is no defense. The food ends up on the floor, and whatever is left on the table is then brushed off with his hands, quick like a bunny, because he's anything if not courteous enough to clear his entire place from the dinner table.<br />
<br />
He knows how to say "I'm done," or at least "Down." But he doesn't. Then he runs off and leaves the sweeping to Daddy.<br />
<br />
The last item on my list today is the "No" as first response. Throughout the day, your questions might go something like this:<br />
<br />
"Xander, do you want some cookies for dinner?" "No."<br />
<br />
"Is it time to play with your trains?" "No." <br />
<br />
"Do you want to wear your monster jammies or your monkey jammies?" "No."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS4WwnBb9gjsjp1kXEtY-tzN-WqpfcHdAzuOGb6mvGAjrm6HuH6" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="114" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS4WwnBb9gjsjp1kXEtY-tzN-WqpfcHdAzuOGb6mvGAjrm6HuH6" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Xander also does a smashing "Ka-Chow!"<br />And then all you can do is giggle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"How about some <i>Cars 2</i> tonight?" "No...Yes, my daddy." He says "My daddy" and "My mommy." Like, I say, "Say thank you, Xander," and he says, "Denk oo, my daddy." It's pretty freakin cute.<br />
<br />
<br />
But I digress. What was I saying?Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-46102070385223575172012-12-03T21:34:00.002-07:002012-12-05T21:58:30.128-07:00Big Boy BedI don't know where my son is right now.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure he's in his room. I'd have heard the door open if he'd escaped. But exactly where he is in that room? That's a mystery. I could check. A good inch-wide gap separates his bedroom door from the floor, the result of wall-to-wall carpeting however long ago. These days we go with naked hardwood. If I lie on the floor a little ways down the hall, I can get something of a view inside the room. But right now, I think all I'd see is blankets piled on the floor, tossed off the bed.<br />
<br />
Not long ago, a monkey foot wrapped in footie pajamas forced its way under the door in an effort to escape the confines of the room then got stuck there. I had no choice but to open the door and replace the monkey boy back into his big boy bed.<br />
<br />
Thus began Xander's first night sleeping without a crib.<br />
<br />
A couple of days ago, the boy was committing some random terrorism around the house and ended up in time out. His mother and I put him in his crib while we went to clean up whatever mess he had made. We returned not more than 30 seconds later and entered his room to find him smiling proudly, lounging in the armchair we'd put in there a few days ago while he was up all night coughing his lungs out and not sleeping much. The plushy armchair is more comfortable for a parent sitting up with a sick child, but apparently we'd left it too close to the crib because he'd figured out he could use it to his advantage and stage a prison break.<br />
<br />
It was a watershed moment.<br />
<br />
I removed the chair, all the while knowing any day now the boy would discover another way out of the crib. After all, a handy rocking chair had sat next to his crib for two years now. It was a much shorter drop than to the floor.<br />
<br />
Then today at 1:59 p.m., I received a text from my wife declaring the following:<br />
<br />
<h4>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Put Xan in his crib for a nap. A few minutes later he opened the door and ran out to give me a hug. Huge grin on his face. Guess what we're doing tonight?</span></h4>
<br />
I laughed out loud. When I got home the first thing the boy did was show me how he could climb out of his crib by balancing precariously over the corner and dropping kind of sideways onto the rocking chair. Easy peasy. How proud he was.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
So we turned the crib into a big boy bed. Four walls no more, the cage is gone, replaced by a guard rail that's supposed to keep the child from rolling onto the floor, but which facilitates an easy climb in and out of bed.<br />
<br />
"Are you ready for what's going to happen tonight?" I asked my wife when the bed was complete again.<br />
<br />
"No," she answered, but didn't offer any words of wisdom. Please refer to the <a href="http://www.buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2012/01/great-sleep-debate.html" target="_blank">Great Sleep Debate of 2012</a> to remind yourself of what we went through to get the boy to go down and sleep all night in the first place. Now I was worried the debate was about to start up all anew.<br />
<br />
Bedtime rolled around tonight. Mommy conveniently found a way to leave the house. I read him a few books, watched some of an episode of <i>The Last Airbender</i> until he was sleepy, then put him down in his new big boy bed. He curled up in his blanky like he does, turned over, and seemed to get right to sleep. We've trained him well, I thought. Mom will come home and be so impressed. No debate necessary.<br />
<br />
I exited the room, closed the door tightly so he couldn't open it. The door jam is sticky, so even if he could turn the knob, he couldn't open the door. I figure that's our next hurdle.<br />
<br />
Is this so terrible? With my oldest daughter, we strapped her into her bed until she would request it before we left the room at night. Otherwise she never would have stayed in bed long enough to fall asleep. But her mother and I hadn't trained her like we've trained the boy, so I figure only a few nights of blockade will be necessary for him to learn that sleep happens in bed, not on the floor at the door breathing the radiance creeping in from whatever party Mommy and Daddy have going for the rest of the night.<br />
<br />
So, after sticking one foot under the door, emptying out several of his dresser drawers, crying the dark because he'd turned off his own nightlight, sitting with Mommy after all because she came home and couldn't stand him crying in the dark, he has chosen this:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Atta boy.</td></tr>
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Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-92128037622344684182012-11-19T05:00:00.000-07:002012-11-30T12:23:16.030-07:00Trains and the Two-Year-Old BoyAt two-years-old, Xander can't get enough out of trains.<br />
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He wakes up in the morning calling out, "Choo choo!" Mom and Dad hear it through the baby monitor, and it's enough to make me want to ditch the whole system. If he wants me to wake up, he can climb out of the crib and say "choo choo!" at me in person. I don't think Mom is there yet, though.<br />
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When we finally pull him from the crib, then, he runs to wherever he was last night with his trains before being forced to give them up in favor of a pacifier and cup of milk. He carries at least three trains in his arms, wanders around the house, sometimes putting the trains on a track, sometimes just pushing them around the floor or couch or table or bathtub, always with the mantra, "Trains. Choo choo. Trains. Choo choo" on his lips.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the perpetual smile is kinda creepy.</td></tr>
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He watches a variety of train-related videos during the day. <i>Thomas the Tank Engine </i>is one of the favorites, much to my chagrin. At least it's changed from earlier incarnations. Even with George Carlin or Ringo Starr narrating, I could never get past the soulless faces on these engines and the plastic humans, standing in place, as if someone were literally filming a train run around someone's model track in the garage. Now it's computer animated, so the trains actually speak their lines and the background doesn't look like it was built by Radio Shack, but it's not like they now produce Pixar-quality stories. It's still just an excuse for a toddler to watch trains chuff their way down the tracks.<br />
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"Chuff," by the way, is a word I've only recently learned. It's the sound the train makes as it goes, as in, "Thomas chuffed around the tracks, showing he was a very useful engine." We found a book called <i>Choo Choo </i>by Petr Horacek at the library, and it demonstrates that there are several interesting synonyms for train noises that a young boy might want to know.<br />
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Lately, though, the boy wants to watch a movie called <i>The Little Engine That Could</i>. Wildly original, I know. But it's a new movie, computer animated, and Whoopi does a voice, and so does Patrick Warburton, so it could be worse. Xander will watch this movie over and over and over. He calls it "Train" and <i>Thomas and Friends </i>is called "Choo Choo." <br />
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When we want to feel like good parents and limit his TV time to a mere several hours a day, we have train-based iPhone apps that he fiddles with. They're mostly Thomas puzzles and interactive books, and some are just train pictures with train noises, but the boy can't get enough. He'll sit on the couch touching the screen in the same place to see the same picture or hear the same chuffing, again while holding three trains in his other hand against his chest, like if he drops them or even lets them out of his sight for a minute, the train might go away, his fascination might require some other diversion.<br />
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Then last week, he turned two, and he got the gift of even more trains. Trains of different sizes to go on different tracks. It's a racket, but we willingly bought into it. He now has trains more fancy than the blocky, plastic ones he used to carry around. It's Thomas and Percy, wooden, metal, and even electric. He doesn't really like the one that has an "on" switch to make it go by itself. It's loud and creaky. Perhaps it reminds him of the nasty <a href="http://buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2012/11/new-do.html" target="_blank">hair clippers</a>. Or perhaps it just takes away his own fantasy of moving his own engine by his own power, hauling some kind of precious cargo over the hill because he knew he could.Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-14905733123560618512012-11-12T05:00:00.000-07:002012-11-27T21:55:22.758-07:00New 'Do<br />
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Here is the boy at the local skate park. I swear there are kids tricking (Is that the proper skate term? Sounds wrong.) out there every time I look. Don't they have school? Or homes? Except the area was uncommonly deserted this day when Xander discovered that the skate ramp makes a pretty good slide.<br />
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No longer satisfied with wholesome Bieber bangs or even a faux-mullet, Xander had opted for the who-has-time-to-think-about-his-hair 'do. We had a couple of options:<br />
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1. Do nothing, which would mean we'd have to get him a board. Maybe a longboard to start? Then just send him over to hang with the cool kids. He's already got the hoodie.<br />
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2. Take him back to Sport Clips. <a href="http://buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2012/05/haircuts-for-boys-sans-rocket-ships.html" target="_blank">The first time we did that has been previously chronicled</a>. Not a bad option. But I believe that when you're getting a haircut, you should get your hair actually cut. Which brings me to option<br />
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3. Break out the clippers and shave his head myself.<br />
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You can see for yourself which option won the day.<br />
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Full disclosure, in case she's been saying otherwise, this was done with full permission from his mother. I'd always wanted to do this with either of my two daughters as they were growing up. Every time they'd scream as I was brushing knots out of their hair--which is to say, every time I brushed their hair--I'd ask their mother once more if I could just shave their heads and save us all a couple of months of grief. That never happened, and my thirteen-year-old still whines about brushing her hair. Even today she needs a good buzz cut. Imagine how that would go over with my ex-wife.<br />
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So with both parents in agreeance (it's a perfectly cromulent word), we strapped the boy into his booster seat, put the chair on the back porch, and clipped away. He didn't seem to know what was happening at first, so he didn't move when he heard the quiet buzzing of the clippers near his ear. But the moment the clippers snagged on a too-long strand of hair, the hummingbird whisper became a chainsaw growl and the boy started howling and the world descended into total anarchy. You can imagine. Dogs and cats living together and such.<br />
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You can see we all survived, brilliant countenances intact, so it wasn't as bad as all that. But I doubt Mom will let Dad do it ever again.<br />
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At first I wasn't exactly satisfied with the results. The extremes were too severe, from too long to too short. And as his hair grows now, every missed hair sticks out more, which diminishes my once professional-level ability with the clippers.<br />
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But now I think he looks older, more debonair, like a more youthful David Beckham. Which can't be a bad thing.Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-65668338234374539522012-11-05T05:00:00.000-07:002012-11-05T05:00:06.200-07:00Lil' KickersThe Boy is nearly two-years-old and it's about time he learned how to kick a ball. I mean, Ronaldinho was juggling a futebol de salao right out of the womb, right? Xander's behind schedule.<br />
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As for me, I started playing soccer when I was five. It was the mid-seventies and soccer was exploding in popularity all over America. "Soccer Made in Germany" was broadcast semi-periodically on PBS. Pele was paid millions to play out his waning years for the New York Cosmos. And the AYSO's "Everybody plays" policy helped extend the Sixties nearly into the Eighties.<br />
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At some point I realized that I was rather comfortable with a ball at my feet, so my parents put me on a team. I played my whole young life, then didn't for many adult years, then started coaching a few years back, and now I'm consistently playing again. I play indoor, managing maybe three minutes without keeling over, and somehow I end up stepping on an opponent's toes nearly every game. Also, we keep losing to the same teams, which gets old, but I can't complain because I'm playing soccer. Complaining would be antithetical.<br />
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The club where I play offers the Lil' Kickers program which starts kids at eighteen-months-old. Last week we were able to sign up Xander for a free trial with the "Bunnies." In a couple of weeks, once he turns two, and if we decide it's the worth the pricey fee, Xander will be put on the "Thumpers" team. <br />
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They started with ten minutes of "warm-up," which consisted of about eight toddlers roaming around one end of the indoor soccer field, at times picking up and carrying a size three soccer ball, other times kicking it, everyone in their own space. As parent I tried to keep a leash on things. I passed a ball to Xander's feet as often as I could. He kicked it back by stumbling into it. Mostly, he just wanted to run.<br />
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I mean that literally. That's all he wanted to do. It didn't matter where. It didn't matter what was in his way. He was out of the confines of our small home, free to cavort as though he had all the time and space in the world.<br />
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Which he didn't.<br />
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He discovered early that the long, air-filled tube separating the Bunnies from the Thumpers was easily moved. All he had to do was tumble headlong into it and it would roll away from him, reducing the space allotted to the Thumpers. More than once the dividing tube nearly steamrolled over another small child on the opposite side.<br />
