Thursday, September 30, 2004
Garbage pail.
Today I will take some time to answer and pose those questions burning brightest. Well, second brightest I guess...I drafted a portion of this earlier in the week before recognizing the magnitude of the riot I've incited. It's cool. Stay with me on this one folks because I will respond to most of your charges in the next day or two.
Paul asked in an earlier comments section whether I'd had the opportunity to sample the Sippi dumpsters yet. Unfortunately, Paul, I have not. At first, I think it was an uneasiness about how others unfamiliar with my ways might perceive me, but now after some, albeit minimal, scrutiny...I've decided Mississippians are to poor to throw anything away. What can I do with a cracked porcelain toilet bowl or green screen apple computer?
Paul also suggested that rather than fill my bedroom with boring and functional furniture, I secure a conversation piece and leave it at that. Any suggestions?
When I arrived, I weighed a minacious 175 pounds (tied with my beefiest ever,) and now I've tipped the scales at 178 pounds. How best do I make folks aware of my new found girth? Will Benjamin cry when I'm 30 pounds heavier than he is?
Why is Alf so lame, when his mom is so cool. Cases in point: Alf's mom posing questions in the comments section of his now defunct website. "You have an ayi (aunt/maid/paid cook & housekeeper)?!? Does this mean you are voting for Bush?"
Paul asked in an earlier comments section whether I'd had the opportunity to sample the Sippi dumpsters yet. Unfortunately, Paul, I have not. At first, I think it was an uneasiness about how others unfamiliar with my ways might perceive me, but now after some, albeit minimal, scrutiny...I've decided Mississippians are to poor to throw anything away. What can I do with a cracked porcelain toilet bowl or green screen apple computer?
Paul also suggested that rather than fill my bedroom with boring and functional furniture, I secure a conversation piece and leave it at that. Any suggestions?
When I arrived, I weighed a minacious 175 pounds (tied with my beefiest ever,) and now I've tipped the scales at 178 pounds. How best do I make folks aware of my new found girth? Will Benjamin cry when I'm 30 pounds heavier than he is?
Why is Alf so lame, when his mom is so cool. Cases in point: Alf's mom posing questions in the comments section of his now defunct website. "You have an ayi (aunt/maid/paid cook & housekeeper)?!? Does this mean you are voting for Bush?"
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
The Reverend
We ran into "The Reverend" the other evening while stocking up for the hurricane. In case anyone's forgotten, "The Reverend" is the owner and head barber I met with a few friends of mine within that first week in town. After meeting this fellow, I was informed that I had the honors of being the first white guy to have visited his establishment in many many months. I can only assure you that if I had requested a haircut, he'd have sent me out with a mean looking fade.
Anyway, five of us from the apartment complex were milling about the grocery store when I split off from the group to track down a loaf of bread. While in the bakery section, I spotted "The Reverend" and smiled my hello. His reply was an uncomfortable and perplexed nod, leading me to realize that I hadn't been recognized. Rather than create an awkward situation, I left our exchange at that and went about my business. Later, "The Reverend" ran into another of our party and this time, recognized the greeting individual. When I rejoined the group, I was reintroduced to "The Reverend" and this time he laughed and laughed, remarking that he hadn't recognized me when I first smiled his way. "The Reverend" was shopping with his pops and introduced him to the three of us who happened to be in attendance. While everyone exchanged