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He also didn't have nearly all the time he desired. After that first ten minutes, Coach Jill attempted to engage the players in organized activities. First, she wanted them to sit on a colored mat then tell the group their names and what color the mat was. Why she thought anyone less than two-years-old would be able to do that, I don't know, but at least all of the other kids were able to sit in one place while their parents doled out the information. Xander wouldn't sit down, let alone still, so I held him upside down like I do when he's too squirmy to hold onto properly and told the group who he was.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a great photo, but you can certainly see his enthusiasm.</td></tr>
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After that we were supposed to run together across the field to the opposite wall. Xander wanted to run in whatever direction he chose. Then, Coach Jill handed each child a few orange field cones and demonstrated how to make a tower then kick a ball at the stack. Xander didn't mind stacking up the cones but didn't wait to put a ball at his feet before knocking over the tower. Next, hula hoops. Roll them around. Chase them. Run into other children. It's all part of the fun. Then with the squishy balls. Each player started with one, but Xander likes to carry more than one of anything, so he pounced on any unattended ball as quickly as he could and tried to carry them all around. Very little kicking was involved. In fact, few team or group activities were involved on the Bunnies soccer team.<br />
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Until Coach Jill pulled out the parachute. The other kids threw their squishy balls onto the parachute, circled up, and grabbed hold of an edge. Xander wasn't sure what to make of it. We tried to make the balls bounce around the middle. Then we flew the parachute up, and pulled it down over ourselves so everyone was underneath. Everyone except Xander. He'd found his calling. From outside, he ran back and forth from the parachute, attacking the airy bulge at every open point. More than once, he crashed into a child underneath, before I had to grab him again and pull him aside. The only time he held still the whole hour was when we put the kids on top of the parachute and the parents made a Merry-Go-Round out of it. I got dizzy myself from the circles, but the kids, even Xander loved it.<br />
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He ran away again as soon as the turning was done. The other kids were getting their hand stamped and picking up papers to give to parents, and I was still chasing after my boy.<br />
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The lack of actual soccer notwithstanding, we'll be taking him back. I'm disappointed that Xander didn't demonstrate grand promise as a future soccer megastar, but he clearly enjoyed himself. Perhaps the Thumpers and the two-year-olds will show him the one true way. In today's competitive climate, we can't afford to wait until he's five.<br />
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Before we left, as if to punctuate something, I put him on the bleachers to change his clothes and to get a few pictures, when he chose to step off the bench in the instant I took my hand off him. I reached out to catch him, smacking him in the mouth, but slowing his descent to the floor enough that all he got was a bloody, fat lip.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seconds later, pow, right in the kisser!</td></tr>
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Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-22189889647268623982012-10-29T05:00:00.000-06:002014-07-14T06:48:14.164-06:00Wherein I discuss Nonfiction for a tickI got no excuses. Except for the plenty of reasons I have to continue to neglect my blog. But it's still October. Two posts for the month ain't bad.<br />
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To the point, I've been reading a bunch of nonfiction lately. Partly for work. Partly for fun. And I don't say that lightly. I'm not in the habit of reading nonfiction for fun. If I'm looking for fun and can't get to the mini-golf course, I go in for the fiction reading. Which goes to show these must be some extra-superb books, right?<br />
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Let's begin with a book I haven't even finished yet, but can't wait to explain to people. <i>How Soccer Explains the World: An Unlikely Theory of Globalization</i> by Franklin Foer purports that soccer effects everything from small communities to society at large, from ganglords in war-torn Bosnia to political divisiveness in America. At least those are the two chapters I've read so far.<br />
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I picked it up and read the last chapter first because it was about the United States and how when soccer became a popular children's recreation in the seventies, it was basically a hippie construction, an extension of the sixties, a contrast to the militarism of Pee-Wee football and the competitiveness of Little League baseball and was viewed as anti-American. Thus, red states and blue states can be identified by how many people let their kids play soccer. Fun, right?<br />
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Fascinated, I returned to the first chapter which explains how throughout the nineties a man gained Serbian national acclaim due to his leading an army of soccer hooligans in defense of Slobadon Milosovic. Apparently, it's common practice for a soccer club in Europe to recruit and hire groups of fans to be the team's official hooligans. And apparently, in what started as Yugoslavia, these hooligans did more than just taunt fans of the other team. One psycho criminal was given charge of the Red Star fans and led them to commit atrocities against Muslims and Croatians during their war. After reading this, I stifled my innocent giggle at being labeled "Unamerican" because I play soccer. I'm a little embarrassed for my sport. But certainly fascinated by this book.<br />
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Over the summer, I read the book <i>The Know-It-All: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World</i> by A.J. Jacobs. This book chronicles his attempt to read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica in about a year. Jacobs published the book in 2005, and I figure he must have started his quest just as Wikipedia was gaining traction online. He discusses reading CD-ROM versions of the Encyclopedia, but unfortunately doesn't discuss what impact online fonts of information have done to the necessity of the Britannica.<br />
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What was most interesting to me was something I realized early on in my reading. Jacobs formats his book alphabetically, giving his own versions of a chosen few encyclopedia entries while incorporating a memoir of his experience. He cleverly uses a current encyclopedia entry to be able to tell a story about what is going on in his life at the time he read it. For instance, he uses the entry on "vital fluid" to tell his story about going on <i>Who Wants to Be a Millionaire</i> and crapping out at 1,000 dollars. So, basically, Jacobs spent his days reading, then writing about what he read as he made progress. Then it became a bestselling book. And I just kept thinking. I read. I write. Where's my bestselling book?<br />
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These next two books are crazy cool. But I think you have to be a total nerd to think so. Or an English teacher. (Go ahead. Make the joke. I'll wait.) Thomas C. Foster has written two books about reading called <i>How to Read Literature Like a Professor</i> and <i>How to Read Novels Like a Professor</i>. The second is really just a continuation of the first, but he only uses novels as examples instead of including poetry or drama like he does in the first book.<br />
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Anyone who loves reading should read these books. Foster shows you what you should be looking for to help you construct a deeper meaning from a text. He explains why an author might make certain decisions and use certain language. He explains the necessity of understanding allusions and symbols and choices of point of view and story structure.<br />
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<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51SeZq90wpL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_SX342_SY445_CR,0,0,342,445_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51SeZq90wpL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_SX342_SY445_CR,0,0,342,445_SH20_OU01_.jpg" height="200" width="153" /></a>I've studied and taught literature for most of my adult life, and this is the best, most succinct, most clear and easy to comprehend text I've read on the subject. I find it so enlightening, I've decided this is the new summer reading for my IB Literature class. The kids will love it.<br />
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The books show you how to be a better reader, but I've tried to incorporate some of the ideas into my own writing. A character totem here, another symbol there. Foster will have to use author Brent Wescott as a brilliant example in his next book, right?<br />
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Now, because I was stuck in my latest work in progress, I picked up a book called <i>Save the Cat: The Last Book on Screenwriting You'll Ever Need</i> by Blake Snyder. A successful novelist I met at a conference in September recommended it to me. It's a book about screenwriting, but she said it was the best help to her for plotting stories that she's ever read. And it's certainly helpful. If you're a screenwriter and you don't do what he says about structuring your story, you're likely screwed. Snyder outlines the three acts of a film and shows you how to outline your story beat by beat. But my concern is as a novelist, not a screenwriter. I can see the benefit of following the structure for story, but I can think of too many novels that don't. Too many great novels I've read that don't follow traditional structure. I'm likely to use Snyder's suggestions to get out of my WIP rut, but the rebel inside of me will likely make it difficult. Tradition, conformity, structure. Bah. I can do it however I want, right? If only the publishing industry thought the same.<br />
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Lastly, I will just mention that in tandem with <i>Save the Cat</i>, I have begun reading <i>The Writer's Journey</i> by Christopher Vogler, which uses Joseph Campbell's <i>Hero With a Thousand Faces</i> as its guide through story, myths, and archetypes. Just one more way to add some depth to my stories and make me a genius. Right?<br />
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Anyone?<br />
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Anyone?Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-20482087741569000492012-10-15T04:00:00.000-06:002012-10-15T04:00:15.402-06:00Absent too long, I return with The Nineties Blogfest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Where have I been? Who cares. </div>
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What's up today? Nostalgia for the go-go Nineties. Brought to you by Dave at <a href="http://davewrotethis.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Dave Wrote This</a>. </div>
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Because the calendar in my head only works in terms of what I listen to at certain points in time, naturally I've chosen to count down the best of the decade in music. For my personal life, it was college, marriage, babies, Seattle. But for my musical tastes, prepare your ears for some politically correct trip hop madchester shoegaze neo soul grunge. As well as some jargon and description that makes little sense to the uninitiated.<br />
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I was out of the country in 1990. Sadly, I didn't hear much music that wasn't church hymns or Brazillian samba, both of which can get a bit repetitive. Thus, this year I will skip.<br />
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<b>1991: The Dream Academy, <i>A Different Kind of Weather</i></b></div>
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No contest here. This was the first album I bought upon my return from my mission to Brazil. The Dream Academy was a brilliant band unfortunately pigeonholed as a one-hit-wonder for the popular 80's tune "Life in a Northern Town." However, every song on their three albums is a near-perfect confection of ear candy. <i>A Different Kind of Weather</i> is their swan song, sending the band out on a poppy high. Listen to "Waterloo." Close your eyes and just listen to it.<br />
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<b>1992: Kitchens of Distinction, <i>The Death of Cool</i></b></div>
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I almost put Catherine Wheel's debut album, <i>Ferment</i>, here. But Kitchens of Distinction's third album brings all the distorted jangle and adds more sing-along friendly politically correct choruses that rival those from the pioneering Bronski Beat. This album came at the tail end of the shoegaze fuzzy rock movement, but it's one of the best.<br />
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<b>1993: Cocteau Twins, <i>Four-Calendar Cafe</i></b></div>
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Not their greatest album, but <i>Four-Calendar Cafe</i> nearly put the Cocteau Twins in the mainstream. Elizabeth Frazier's signature vocals were sometimes intelligible, and Robin Guthrie's otherworldly control over the musical ether created some of the most radio-friendly song structures he would ever write. And for a dream pop song, "Summerhead" kind of rocks out loud.<br />
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<b>1994: Everything But the Girl, <i>Amplified Heart</i></b></div>
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Everything But the Girl is one of the best songwriting duos the world has known. With early material that relies on strong jazz and latter stuff verging on techno, <i>Amplified Heart</i> showcases Ben Watt and Tracy Thorn at their happy medium best. You might remember "Missing" from the souped-up dance remix, but the original is still one of their best songs, featuring concise, memorable lyrics coupled with a taut melody and a driving, hipster beat.<br />
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<b>1995: The Boo Radleys, <i>Wake Up!</i></b></div>
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When Billy Corgan announced in 1995 that Oasis were the best songwriters since the Beatles, he apparently hadn't heard The Boo Radleys. Oasis's <i>(What's the Story) Morning Glory?</i> is a swell record, but it doesn't hold a candle to <i>Wake Up!</i> Early on, The Boo Radleys had developed a signature stop-start, loud-soft-loud kind of shoegaze noise, but with this album, they turned it into a glitsy Britpop gem. Hear "Wake Up Boo!" and just try to not feel better about yourself.<br />
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<b>1996: Cibo Matto, <i>Viva! La Woman</i></b></div>
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Belle and Sebastian released two watershed albums this year, but to be honest, I wasn't up on the indie twee movement yet. I was all about the trip hop. And Cibo Matto brought the beats. Spare, twitchy, with howly japanese-accented vocals mostly about food, they owned the sound. Plus, "Sugar Water," which was later played on stage at the Bronze while Buffy did a sexy dance with Xander. Oh joy.<br />
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<b>1997: Swing Out Sister, <i>Shapes and Patterns</i></b></div>
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Tough year. Portishead, Bjork, even the Sneaker Pimps deserve some respect in 1997. But I'm going with Swing Out Sister's apex of old-school jazz-soul-pop. This album could have been released twenty-five years earlier and it would have sounded right at home. Plus, Corrine Drewery? Hot.<br />
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<b>1998: Massive Attack, <i>Mezzanine</i></b></div>
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This could be the best album ever. A distinct possibility since "Angel" is probably the best song ever, with its provocative, menacing build to a freak-out climax. I don't kid about this stuff, man. And maybe I love this album just because of the guest vocals, but the rest of the album is of equal quality. Since you've heard "Angel" in about a dozen movies and "Teardrop" thanks to the credits of <i>House</i>, here's the seductive "Black Milk" featuring vocalist Liz Frasier at her most dreamy.<br />
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<b>1999: The Flaming Lips, <i>The Soft Bulletin</i></b></div>
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I can't even categorize this album. Both melodious and cacophonous, both beautiful and harsh. The Lips's first albums are full of grungy guitars, but with <i>The Soft Bulletin</i>, they pulled their underlying harmonies to the forefront and delivered their frothy, poppy opus. Plus, it's just good fun. Wayne Coyne certainly doesn't have an American Idol voice, but you can tell he sure enjoys himself, and I'd rather listen to his personality than an auto-tuned one any day. Here's "The Spiderbite Song," which Coyne wrote about a bandmate who almost lost life and limb due to a spider bite on his hand. Sweet.<br />
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And with the advent of of this indie mentality, grunge is over, trip hop is on it's last breath, as is overtly politically correct lyrics, and in a year or two, irony. Thanks, Mr. Coyne.<br />
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And how's that for my bloggy comeback?Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-20124706623172383692012-08-01T04:00:00.000-06:002012-08-01T04:00:08.444-06:00IWSG: Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm already in negative mode because I had to go back to school today. Students show up next Tuesday. I will have very little time to prepare for their arrival. But I whined enough about that <a href="http://www.buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2012/07/back-to-school.html" target="_blank">last post</a>. Instead I will add more whining about other lacks of time.<br />
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With school starting, that means less time to write.<br />
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I also coach soccer, so most days between now and November I will be away from home for nearly twelve hours a day, even more when we have away night games. And it's not like any of those hours include down time. I have thirty minutes for lunch, and with that time I basically have to eat lunch. The other two hours a day when I won't be teaching or coaching I will be planning and prepping and gathering data and, soon enough, grading. (My IB classes have summer homework to turn in the first day of school. Don't tell them, but I usually give a day or two grace period; still, I have to start grading stuff early on.)<br />
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I'm not bemoaning my job. I love teaching. I love coaching soccer. But I don't love feeling like--no, not "feeling like"--I don't love simply not having enough time to do my job. Close to or more than 150 students will filter in and out of my room next Tuesday and every day thereafter. If I'm to be the best teacher I can be to each one of those students, the time allotted is not enough.<br />
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And then I seem to lose time to do anything else in my life. What happens is I push the GO button when I leave the house in the morning, push PAUSE for a half hour to refuel, then GO again until I get home later in the evening. This year, at least, I have one planning period before lunch and one after. That breaks up the day a bit. Last year, I taught class for four hours straight before lunch and that wiped me out good for the rest of the day.<br />
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This is all to say that it leaves me with little energy to write. To stay up past my son's bedtime and type away for a couple of hours hardly happens when I'm in school. Just to get home in time to see my son before he goes to bed is a boon. Then to try to think on top of that? Doesn't happen very often.<br />
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So my insecurity this month is about time. How will I find the time to get any writing done, to work towards any artificial goals I've set for myself, to live the dream?<br />
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Any and all suggestions are welcome.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Time, Clock of the Heart. Thank you Boy George.</td></tr>
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Today's post has been brought to you by Alex J Cavanaugh and the <a href="http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/p/insecure-writers-support-group.html" target="_blank">Insecure Writer's Support Group</a>. Please give early and often.Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-36764142773181376352012-07-30T08:13:00.001-06:002012-07-30T08:13:07.158-06:00Back to School<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white;">As I've said, I go back to school on August 1st. That's pretty early. At least it's not July, though, like it was the year before last.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I'm not talking about year-round schools or anything. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Our district has decided that an extra week or two of instruction at the beginning of the year can only mean better scores when the state tests come around in March. Why don't </span><span style="background-color: white;">we</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">start school in June for maximum exposure and have our break in April and May? Or just test students in May to determine improvement over a complete year? You got me.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Luckily, that isn't my point today. Instead, I simply ask w</span><span style="background-color: white;">here does the summer go?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I start off with such lofty goals. I want to fix things that drip. Weed the lawn. Patch holes in the walls. Even dust the ceiling fans. No, I don't WANT to. These are just things I CAN do (with the possible exception of the plumbing), and I feel like I SHOULD. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">So I set myself up for failure, knowing good and well it's going to take a lot more than a few unattached hours a day to get me to open up that toilet tank to see why the water won't stop running.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Exactly what have I done? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">We drove to Utah for a week to visit family. Spent a couple days in Steamboat Springs. I took the boy to toddler swimming lessons every day for a couple of weeks. Those are a half-hour long, by the way. My twelve-year-old likes to cook, so she was in a cooking class for couple of weeks. That required my driving skills to get her there and back. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had to stare out the window on road trips when I was a kid. He gets in-flight movies.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I read some books, watched three seasons of <i>Fringe</i>, played Pipe Roll on my iPhone. Some of those mazes take way too long, sir. I saw the new <i>Spider-Man</i>. It was pretty forgettable. Took the kids to the Aquarium to see the mermaids.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My daughter took a while to admit it. But she wanted to see the mermaids more than anyone else did.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">That's enough, right?</span><br />
<br />
I dunno. A copy of the Denver magazine <i>5280 </i>has been in my bathroom for months. It's cover boasts "The Ultimate Summer Guide" and that inside I will find 21 amazing Colorado adventures. How many times did I open that up to find something to do with my family? Zero. How lame is that?<br />
<br />
I know all of you nonteachers are reading this going, "He's complaining about being paid to not work for ten weeks. What a goob." To that, I only have to say, "Nah nah nah nah nah."<br />
<br />
Except now I'm not ready to go back. Students come back to school next Tuesday. That's four days to prepare. Two of those days are already used up so we can be developed professionally. That's always time well-spent. One other day will have meetings of some sort to fill the day. That gives me one day. One day to put together a classroom. Like, literally. Well, perhaps not literally. The room is already has walls and stuff. But I had to move my room to a new room at the end of last year. And I still have to arrange. Books, files, wall hangings and decor, technology.<br />
<br />
All that and figure out what I'm going to do next Tuesday.<br />
<br />
Can I just take a personal day?Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-87930776795765946342012-07-25T05:00:00.000-06:002012-07-25T08:05:00.828-06:00Bachelors on the Loose: Day OneEvery summer the LDS church sends their young women, ages 12-18, to a week-long summer camp. It's there they learn the ways of The Force, as well as the best fixins for Dutch oven cooking. Actually, I know about as much about what goes on at Girls' Camp as I do about what goes on at Boy Scout Camp, which most Mormon teenage boys attend every year, but which I never did, despite being a Mormon teenage boy. I was busy playing soccer or something.<br />
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This started long before Title IX, by the way. In fact, 2012 is the <a href="https://www.lds.org/youth/article/young-women-camp?lang=eng" target="_blank">100th anniversary of Young Women Camp</a>. In your face, 2014 <a href="http://laxmagazine.com/blogs/author/lochary/02.01.2012_at_2.18_p.m._by_Clare_Lochary/" target="_blank">Division I women's lacrosse</a> at the University of Colorado. Where were you in 1914?<br />
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Anyway, today my wife and my twelve-year-old daughter <span style="background-color: white;">drove</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">a car full of teenage girls </span><span style="background-color: white;">to their camp site near Cripple Creek, Colorado, tucked away back there on the sunset side of Pike's Peak. T</span><span style="background-color: white;">hat leaves me alone with the boy for the rest of the week. The following is the account of how our first day as carefree bachelors devolved into a possible homeless situation.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">I actually followed the ladies with a truck full of camping equipment. We'd left the boy with a friend and a promise I'd pick him up by two in the afternoon.</span><br />
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The first point of difficulty was that the drive to camp took a good two and a half hours, not the hour-or-so that I was promised. Or rather, that I assumed. I was never actually told the exact location of the camp until I programmed it into my phone about three minutes before we were on the road. What this meant is that I was heading back into Denver at about 4:00 p.m., more than two hours later than what I had planned.<br />
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A quick phone call settled that crisis: Xander was fine. He is not wont to be any kind of problem.<br />
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Various traffic jams and one hitch-hiker later (actually, I just had to drive a friend back from the camp site), it was nearly 5:00 when I traded back my father-in-law's truck for my old Plymouth Breeze. Prudently, I had left the Plymouth car keys with my in-laws since, as I transferred my few belongings to my own car, I noticed I no longer had my house keys. A quick scouring of the truck's cab, and I recalled that I had used my own set of keys at the campsite to turn on my wife's car in order to use the lighter to power the electric blower to fill up the small air mattress May, my wife, would sleep on, all of which only happened because May had already become preoccupied dealing with a teenage girl fracas involving who would sleep where. I can only assume that lessons of this sort are why girls come to camp in the first place.<br />
<br />
To recap: three hours late, still hadn't picked up the boy, no house keys. But I knew at some time in the past we had given my in-laws a copy of our house keys so they could collect the mail or make sure the kitchen hadn't exploded or something while we were away for a few days. They would surely still have said keys and I would be in no worse circumstances. My mother-in-law, in fact, had a single key on a ring, a paper tag marked "May" attached.<br />
<br />
I drove my non-air-conditioned automobile through 95 degree heat and worsening traffic. Windows down, hot wind blowing, Guns N' Roses blaring, and I began to wonder what I would do if this key wasn't what it purported to be. At least I had my wallet, car keys, and a case of CDs. I<span style="background-color: white;">t could be worse. </span><span style="background-color: white;">I called my wife to make sure I hadn't lost my keys elsewhere. She found the keys in her car, </span><span style="background-color: white;">exactly</span><span style="background-color: white;"> where I thought they were, and I told her I might have to drive back out to get them. A stalwart pragmatist, she suggested I call a locksmith. But how do you prove you live someplace when all the proof is inside that place and you can't get in? (I still have an old address on my driver's licence, which I did have, but would not be any good in that situation.) My brain began to formulate a plan wherein I would leave Xander </span><span style="background-color: white;">with Grandma and Grandpa</span><span style="background-color: white;"> to finally get some sleep and I would be able to go home around midnight after another five hour drive. Through mountain valleys. In the dark.</span><br />
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The first thing our friend said when I arrived to pick up Xander was that she probably just made a big mistake. She had let him fall asleep. Just now. She insisted he was no trouble, that he played all day, such an amiable child and all that, but that he hadn't napped earlier and had <span style="background-color: white;">just</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">nearly fallen asleep on the floor. She held him for a few minutes and he conked out. He was currently sprawled out on her bed, dreaming lazily, waiting for morning. He woke up as I strapped him in to his car seat, and he gave me perhaps the meanest look he's ever given anyone or anything. This look said, "Dad, I had a great day, but you were late, so I took it upon myself to rest my weary body, and this is what I get?" Then he frowned and tears welled and mean turned to sad. He only sobbed for a moment, though, probably because Axl Rose was crooning about some sweet child of his, and that rightly stops most people in their tracks.</span><br />
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The boy was asleep again by the time we got home, so I left him in the car while I checked the key. Didn't work. Crud. I tried all the doors for good measure. For some reason our house has about fourteen possible points of ingress. I put the key in everything I could, but there were no takers.<br />
<br />
Before I got back into the mobile sweat lodge, I noticed a kink in the otherwise velvet-smooth field of the last hour's events. An outdoor spigot I can't seem to stop from leaking had chosen this day to just outright crack open and spray a steady stream of water into a basement window well. This wasn't the first sign of petulance from this particular water valve. And what I knew from experience was that if the flow of water wasn't plugged, and soon, we would end up with a flooded basement, which meant wet carpet, ruined food storage, and destroyed boxes of old writing. I needed to get into the house TONIGHT.<br />
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Now close to 6:00, I drove the freeway again back to my in-law's. Traffic. Heat. Wind. You know the drill. Xander slept still, but his little legs were exposed to the sun, his hair dripping with perspiration.<br />
<br />
I tried my sister-in-law first. She lives just a few blocks from her parents. On the phone she said she had a couple of house keys she didn't recognize, but when I got there, I knew they weren't mine. Wrong shape. My father-in-law, however, said he had found another couple of keys with a red tag on the ring. I held out hope that they were what I so desperately sought.<br />
<br />
Xander was awake again when I pulled up to the same place I had nearly two hours earlier, where my predicament began. His face was flushed and he sucked down most of his sippy-cup of water. I left him there and procured the red set of keys. Heavy sigh of relief. That red tag was certainly ours. I was sure one of those keys would open my house.<br />
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I returned to the car and started the engine. I told Xander to wave to Grampa as I pulled away, then looked down and saw the "Check Engine" light blink on. It didn't blink off. For the first time today, in spite of everything, I yelled into the wind, much as Gob Bluth might, "Come on!"<br />
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Postscript. We got into the house. All is well. <span style="background-color: white;">Fortunately, no water came down the basement wall. But </span><span style="background-color: white;">I have no swamp cooling available tonight without the outdoor faucet I still need to fix, and I can only hope the "Check Engine" will magically disappear when I next need the car.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I can only dream about a better day alone with the boy tomorrow.</span>Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-67057608080366672142012-07-20T16:08:00.001-06:002012-08-12T15:04:16.900-06:00Tragedy in My Hometown<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don't have much to say about <span style="background-color: white;">shootings at the Century 16 theater</span><span style="background-color: white;">. </span><span style="background-color: white;">You can follow the news yourself. I've had</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><a href="http://www.9news.com/default.aspx" target="_blank">9News </a><span style="background-color: white;">on all day.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">For me, </span><span style="background-color: white;">it's too shocking and horrific. I don't feel especially eloquent right now.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Still, I thought I'd let everyone know that my family and I are safe. And especially to those reading this who I don't know personally, you might know I'm from Aurora, Colorado. It says so right over there to the right. But Aurora is a big place, east of Denver proper, spreading out into the plains of Colorado. We're urban and suburban, even rural. So the chances of a tragedy of this magnitude happening in Aurora and still hitting close to home are pretty low.</span><br />
<br />
The apartment where the shooter lived is only a mile from my house. Right now the police still haven't entered the place. It's booby-trapped. Authorities have evacuated a <span style="background-color: white;">radius of a </span><span style="background-color: white;">couple of blocks. That doesn't reach my place, but it's literally close to home.</span><br />
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These events also hit home m<span style="background-color: white;">ore figuratively</span><span style="background-color: white;">. This movie theater is located at the Aurora Town Center, which was simply the Aurora Mall when I was younger. This particular theater wasn't built then; it's a relatively new construct, maybe ten or twelve years old. But I know what it's like to be young and hang out and see movies at that mall. Today, it's the location most of my students go to see their movies. I haven't been there in years. The last time I was there was to see </span><i style="background-color: white;">The Incredibles</i><span style="background-color: white;"> when it came out, before a newer theater was built nearer where I live. I left my wallet in my seat after the movie and didn't notice until later that night. I went back the next day, and they had it waiting for me in the manager's office. Nothing was missing.</span><br />
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I don't know exactly why, but that incident keeps running through my thoughts today.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">We don't know much at this point about the names of the victims, but a</span>s far as I know none of my own students were at this theater last night. But some of their friends were.<br />
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What's the closest to home is that two young women in my ward at church were there. One of them was injured but is okay and has already returned home. These girls are my oldest daughter's age. Had our lives been slightly different, my daughter might have been with these girls last night. I have a hard time trying to imagine what the injured girl's parents have gone through today. As a father, it scares me.<br />
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<i>UPDATE</i>: The young woman I speak of was <a href="http://video.msnbc.msn.com/msnbc/48271313#48271313" target="_blank">interviewed by MSNBC</a>. She is quite more articulate than I would be. Kinda surreal really.<br />
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I love this town. I wasn't born here, but I grew up here, came of age here, have made my home here. It's economically, racially, and socially diverse. I can't say how different Aurora is from other metropolitan cities. But it's Colorado. Varied geography, best climate on earth. It gets cold, but not too cold. It gets hot, but not too hot (despite this summer's constant hover near 100 degrees).<br />
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And my son will grow up here.<br />
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My wife says that for the rest of our lives, when we tell people we live in Aurora, people will ask us about the shootings at the Century 16. Forever a sad reflection on such a great place.<br />
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One more <i>UPDATE</i>: If you're interested in Aurora, <a href="http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,2120098,00.html?xid=fblike" target="_blank">this article</a> describes our town in a way I wish I could have the other day.Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-64873103883751577842012-07-16T10:40:00.002-06:002012-07-17T19:36:01.983-06:00100 Followers, Tag, and Random VersatilityIt's time once again to get meta.<br />
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Much like Chandler Bing's reasons for spending Thanksgiving in a box, my discussion today will be threefold. A kind of long bit of nonsense follows. But when has that ever stopped you?<br />
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<b>Point One</b>: Following<br />
First of all, last week my little blog gained it's one-hundredth follower. It's been a long time coming, really, but still I rejoice. Now, if one-tenth of those people actually read my writing, I could die contented. So, congratulations to Heather M. Gardner from <a href="http://hmgardner.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Waiting is the Hardest Part</a>. She wins nothing, but continuing to read this blog will enhance her knowledge, health, and appreciation of good music. In a way, then, she wins everything.<br />
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<b>Point Two</b>: Blog Awards<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTltiGlakFq-6FnYpLXiYnrzmC6tHH1qxRwJU6ahH1NX1JQorN8OsrM8zJk-WUTd-1XXOQXREn-0CdQne5_AcM5XSaYMU-GVjrudlMEjB-jwp3GGbJJ9tN4HLD1xwkEmC3pR8OWKefWb-_/s1600/versatileblogger111.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTltiGlakFq-6FnYpLXiYnrzmC6tHH1qxRwJU6ahH1NX1JQorN8OsrM8zJk-WUTd-1XXOQXREn-0CdQne5_AcM5XSaYMU-GVjrudlMEjB-jwp3GGbJJ9tN4HLD1xwkEmC3pR8OWKefWb-_/s200/versatileblogger111.png" width="200" /></a>A couple-few weeks ago I was kindly awarded a blog award for nothing less than being a recently new follower of <span style="background-color: white;">Miss Farawayeyes at the</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><a href="http://farawayeyes1.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Far Away Series</a> blog. I've been dubbed versatile before. I'm not sure if it's due to my ability to do dishes with a small child in my arms or the fact that I can read Shakespeare in English, Portuguese, and Klingon.<br />
<br />
The Versatile Blogger has certainly made it's rounds. It's already passed my way once (read how I dealt with that one <a href="http://buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2011/03/grape-diet-dr-pepper.html" target="_blank">here</a>), so I will forego passing it on. You can all thank me in the comments below.<br />
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I am, however, not above pointing out seven random things about myself, like I'm supposed to do. And since I've already told you two, I shall add five more.<br />
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<b>3.</b> I ditched church yesterday because I didn't make some phone calls I have a responsibility to make and was embarrassed. I felt pretty lame, but I did it anyway. <span style="background-color: white;">Don't judge.</span><br />
<br />
<b>4.</b> I watched three foreign, low-budget, and totally cool monster movies last week. <i>The Host</i> is from South Korea. <i>Troll Hunter</i> is from Norway. <i>Monsters </i>is British, but it's set in Mexico and has a lot of Spanish and one of the most beautiful endings I've seen in some time.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRVUK6GzZhj50H3SUo47klSXpBPEYw8I9YaAlA0amzWkNDZEOH7" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRVUK6GzZhj50H3SUo47klSXpBPEYw8I9YaAlA0amzWkNDZEOH7" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mutant creature emerges <span style="background-color: white;">from the Han River.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSspC9fvHSuo8WV-4bMnc9LpsJ7IS9WGu-7bFjUkaLpGQc7JWyLdw" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSspC9fvHSuo8WV-4bMnc9LpsJ7IS9WGu-7bFjUkaLpGQc7JWyLdw" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giant trolls secretly <span style="background-color: white;">inhabit Norway.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQelFcFil7pL74paON4CsrXdEQkqOS1hNBWkilPN-ERTxKyiBZw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQelFcFil7pL74paON4CsrXdEQkqOS1hNBWkilPN-ERTxKyiBZw" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aliens invade Mexico.<br />
Outerspace aliens.<br />
Not illegal ones.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"></span><br />
<b style="background-color: white;">5.</b><span style="background-color: white;"> I purchase way too much music at once. I sometimes don't have time to listen to an album more than once. Darn you, Amazon and your amazing MP3 sales.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<b style="background-color: white;">6.</b><span style="background-color: white;"> I have a daughter about to be a senior in high school. How I got this old, I'll never know.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<b style="background-color: white;">7.</b><span style="background-color: white;"> I have read </span><i style="background-color: white;">Goodnight Moon</i><span style="background-color: white;"> to my son so many times in the past couple of weeks, I don't like it any more.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTNBhA4hSpzJvgMU4wOxO9230hGKvjCmRNCHlB4AxylB8A_V7NB" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTNBhA4hSpzJvgMU4wOxO9230hGKvjCmRNCHlB4AxylB8A_V7NB" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mouse moves around the room throughout the book.<br />
My boy can point out the mouse on every page.<br />
Can you find the mouse on this one?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Point Three</b>: I'm it.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Last week, I was also tagged by Dave at </span><a href="http://davewrotethis.blogspot.co.uk/" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">Dave Wrote This</a><span style="background-color: white;">. This doesn't have a pretty picture to go with it. It's just an elaborate game of tag. I'm supposed to tell eleven things about myself this time, but as I've already done seven, I will simply add four.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcScOmAdrwp7KhyIRB6vxgZp8hd2xQBzu2PsBmCqiMrsq0CcyhNCnw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcScOmAdrwp7KhyIRB6vxgZp8hd2xQBzu2PsBmCqiMrsq0CcyhNCnw" width="129" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert Kirkman also writes<br />
<i>The Walking Dead</i>. You<br />
might have heard of it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>8.</b> I read comic books only once every couple of years. I wait a couple of years, then check out the thick collections from the library. I'm currently catching up on one of the better non-Marvel/DC superheroes, <i>Invincible.</i> I've now read volumes 4-6, encompassing about 45 individual issues or something. (Volume 7 is still on library hold.) In a couple more years I'll read 45 more issues. It'll be sweet.<br />
<br />
<b>9.</b> I've been playing indoor soccer on Thursday nights. Last game, I had to play goalie, and for days afterward my insides felt like jelly. I like standing up to kick the ball better than throwing myself on the floor to block it. And we didn't even win or anything.<br />
<br />
<b>10.</b> I'm thinking about growing <span style="background-color: white;">out</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">my hair again. Relive the heyday of the nineties. Don't tell my wife.</span><br />
<br />
<b>11.</b> School starts in fifteen days. I am not amused.<br />
<br />
And there you have it. But wait there's more. Now I'm supposed to answer eleven questions that Dave asks. Then I have to come up with eleven questions and tag eleven other bloggers. Then they're it. Are we having fun yet?<br />
<br />
The following are Dave's questions and my oh-so-correct answers. I'm just glad I didn't have to answer the questions Dave was asked when he got the tag. Every one of them was Star Trek trivia.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">1. Who would win in a fight between Cavemen and Astronauts?</span><br />
Astronauts. Unless the Cavemen figured out how to poke holes in their spacesuits.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">2. If you could have one super power, what would it be?</span><br />
To make music that unites the world in peace, a la Wyld Stallyns.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">3. What is your favourite Band?</span><br />
Cocteau Twins. No contest.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">4. What is your favourite Bend?</span><br />
Bender from Futurama or comic book writer Brian Michael Bendis.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">5. What is your favourite Bond?</span><br />
<i>For Your Eyes Only</i>. First Bond I ever saw. Rocked my world.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">6. How many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man?</span><br />
42, right?<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">7. What's the funniest joke you know?</span><br />
Way too long to tell here. Maybe a future blog post? Maybe not.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">8. Can dogs look up?</span><br />
I don't like dogs. So I don't care.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">9. If you drove a Mini, would you want a red one, a white one or a blue one?</span><br />
Not sure if this signifies anything, but red. I'd want a red of any kind of car.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">10. What are you afraid of?</span><br />
Heights. And broken hearts.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; text-align: left;">11. Why is this 11 facts/questions/answers?</span><br />
<div>
To make my life difficult.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This post is way too long. I thought combining all this into one would be a good idea. It's not. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Tag. You're it.</b><br />
I can't count to eleven any more. My questions will be few, then. And only the following bloggers are tagged. They are officially IT. But everyone should go check out these blogs.<br />
<br />
Brian M. White at <a href="http://sunnystrangers.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Strangers Call Me Sunny</a>. This is his third or fourth blog. I think he changes things up just to cull the nonbelievers. But he's funny and smart, which is all that's important in a blog, no matter the incarnation.<br />
<br />
Mina Lobo at <a href="http://minalobo.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Some Dark Romantic</a>. When you go to her blog, you might get a notice that her blog is for "grownups" only. Don't let that deter you; her blog isn't like that. She's a child of the 80's who hasn't given up on taste.<br />
<br />
Rusty Webb at <a href="http://rustywebb.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Blutonian Death Egg</a>. He is currently fascinated with the discovery of the Higgs Boson, which is pretty cool. If you don't know what that is or why it's important, you should go find out. As a bonus, Rusty's a pretty good artist, too.<br />
<br />
Huntress, one of the contributors over at <a href="http://unicornbell.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Unicorn Bell</a>. She is currently obsessed about why <i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i> is a thing. Go see what she has to say.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://slckismet.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Michael Offut</a> at what I'm just realizing isn't officially "SLC Kismet" anymore. He's got a rad sci-fi adventure book out called <i>Slipstream</i>, and he's got good <span style="background-color: white;">taste </span><span style="background-color: white;">pop culturally.</span><br />
<br />
And here are some probing questions to answer.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>1. </b><b style="background-color: white;">What kind of thing do you prefer to read?</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b style="background-color: white;"><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b style="background-color: white;">2. When you were 13, what did you want to do with your life?</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>3. Mayonnaise or Miracle Whip? Discuss.</b>
<br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>4. If you could join any group or club, what would it be?</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>5. What is the last song you listened to?</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>6. When you have nothing else to do, what do you do? </b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>7. If you could make a difference by boycotting one thing, what would it be?</b></div>
<br />
That's plenty. Now have at it. And p<span style="background-color: white;">lease let us know if and when you've gotten around to posting your answers so we can make sure to see them. Thanks. Goodnight everybody!</span></div>Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-25284181953200252072012-07-12T05:00:00.000-06:002012-07-12T05:00:07.130-06:00The Detritus on the Floor<i>Detritus </i>is an interesting word. First, I just found out that it's spelled "detritus" <i>with</i> a second T, not "detrius" <i>without </i>a second T. And second, some people claim to pronounce it with a long "e" as in "dee" and a long "i" as in "try." Others leave the vowels short and even leave out the second T in the pronunciation. Plus, it seems to be mostly used in biology or medical jargon, as in "the <i>detritus </i>of the dead bird in the garden is fertilizing the plants."<br />
<br />
And because I'm a nerd, I looked it up some more and found out <i>Detritus </i>is also a video game much like Asteroids, a troll in Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, and some kind of electro-aggro-industrial band. Now you know.<br />
<br />
But for my purposes here, I'm referring to the physical debris that erodes away from our lives consistently, all day long. More specifically, the crumbs <span style="background-color: white;">of food </span><span style="background-color: white;">and bits of trash that end up on the floor of my house is driving me batty.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.jerseyinperil.com/images/detritus350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="http://www.jerseyinperil.com/images/detritus350.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what it feels like. In my house.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We have hardwood floors in our house. Before we moved in, we had the floor completely refinished, and it's held up beautifully. We've since refurbished the kitchen and bathrooms and included new tile floors in each room. I love the look of my floors. But hardwood and tile flooring can cause a unique set of problems in a home. Small things too easily roll under the couch. You can't comfortably take a Sunday afternoon nap on the floor. And the floors can get cold. Even in the middle of summer, I sometimes find myself needing slippers. Worst of all, clean-up is a never-ending story.<br />
<br />
( I couldn't resist. Enjoy the cheesy goodness of Limahl. Plus, notice how the drummer figured out you don't need drumsticks to play those hexagonal toy synthesizer drums years before Rock Band was ever a thing.)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/dwF4PPoEWD4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
It's kind of revolting to think about the particles of dirt and dust and skin and food and insects and mites that live long, full lives within carpeted flooring. Every once in a while, a vacuum collects the bigger pieces, but that's all okay because, really, you hardly notice the detritus. On a hardwood floor, as I'm learning, all you notice is the detritus. Dust bunnies float around with the currents created by the ceiling fans. Crusts of bread are kicked around until they're either reduced to minuscule crumbs or just scooted under the furniture. Drops of milk from a sippy cup accumulate dirt until they become black, sticky masses.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTsNIOgeDYDjHX_VAYhkDDZkwgsu2bcTDgIG9IUEHComDS9jiJcSQ" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTsNIOgeDYDjHX_VAYhkDDZkwgsu2bcTDgIG9IUEHComDS9jiJcSQ" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did you know there are no pictures of messy or dusty<br />
hardwood floors on the entire internet?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I've lived in this house for the better part of a decade, and I've lived with hardwood floors before that. So why now? What about the grit on the floor is getting to me now when it didn't bother me before? The answer is simple. It begins with an X and ends with The Boy.<br />
<br />
It's summer, <span style="background-color: white;">so I spend most of my time at home</span><span style="background-color: white;">. And it's summer, </span><span style="background-color: white;">so I spend most of my time barefoot</span><span style="background-color: white;">. It's summer and the boy is nearly 20-months-old and he doesn't care if his </span><i style="background-color: white;">pants </i><span style="background-color: white;">are full of detritus, so what does he care what's on the </span><i style="background-color: white;">floor</i><span style="background-color: white;">?</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk_pCj1H8H4wVlZNx8HA6_4i9pCvuoG9lAjbmm4B4EBZCl9fhUYNqFcnMAYCPJfF2nNP5992cwew96Y3YgS7l_dUQzqO0KkzhF5s4q0znPest9yZraK3m8d9Q-dpdSvIFWbYdZA4DcrhjN/s1600/IMG_0205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk_pCj1H8H4wVlZNx8HA6_4i9pCvuoG9lAjbmm4B4EBZCl9fhUYNqFcnMAYCPJfF2nNP5992cwew96Y3YgS7l_dUQzqO0KkzhF5s4q0znPest9yZraK3m8d9Q-dpdSvIFWbYdZA4DcrhjN/s400/IMG_0205.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
<br />
The worst of it naturally builds up around the high chair. Xander's eating habits go something like this: Yum-yum, nibble-nibble, squish-squish, chew, swallow, throw. He knows how to say "Done." He knows how to say "Down." They're pretty much the same word to him. But does he tell us he's finished eating and would like to get out of his high chair now, please and thank you? No. He drops his sippy cup, upends his plate, throws to the floor any food he can grasp, and brushes the crumbs off of his tray with a quick sweep of his hands. This inevitably leaves more food on the floor than ended up in his tummy, thus creating the detritus that I must step through to get to the kitchen from the dining room.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXSA7owtCLUDwfP_U_-BCVS-Me6m8RTWL16gKdkdc-h8YGjHS4ewmYTO7iEjF1qzf4mOjbVYe6apbH5Q0Y9YVAowIb-cjBOsuoYU4IZn37QoZxwmAdkJXEWlrN05PxDdU6JcHaZeM3XIi/s1600/IMG_0155.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXSA7owtCLUDwfP_U_-BCVS-Me6m8RTWL16gKdkdc-h8YGjHS4ewmYTO7iEjF1qzf4mOjbVYe6apbH5Q0Y9YVAowIb-cjBOsuoYU4IZn37QoZxwmAdkJXEWlrN05PxDdU6JcHaZeM3XIi/s400/IMG_0155.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
And, somehow, the rest of the house is affected. The living room rug gets Cheerios ground into it. The bathroom hallway has sticky spots. Various corners of our home boast fruit snacks to feed the spiders. This is all in addition to the variety of cars and crayons and balls and bits of toilet paper we all must make a path through.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0jmEXMcKOtG9xXmmraI6v_KMpM0YdUGRC5LeYVsmiGffkseQejkyfChl9NhyL7GLYT0Da09Hz9Pcnw8zNvyugZyfYuhu0TP8EXa92HNMXPeb5GdlX4MT_vPJo2OGRuiFzCGGzqNFBmUlm/s1600/IMG_0252.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0jmEXMcKOtG9xXmmraI6v_KMpM0YdUGRC5LeYVsmiGffkseQejkyfChl9NhyL7GLYT0Da09Hz9Pcnw8zNvyugZyfYuhu0TP8EXa92HNMXPeb5GdlX4MT_vPJo2OGRuiFzCGGzqNFBmUlm/s320/IMG_0252.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The boy has taken to unrolling the TP from the bathroom and galavanting around<br />like he's doing a rythmic gymnastics routine through the house. Cute, right?<br />Yep, that's him eating the toilet paper.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Really, the worst is what I feel on the soles of my feet. If we had carpet, I wouldn't notice when a piece of hardened cheese or even a mushed apple stuck to my heel. I would just swipe my foot along the rug if I noticed anything at all and, poof, the detritus would be gone, hidden at least until the next pass of the vacuum.<br />
<br />
We didn't used to have to, but we sweep every day now. Usually more than once. And the mopping, which is more of a wet-wipe spot-cleaning than anything else. Yet the detritus is unconstrained. We try to control Xander's movements during meals, but the banana still ends up under the table, the Cheerios still end up everywhere. Only to be carried to the far reaches of the domicile, all adding up to become the detritus of our lives.Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-3390023956220588982012-07-09T15:42:00.002-06:002012-07-09T15:42:43.326-06:00A PhD Can Still Be an Idiot (Guest Post)<i>(Apparently my wife has a lot on her mind lately. This is the second guest post from her in less than a month. I'm happy to let her speak her mind here, of course, but you all should let her know in the comments if you'd follow her sage wisdom to a blog of her own.)</i><br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's about rebirth and second chances,<br />right?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I got my Master’s Degree from the University of Phoenix. To
those of you out of touch with the world of for-profit academia, the University
of Phoenix is not located in Phoenix. Or more precisely, it’s not <i>only </i>located
in Phoenix. They have “branches” all over the place. (At this point they’re
more ubiquitous than Starbucks.) But I digress.</div>
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I freely confess that I enrolled in the University of
Phoenix for the meanest of reasons. First, they didn’t require that I pass any
annoying graduate entrance exams, obtain letters of recommendation, or write an
essay extolling the virtues of their program and my fitness for it. Second, I
was aware that they would make it tremendously easy for me to earn my next academic credential. It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that by paying them a lot
of money and showing up to class, I was designated a Master of Curriculum and
Instruction.</div>
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When I tell people that I got my Master’s from the
University of Phoenix, I’m very careful to do so in an ironic, snark-edged
fashion. It’s important to me that others know that I know the University of
Phoenix is something of a joke to real academics. When I think about my MEd, it’s not with pride in my accomplishment. Instead, I reassure myself that
someday I’ll get a real degree from a real university. </div>
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Now I’m reconsidering. Here’s why. I just read the most
inane, insane take on <i>The Great Gatsby</i>
ever written. (Consider that I have ten years' experience grading 11<sup>th</sup>
and 12<sup>th</sup> grade essays about Fitzgerald’s novel, and you’ll truly
appreciate the superlative nature of this statement.)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQGA6mFYBGv0gJg3f8BCaRrFGdAcRNwYakgQ4ex1yS7iI_MRMYG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQGA6mFYBGv0gJg3f8BCaRrFGdAcRNwYakgQ4ex1yS7iI_MRMYG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How much more dreamy could this be?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Supposedly in anticipation of the Baz Luhrman film in a few months, Julia Keller, the “Cultural Critic” for <i>The Chicago Tribune</i>
wrote a <a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/entertainment/ct-ent-0620-great-gatsby-essays-20120619,0,317368.column">gob-smackingly
bizarre</a> take on <i>The Great Gatsby</i>
for her paper. They published it, too. </div>
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The gist of Keller’s review is this: We’ve been
reading <i>The Great Gatsby</i> wrong. Collectively, none of us understand that Gatsby is
actually a novel that praises the American Work Ethic. F. Scott Fitzgerald's real point: If you work hard,
persist, dream big enough, you can have it all.</div>
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Are you shaking your head, yet? Are you remembering that
Gatsby <i>doesn’t </i>get it all? Are you remembering that when Gatsby tries the
American Work Ethic as a way of achieving the American Dream, he fails? Are you
remembering that Gatsby makes his fortune by falling in with criminals who show
him how to game the system? Are you remembering that Gatsby gets rich but that it’s
all a sham, complete with the symbolism of the literally hollow books within his library?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Keller states, “Fitzgerald rose from humble origins to
become rich and celebrated on the strength of his labor and his imagination, on
the beauty of his dreams and the sacrifices he was willing to make on behalf of
them.” Even Wikipedia knows that Fitzgerald grew up in an upper-middle class
household. He spent his youth attending prep schools and matriculated at Princeton. From everything I’ve heard about Fitzgerald, his major failing was
that, while brilliant, he was notoriously hedonistic. As far as I remember, the
only sacrifices that Fitzgerald made were in the name of commerce, not art.</div>
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One of my favorite touches in Keller's article happens to be her care in concealing the fact that Gatsby dies at the end of the novel. She writes that she is
“treading delicately here, to avoid the dreaded spoiler.” How out of touch with
the universe does she have to be to believe that anyone reading an article about
Gatsby in a freaking daily periodical hasn’t read this book or at least knows
the ending?<br />
<br /></div>
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I could go on, but I don’t need to. The best part about
reading the essay, was getting to read the outraged responses that followed. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ben Gulley of Guilford: “This should have been bourne back
ceaselessly to the editor’s desk."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Melissa Wiley: “It’s like describing <i>The Scarlet Letter</i> as a
book about fashion.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ken Lowery: “This is a prank, right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Scott Peterson: “Apparently in another piece, the writer
explains that <i>Catcher in the Rye</i> is about agriculture and the importance of a
good prep school education.”</span></div>
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSlFP0lTve19cvBhPtK73hV9mHq66UwDrDo_NMH2buEOLXD7TvlGQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSlFP0lTve19cvBhPtK73hV9mHq66UwDrDo_NMH2buEOLXD7TvlGQ" /></a>Are you wondering if Keller even read the book before she
wrote her piece? Are you mystified as to why some fact checker at <i>The Chicago
Tribune</i> didn’t at least point out to Keller that she was misrepresenting
Fitzgerald’s origins? </div>
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I am. </div>
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To list, here are Keller’s qualifications to write a
completely revisionist take on a century of <i>Gatsby </i>study. She has a B.A. and
M.A. in English from Marshall University. She earned a Ph.D. from Ohio State
University, writing her dissertation on the biographies of Virginia Woolf. She
was a Nieman Fellow at Harvard and taught writing at Princeton. She won the
2005 Pulitzer Prize for a feature piece on deadly tornados in Iowa.</div>
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There’s nothing in this C.V. that makes her particularly
qualified to reinterpret <i>Gatsby</i>, other than that she should have a clear
understanding of the principles of literary analysis. What I’ve always taught
my 11<sup>th</sup> and 12<sup>th</sup> grade English students is that you can
interpret a text in any way that can be supported by the text. If you leave out
a significant detail because it doesn’t support your idea, then you’ve
probably stumbled in your understanding.</div>
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But I guess this is just another example of the star system
at play. (See <a href="http://buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2012/06/talent-is-ticket-to-nowhere-guest-post.html" target="_blank">my previous post</a> if you'd like to see more examples of how this works.) In print journalism, it doesn’t matter whether you’re right or wrong. If you have fancy degrees and have won a writing prize, editors will print your
ideas as if they’re gospel.</div>
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In my mind, all of this just reaffirms Fitzgerald’s <i>actual </i>point.
It’s the surface that other’s see, and it’s the appearance that we value. So
what if I got my Master’s from a second-rate diploma factory. I’m reaping the
rewards of having that MEd after my name. And even if I’d gone to Harvard, I
could still say dumb stuff. </div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I may only have a degree
from the University of Phoenix, but I know that much. </span>Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-14684020879095064702012-07-06T05:00:00.000-06:002012-07-06T05:00:14.065-06:00Green, Murakami, and a Focus on Fforde<span style="background-color: white;">My summer's more than half over (back to school August 1), and I've only read three books. That's a little sad, except that one of them is nearly 1000 pages and I read it pretty much exclusively because it was way overdue at the library.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #073763;"><b>JOHN GREEN</b></span><br />
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<a href="http://johngreenbooks.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/katherines23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://johngreenbooks.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/katherines23.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;">First, I read the John Green book, </span><i>An Abundance of Katherines</i><span style="background-color: white;">. John Green writes stories about real teenagers with real problems, not problems like which griffin or manticore or schweinhund they might fall in love with. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but John Green is the perfect example of why my own YA book </span><a href="http://www.brentwescott.com/home/trendy-poseurs-go-home" target="_blank">Trendy Poseurs Go Home</a><span style="background-color: white;"> would </span><span style="background-color: white;">actually</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">sell. I like John Green. I kind of wish I were John Green. Where's the </span><a href="http://buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2012/07/iwsg-tmi.html" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">manual</a><span style="background-color: white;"> for becoming John Green? He should write one. I'd follow it.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #073763;"><b>HARUKI MURAKAMI</b></span><br />
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTRbT3ifFkzcvo-N-Vm2ePcReP4_RJnObhp-ToiEkGebNE5i0o-" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTRbT3ifFkzcvo-N-Vm2ePcReP4_RJnObhp-ToiEkGebNE5i0o-" width="134" /></a><span style="background-color: white;">That 1000 page book I read is <i>1Q84 </i>by Haruki Murakami. He's an amazing writer from Japan who writes in the magical realism tradition that Gabriel Garcia Marquez kind of made up by himself. (Literature scholars feel free to disagree. I was at a teacher conference last year and the instructor gave a fifteen minute digression about how magical realism means nothing. I wonder what he would say about my bold statement about Marquez.) His stories are more about the means than the end. The language it takes to make the journey is what matters to Murakami. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I realize I'm not including much--well, anything--about the plots of these two books, and I'm probably not going to say much about the actual plot of the Jasper Fforde book I'm including here, either. I'm sure you can look elsewhere for that. I'm usually more attracted to a writing style than a plot, anyway. Suffice it to say, you should read these books. Each has a different style, but each is crazy brilliant in its own way.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #073763;"><b>JASPER FFORDE</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Okay, if you've never read Jasper Fforde and you like to read at all, you are missing out. Fforde writes for bibliophiles. His Thursday Next series is set in a world where some people are able to jump into the BookWorld to interact with the fictional characters, and fictional characters can come out of their books to visit the real world. This "real world" is a contemporary alternate-history setting where time travel is common, they fly by blimp instead of airplane, and neanderthals, vampires, and ghosts coexist with the humans. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Thursday Next herself is a Book Detective and her assignment in the first book, </span><i style="background-color: white;">The Eyre Affair</i><span style="background-color: white;">, is to find Jane Eyre, who has been kidnapped from her own story. Fforde has a thoroughly wild imagination.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">There are now six Thursday Next books, and Fforde has </span><span style="background-color: white;">also</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">written two books in a Nursery Crime series, set in a world similar to the Thursday Next world but with small differences like space aliens live on Earth instead of neanderthals and nursery rhyme characters also exist in the real world. </span><i>The Big Over Easy</i><span style="background-color: white;"> is about the murder of Humpty Dumpty, and in </span><i>The Fourth Bear</i><span style="background-color: white;">, Goldilocks goes missing and the Gingerbread Man is a deranged killer. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I could talk about these books all day, but just writing down the premises makes me a little giddy. These are clever, smart, intellectual books (I know what I just wrote), with references to literature throughout. And the wordplay and attention to the English language can be hilarious. In one of the Nursery Crime novels, Fforde makes inconsequential jokes for three quarters of the book just to set up one throw away line that made me laugh for days. It still makes me giggle a little just to think of it. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSVNVHWNSlyigMEq47VLvlp6HCszRwO8-YMdgcK7PBf0gHsdN2X" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSVNVHWNSlyigMEq47VLvlp6HCszRwO8-YMdgcK7PBf0gHsdN2X" width="131" /></a><span style="background-color: white;">I just finished the latest Thursday Next book, <i>One of Our Thursdays is Missing</i>. It's set almost entirely in the BookWorld and involves the written Thursday's investigation into the possible murder of the real Thursday. The underlying commentary on the nature of reading and state of publishing in today's REAL real world is perfect.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Below is a look at the BookWorld's Fiction Island. Click on it to get a better view. Or see it <a href="http://www.jasperfforde.com/more/tn6map.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="http://www.jasperfforde.com//images/oootim/map700x1085.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.jasperfforde.com//images/oootim/map700x1085.gif" width="206" /></a><span style="background-color: white;">The following passage from </span><i style="background-color: white;">One of Our Thursdays is Missing</i><span style="background-color: white;"> is a taste of the wordplay you're in for when you pick up a Jasper Fforde book:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"I moved quietly to the French windows and stepped out into the garden to release the Lost Positives that the Lady of Shalott had given me. She had a soft spot for the orphaned prefixless words and thought they had more chance to thrive in Fiction than in Poetry. I let the defatigable scamps out of their box. They were kempt and sheveled but their behavior was peccable if not mildly gruntled. They started acting petulously and ran around in circles in a very toward manner."</span><br />
<br />
And the following description of the Metaphoric River that runs the entirety of Fiction Island, reaching every genre, describes the necessity of figurative language in all writing:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Most people these days agreed that the river couldn't actually have a source, since it flowed in several directions at once. Instead of starting in one place and ending in another using the traditionally mundane "downhill" plan, it would pretty much go as the mood took it. ...the Metaphoric brought with it the rhetorical nutrients necessary for good prose--the river was the lifeblood of fiction, and nothing would exist without it."</span><br />
<br />
I didn't know Jasper Fforde until a couple years into my marriage. My wife's library was already extensive when we met; indeed, it was one of the reasons I fell in love with her. She owned the first two Thursday Next books, but it took a while for us to mutually realize I had never read <i>The Eyre Affair</i>. I'll admit now that I've never read <i>Jane Eyre </i>all the way through, so the ending of Fforde's take on the story confused me until my wife explained. As with any allusion, if you're not familiar with the source, the reference gets lost. Still, I am eternally grateful to my wife because I am now hooked on Fforde and suggest the same for you. Reading Jasper Fforde will do nothing less than enrich your life.<br />
<br />
The next Thursday Next book, called <i>The Woman Who Died a Lot</i>, is supposed to be released this month. <a href="http://www.jasperfforde.com/nextbook.html" target="_blank">Here's some info</a>. So get cracking.<br />
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<a href="http://www.jasperfforde.com/images/tn8_usacover_311x500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.jasperfforde.com/images/tn8_usacover_311x500.jpg" width="131" /></a></div>Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-88457418508724765142012-07-03T13:14:00.000-06:002012-07-03T16:02:29.533-06:00IWSG: TMI<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJh406YlzoroCpRWJEOFfhddONWn4lnftUCEIF-4GpQNsnlAw8RU0lirGcylSevCJKOCQ7TMs208BLXIyQsuqLqP9ZVo2UL347Z9vGWpbSrfXkq8NLz-qcKKRzIRubdrwR24OX-TJvRA/s320/InsecureWritersSupportGroup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJh406YlzoroCpRWJEOFfhddONWn4lnftUCEIF-4GpQNsnlAw8RU0lirGcylSevCJKOCQ7TMs208BLXIyQsuqLqP9ZVo2UL347Z9vGWpbSrfXkq8NLz-qcKKRzIRubdrwR24OX-TJvRA/s200/InsecureWritersSupportGroup.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;">Too much information. </span><br />
<br />
I'm aware that this is nothing new, but it's still a major problem.<br />
<br />
Eighteen months ago I started actively pursuing publication of my YA novel <a href="http://www.brentwescott.com/home/trendy-poseurs-go-home" target="_blank">Trendy Poseurs Go Home</a>, building an online platform, and sifting through the glut of information about how to get it done. And I have yet to figure out how to get published.<br />
<br />
Where's the manual? I mean, if you want to be a doctor, there's a procedure, right? Get good grades, get into med school, pass your courses, and you're a doctor. My brother-in-law is trying to become a police officer, and he's going step by step through the process the police department sets up: tests, interviews, background checks, more tests, more interviews. In order to become a teacher, I had to get a degree, take courses in education, follow the application procedures for each school district. The procedures are different for every district, of course, but at least they have procedures.<br />
<br />
I know these analogies aren't perfect. That "writer" as a profession doesn't easily fit a mold. There's no human resources office you can visit and ask for an application. Instead, you have to rely on the experience of others in order to figure out the way to get a foothold in the business. And every one of those "others" has his or her own experience that doesn't follow any kind of manual.<br />
<br />
As a practical person who can usually do a pretty good job at something once someone shows me how it's done, not having a definitive rule book is one of the most frustrating aspects of writing. There are too many voices out there. Too much advice. Too many ways to get published.<br />
<br />
So what's the <i>best</i> way? I know there isn't one. That you have to find your own. The problem is you can't know that you've found what works for you <span style="background-color: white;">until you've </span><span style="background-color: white;">followed some advice, </span><span style="background-color: white;">taken a path, and seen where it leads you. And you can't know </span><i>anything</i><span style="background-color: white;">, which is my frustration, for the entire time it takes for the process to run its course. And where's the finish line, anyway? Agent? Publication? Bestseller? Movie rights? And now your book is taught in Honors Literature courses in schools across the globe because of its brilliance. How long did that take?</span><br />
<br />
Or none of that happens after years of work. That's depressing.<br />
<br />
I've decided to stick to a basic few websites. See what use they can be to me. In a few years, if I'm still in the same place I am today, I'll have to take stock and reconfigure my own process.<br />
<br />
I've joined <a href="http://querytracker.net/">QueryTracker.net</a>, hoping it can keep me organized. A bazillion other sites could help me with querying, but I can't deal with more than one. I'll go with this one, and<span style="background-color: white;"> maybe I'll actually send some queries.</span><br />
<br />
The site <a href="http://chiseledinrock.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Chiseled in Rock</a> is the official blog of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, the only "society" of writers I pay dues to belong to. I like the down-to-earth discussions they have, and since I've actually met some of these writers in person, getting published doesn't seem so outlandish when I hear them tell about it.<br />
<br />
For writing tips, <a href="http://thebookshelfmuse.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Bookshelf Muse</a> never fails to give practical suggestions. I use their subject thesaurus almost as much as I use a word thesaurus.<br />
<br />
Please don't misunderstand. <span style="background-color: white;">I love the community of writers and </span><span style="background-color: white;">still read other writing blogs, engage in conversation about writing, gain and give support and encouragement. Plus, I'm still searching for that manual, that application, that silver bullet, that pot o' gold, that holy grail. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Be sure to let me know if you've found it. </span><br />
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<br />
The <a href="http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/p/insecure-writers-support-group.html" target="_blank">Insecure Writer's Support Group</a> is the brainchild of Sci-Fi writer <a href="http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Alex J. Cavanaugh</a>. Check out his site for more insecure writers.Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-45330481135810453002012-06-18T09:14:00.001-06:002012-06-18T21:20:54.466-06:00A Timely Discussion of Friday Night Lights (including spoilers)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is in no way culturally timely (sorry for the misleading title), but I just finished watching the series <i>Friday Night Lights</i>. I know I'm late to the party. I nearly always am. But since my wife recently got to <a href="http://www.buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2012/06/talent-is-ticket-to-nowhere-guest-post.html" target="_blank">rant about the show <i>Smash</i></a>, I thought I might rant about something I've watched.<br />
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I read a part of the original <i>Friday Night Lights</i> non-fiction book and enjoyed the feature film based on the book, but I wasn't about to invest in a weekly TV show about football. But I read a lot about stuff and the critics kept telling me it's a great show and that it's not really about football anyway. Or at least, there's very little football in a show about football. Then my wife watched it, the whole series while I was busy doing other stuff, and she kept telling me it's a great show and that it's not really about football anyway. So a few months ago I decided <i>Friday Night Lights</i> would be my new treadmill show.<br />
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There are five seasons, only the first of which is a regular full season of episodes. The rest all have 13 or 15 episodes each. This is due to a couple of things: the writer's strike a few years back, which killed more than one worthy show (RIP <i>Life </i>and <i>Pushing Daisies</i>), and the fact that NBC cancelled the show, like, three times each season then decided to bring it back. I think the last two seasons ended up broadcast on Direct TV before being burnt off at some point on NBC. Still, the show remained a critical darling and they kept telling me I should be watching it.<br />
<br />
Oh, well. So here I can understand how the series could be uneven and require some retooling. Five years is a long time to drag it out, but since no one was watching they never really had a chance.<br />
<br />
I liked it enough to watch, that's true. In fact, the parts I enjoyed the most were the football parts. Even though every single game comes down to a last second effort (big problem #1), the game sequences drive the show and even gave me a push on the treadmill for these few months.<br />
<br />
And even though the majority of the characters, whether youthful teenagers or grown adults, are annoying and unrealistic (huge problem #2), a handful of characters are seriously engaging and worth the investment in their lives. First of all, Coach Taylor and wife Tammy have some tough times and try their best with what they are given. Their story comes full circle at the end of five seasons and is particularly satisfying. The few kids worth watching: Matt Saracen is a worthy underdog, loser Landrey is essentially likeable, and Tyra redeems herself and gets out of the trap that her home in Dillon, Texas, has in store for her.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQbHVZMCGjV5EspLDlMOXwhlHcvjsZuUGxPok4CZ6f_I4-9oKJXrw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQbHVZMCGjV5EspLDlMOXwhlHcvjsZuUGxPok4CZ6f_I4-9oKJXrw" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How can you NOT root<br />
for this guy?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then you have Tim Riggins. This is the character played by Taylor Kitch, who is this year enjoying the notoriety of box office failure <i>John Carter</i> and guilty pleasure <i>Battleship</i>. Tim Riggins is a good guy. Somehow he overcomes the fact that he sleeps with every girl (or woman) he knows by actually caring about them all. And clearly he's an alcoholic, apparently since the age of thirteen or so. His drinking is taken for granted and the show never addresses this at all (massive problem #3), but in spite of everything, you still want him to win, not just the football games but the game of life.<br />
<br />
If you haven't seen <i>Friday Night Lights</i>, especially if you plan to one day, maybe you should stop reading now. I'm about to list a few more problems with the show and you probably won't know what I'm talking about. Plus, to quote River Song, "Spoilers!"<br />
<br />
And I'd bet these issues have all been discussed ad nauseam on the forums and chat rooms and blogs. I can't be the first person to notice these things (as I've said, I'm rarely the first one to the party), but if you have watched the show, I'd love to hear what you think.<br />
<br />
<b>Other problem # 4: How old are these teenagers anyway? </b>The "Pilot" episode establishes that star quarterback Jason Street is in his final year and makes big plans with BFF Tim Riggins, girlfriend Lyla Garrity, and his future in the NFL. Apparently this senior football star's best pals are only sophomores in high school because they both stick around Dillon High for three full years. Coach's daughter, Julie Taylor, starts the series as a sophomore herself, but stays in school for four years before graduating and going to college. Finally there's Landry Clark, who at the beginning of season one is made out to be the smartest guy in high school before he's even started high school because he sticks around for four years, too.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTChPfmj19WOFVYP-4rX1MgBaKBf7Yz2JX2juh3rphh0Igr_1UwIg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTChPfmj19WOFVYP-4rX1MgBaKBf7Yz2JX2juh3rphh0Igr_1UwIg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And why didn't anyone do anything about<br />
those bangs?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Other problem # 5: Julie Taylor.</b> Season 2, Boo Hoo. You have a new baby sister who gets all of Mom's attention. Poor girl! It's okay to act like a brat week after week. Season 5, way to make the decision to sleep with your married TA three weeks into college! Don't worry, Matt Saracen will take you back. You can walk all over him for the rest of your life and he'll take you back.<br />
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<b>Other problem # 6: Where did that character go?</b> Not only from season to season, but even in the midst of a season, <i>FNL </i>might present a story for one or two episodes, then never bring it up again. In season one, it was Voodoo Tatum, a displaced Katrina survivor who was recruited illegally, then kicked off the team, then magically shows up many episodes later as their adversary in the state finals. Not one word about how he mysteriously ends up eligible to play on some other Texas team since he wasn't eligible to play in Dillon.<br />
<br />
And in season five, where was JD McCoy, the star quarterback of Coach Taylor's new rivals, the Panthers? Not one word. It's frustrating because this would be so easy to fix with just one line somewhere: "The Panthers suck this season, so his dad took his son and the coach to greener pastures." Instead we are left to conjecture.<br />
<br />
I haven't even mentioned how too many episodes are way too nice. How too many things end up just swell for these people who consistently make poor decisions. It's manipulative, in fact, but if you can accept that, focus on the characters who aren't complete tools, and let yourself feel the drama of the actual football, you might enjoy yourself.Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-71926946750005698772012-06-14T12:39:00.002-06:002012-06-14T12:41:21.309-06:00Talent Is a Ticket to Nowhere (Guest Post)My husband, Brent, has been preoccupied lately with the successes of a few
(very few) writers who have self-published their novels. There is a feeling that by self-publishing
they’ve somehow subverted the talent-driven system of agents and publishers. To
that, I snort though my nose and cry “Hah!”<br />
<br />
<i>(Blog owner's note: My wife says I've been preoccupied, but apparently she's been preoccupied herself since rewatching the entire season of </i>Smash <i>already this summer. I've offered her the platform of this blog to get some things off her chest.)</i><br />
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I don’t believe in the talent-driven system. As far as I’m
concerned it’s a myth that we share with others to promote hard work and
persistence – it’s the Santa Claus of the creative world.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cute braids require long hair, <br />
not a mullet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I lost my faith in this particular Santa Claus when I was
7-years-old and I auditioned for a part in a community production of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sound of Music</i>. I loved that show. I
knew all the songs. I could expertly tell you the story from beginning to end
without leaving anything out. Unfortunately, I had two things working against
me: my 1977 mullet hairdo and my big mouth. I mentioned the audition to a
friend who had luxuriously long brown hair and an adorable lisp. She mentioned
it to her mother who proceeded to bring her five daughters (all with flowing
manes of very not-1970s hair) to the audition. Although the girls had never
seen the show, sung the songs, or imagined themselves dancing at the Captain’s
ball – they all got cast in the available parts, leaving nothing for me. Apparently, the length of their
hair was really all the talent required. </div>
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This was the first of my run-ins with the dismal reality of art
– it’s not really about talent. Most recently, I’ve been struck by this fact as
it relates to a TV show I’ve been watching: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smash</i>.
I’m a Broadway fan. I moved to New York for two years, mostly because it meant
I could go see plays anytime I wanted. So, when they announced <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smash</i> in the television lineup, I was camping
out to buy my ticket. Unlike many others, I tuned in all season, and while I
admit there were some flat episodes, overall I liked it. </div>
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The central conflict of the story is the competition between
two actors for the role of Marilyn in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marilyn!
The Musical.</i> (Technically the fictional title is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bombshell</i>. But I think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marilyn!
The Musical</i> is catchier. Don’t you?) Karen is just off the bus from Iowa.
She’s naïve and starry eyed and just wants you to let her be your star. We’re
told repeatedly that she is very, very talented. In contrast, Ivy comes from a
musical theater family. Her mother is played by Bernadette Peters (who seems to
be playing Patti Lupone) and Mama is an established, Broadway Phenom. Ivy has
spent years working in the chorus of different Broadway shows, but has yet to
break out. Luckily for her, one of her best buds is writing the music for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marilyn! the Musical</i> and he thinks she’d
be perfect as Marilyn. She, too, just wants to be given the chance to be your
star. </div>
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The show has painted some stereotypes a bit thickly. Karen
is sweet and refuses to do anyone dirty to get the part. Ivy is cynical and ruthless
enough to do whatever it takes. We see this in the second episode where both
women are invited to sleep with the director. Karen walks out. Ivy starts
taking her clothes off. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.eonline.com/eol_images/Entire_Site/201219//293.3smash.ls.2912.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://images.eonline.com/eol_images/Entire_Site/201219//293.3smash.ls.2912.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Karen on the left.<br />
Ivy on the right.<br />
Who's more Marilyn?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As the season progresses, Ivy is cast as Marilyn in the
workshop production, but as the show moves closer to Broadway, she is replaced
by a “big name” movie star. Back to the chorus goes Ivy. Meanwhile, Karen becomes
the understudy to the movie star. All this leads up to the climactic season
finale when big name movie star pulls out of the show during Previews and the
creative team has to decide who will go on as Marilyn that night. The director,
against strong, loud, and logical argument, chooses to have Karen play the role,
rather than Ivy. Everyone else on the creative team just KNOWS that this is a
mistake, that Ivy should be the one to do the part. But the director, in a
really blunt moment, explains that when he closes his eyes, he sees Karen as
Marilyn, not Ivy. </div>
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In reading reviews of the show’s season finale, most of the critics
have been scathing in denouncing the director’s choice. Mostly because in
comparing the two performances throughout the season, Megan Hilty, who plays
Ivy, seems to be the more talented than Katherine McPhee, who plays Karen. In reality, they
lament, she would be the one who would get the part. But she wouldn’t. That’s my
point. In TV, film, and theater, the part goes to the one who fits
the director’s vision, not to the one who out-Stanislavskied everybody else.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT_X5_sHNg2fBfridiqiPcjlAIsbY7U72aZ7Qf4F_Kt7IpxK72JmQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT_X5_sHNg2fBfridiqiPcjlAIsbY7U72aZ7Qf4F_Kt7IpxK72JmQ" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who writes this movie if not for<br />one lucky man?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The evidence of this permeates the creative world. Damon
Lindelof (writer of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lost</i> series
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prometheus</i>) in a recent interview
explained that he got his job writing for J.J. Abrams because he knew an executive at ABC. I’m not
saying Lindelof isn’t talented because clearly he is. What I am saying is
that he lucked out by knowing someone who had the power to get him in the room.
How many other, perhaps more talented, screen writers toil away in obscurity
because they don't have the good sense to grow up well-connected?</div>
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In another example, a few years ago NBC’s summer reality
show, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Comic Standing</i> made the
news because its celebrity judges (including Drew Carey) walked out of the
final episode in protest over the announced finalists. They publicly complained
that the people standing on the stage were not the people that they had picked
as the funniest comedians. The producers of the show ignored the expert judging
they had recruited in favor of fulfilling their vision of who should win.</div>
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It’s a hard fact. Talent isn’t a ticket to anything except
frustration and grief unless it’s paired with luck, connections, or a pretty
face. So to Brent and the rest of the world, I say publish or perish. If the
internet is the only connection you have, then use it. <a href="http://buildingcastlesonthebeach.blogspot.com/2012/04/envy-and-ire.html" target="_blank"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fifty Shades of Grey</i> is a small price to pay</a> if the internet also reveals
another Shakespeare--or Depeche Mode.</div>
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P.S. Brent thinks it’s very important that I disclose that
he’s never watched an episode of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smash</i>.
Perhaps this is why he still believes in fairy tales of talent.</div>Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-37737880973004191512012-06-11T22:58:00.001-06:002012-06-11T22:58:52.754-06:00My Own "It Gets Better" Campaign<i>NOTE: I wrote this post a couple of months ago in response to some Facebook mishegoss, yet I never posted it because it turned out differently than I had planned. Still. It's fun. Enjoy.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSBVFk2nxjVzfMnRvLp_VuxkuKIPvBwgPUSTkByey-wK99xmwBq6g" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSBVFk2nxjVzfMnRvLp_VuxkuKIPvBwgPUSTkByey-wK99xmwBq6g" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing about monocles<br />
in here. Uncool.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In eighth grade, I was your typical jock, popular enough to win the student council elections to become president of Gold House. I wore Sperry Topsiders with no socks, pleated slacks, and Izod polo shirts with an upturned collar when I wasn't wearing a tie or an argyle sweater. I would have accessorized with a top hat and monocle as well, but it's really hard to see with glass in front of only one eye.<br />
<br />
Despite the supposed popularity of such a look in prep schools or Ivy League universities, public school eighth graders didn't wear ties if they could help it. It was the first time I realized I was differently minded. Fortunately, this particular peculiarity was socially acceptable; unfortunately, it was a gateway to a more severe sort of deviancy.<br />
<br />
By the middle of my freshman year in high school, dressing Preppy wasn't enough.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR5W8oDqUCQMfKN2_IawvRTbFXlD24XjBjRQn4GIMzXeSYsrAJ9" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR5W8oDqUCQMfKN2_IawvRTbFXlD24XjBjRQn4GIMzXeSYsrAJ9" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clown or Cool?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I shaved half of my hair off only to mousse and blow dry the rest in mischievous and provocative ways. My thrift store threads mixed plaid and paisley and three shades of black. One time after an evening with friends, I arrived home with--for no reason other than to look like Gary Numan on the cover of his <i>Berserker </i>album--blue hair, blue eyeliner, and blue lipstick. My aberrant behavior had taken its toll on my previously accepting father, and he demanded that I never appear this way again. He forbade me to see my friends, as if their bad influence might lead me next to paint my toenails or my tongue blue, too.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw-6xnwOnbE0iChAeo_tA-SIJLYWkSjypdy3YMlpgPdXk5PoOAWHbeGX0UL9gWUmOoGmS1d5bb5MCkvAgb0sHtf7ON2HcxwZoks6G5WhBXBtzHdWMTQ6XN-QGqP_WVY4o_D3GpGkDD4zIp/s1600/joseph_smith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw-6xnwOnbE0iChAeo_tA-SIJLYWkSjypdy3YMlpgPdXk5PoOAWHbeGX0UL9gWUmOoGmS1d5bb5MCkvAgb0sHtf7ON2HcxwZoks6G5WhBXBtzHdWMTQ6XN-QGqP_WVY4o_D3GpGkDD4zIp/s200/joseph_smith.jpg" width="139" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I thought I looked like Joseph Smith.<br />Maybe I should have gone with a cravat.</span></span></td></tr>
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Other restrictions presented themselves. At church, some Sundays I wasn't allowed to pass the sacrament like the other young men dressed in their white shirts and sport coats. My hair was too pointy, or they didn't like the way I wore my plaid shirt's collar up with my tie. Then at high school graduation, I couldn't do anything with my hair or I wouldn't be able to wear the mortar board. I rebelled by wearing plaid shorts and black Converse high tops under my gown. Little did they know.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now imagine her much less<br /> pretty and with a goatee.</td></tr>
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At BYU, it got worse. Brigham Young University couples its Honor Code with a Dress Code, which gives license to the accusation that you are less than honorable if your shorts don't touch your knee or your manly long hair does touch your collar. At that point, I stopped wearing my collar up. Plus, the 80's were over; I had to let it go. My hair grew long in front and was shaved short in back. I sported an A-line haircut before Victoria Beckham was ever Posh Spice.<br />
<br />
I obeyed the letter of the Dress Code, if not the spirit. Still, I was treated like a second-class citizen, subjected to meetings and interviews that my roommates weren't despite their near-constant viewing of <i>Singled Out</i> on MTV.<br />
<br />
The lesson here, kids, is when people judge you for looking funny, know that it gets better. It gets better because eventually you will stop dressing that way. A forty-year-old teacher wearing blue lipstick is making no kind of statement.Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-68151487905311585952012-06-06T09:38:00.000-06:002012-06-06T09:38:53.522-06:00Insecure Writer's Support Group: NewsThis week I've joined the Insecure Writer's Support Group through <a href="http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Alex J. Cavanaugh's</a> blog.<br />
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<br />
I have news. I got an email from an editor I talked to at a writer's conference almost nine months ago. I sent him the whole of <a href="http://www.brentwescott.com/home/trendy-poseurs-go-home" target="_blank">Trendy Poseurs Go Home</a>, which he requested because he wanted to read a YA novel that was completely devoid of the paranormal. So his recent email said he just started reading what I sent him, which is understandable because it takes a long time to get through submissions like this, but I had given up on that particular possibility long ago. He said he liked what he was reading and wanted to make sure it was still up for grabs before he read the rest.<br />
<br />
I immediately responded and said, yes, yes, by all means read on and enjoy. And how much do you want to pay me for it? Should I start planning my book tour? Who's going to play me and my twin in the Charlie Kaufman version for the screen?<br />
<br />
Sometimes my brain does that, it's true. But in reality, I know it's a long shot. A very long shot, like aiming a laser pointer at the moon.<br />
<br />
When I tell people, they go, oh, that's so cool. It is, but it's not. In my head I'm thinking it's a small step that could too easily disappear like your footsteps on the beach. I most likely will wait another nine months for another response and it will be a kind but firm rejection.<br />
<br />
What do I do in the meantime?Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772006307472464943.post-15324636389546346642012-05-31T09:51:00.002-06:002012-05-31T12:22:37.879-06:00Haircuts for Boys, sans Rocket ShipsAs you can see, we let the boy's hair grow for over 18 months. It got pretty long. But super cute, right?<br />
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<br />
He was only mistaken for a girl once, even though he was wearing overalls with a football on the bib, which is downright iconically boyish, if you ask me, so it must have been the hair.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mullet is also worn by<br />
spiders from Mars.</td></tr>
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His grandmother took it upon herself to cut his bangs a few times while she was watching him. A small price to pay for babysitting, but one more time and his cute, shaggy 'do would have turned into a mullet to rival Ziggy Stardust.<br />
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On Monday, Memorial Day, we opted for an official haircut. I thought I might just get out the clippers and buzz it down, but I know my wife well enough not to mention it. Our brother-in-law said we should go see The Russian, an old barber who's been at this little strip mall shop for decades, I guess. This appealed to my wife because of the spinning red, white, and blue barber pole in the window.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure where she got it, but May was clinging to this Norman Rockwellian notion of a boy's first hair cut, complete with--I'm not exaggerating here--a rocket ship chair. I suppose I can understand this. I remember fondly the barber shop where my dad used to take my brothers and me back in the early seventies. Men with mustaches reading the paper and shooting the breeze, letting us kids sit in the tall barber chairs while we waited. To this day, the smell of that place--the wet hair and gel and cream--is what I imagine real men should always smell like. Still, I thought we could just go to Sport Clips where I get my regular hair cut, and even though it's a rather manly salon with a thorough sports motif, since there was no rocket ship chair, the wife wanted to try The Russian.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, when we pulled up, the lights were off and the "Open" sign was dark. Worse, the barber pole was not spinning. Close inspection of the window indicated they were closed Sundays and Mondays. What luck. May agreed that we should go ahead and try Sport Clips. She didn't like that there would be no rocket ship, but it was that or no haircut. Naturally, Sport Clips was closed for Memorial Day.<br />
<br />
We tried again the next day. By then, May had abandoned her dreams of yesteryear and rocket ship chairs and said she didn't care where we went. Sport Clips it was, then. When I went in to check wait times, the stylist (I don't think I can call her a barber, can I?) assured me she could take care of an 18-month-old and said it would be about a twenty minute wait. We began to get concerned about the boy, when after fifteen minutes he was running the length of the lobby, exploring behind the register counter, and climbing and falling off of several chairs and benches. Was he going to sit still long enough for a haircut?<br />
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Our stylist finally called us back and immediately took control by offering a Dum Dum sucker. Xander popped that in like it was the greatest thing he'd ever put into his mouth. He sat holding the stick, the candy firmly in place, staring at himself in the mirror while the stylist sprayed his hair wet and began cutting. The boy didn't move until she needed him to look down. Mom distracted him then with one of many iPhone apps, and he hardly moved and didn't make a sound. I had to hold his head in place in order for her to use the clippers around his ears, but again, he hardly seemed to notice. Even when the lollipop was down to a nub and getting fly-away hair stuck to it, he sat still and just watched the mirror. What an awesome kid.<br />
<br />
The stylist kept as much hair clippings as she could for posterity. We now have an envelope of hair in his remembrances treasure chest. Not to mention all the pictures.<br />
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It's not as short as it could have been, but I still was concerned that like Sampson he would lose his mojo without his beautiful, flowy hair. I had nothing to worry about.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr-pGb1x1tViHruqQTZ5XjI8GVdngV-D4etnn50dz4zpEh2bk6FeLteIn6hv6ZLH9IMb2uMCHqXmz9vf6J9VPc5m19BcwaQ3fYXLUCGOjwetNpEqeD-s_DTsh5EpV9VbNn35D8bvvgCL_l/s1600/IMG_0159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr-pGb1x1tViHruqQTZ5XjI8GVdngV-D4etnn50dz4zpEh2bk6FeLteIn6hv6ZLH9IMb2uMCHqXmz9vf6J9VPc5m19BcwaQ3fYXLUCGOjwetNpEqeD-s_DTsh5EpV9VbNn35D8bvvgCL_l/s400/IMG_0159.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>Brent Wescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08313269993916969201noreply@blogger.com15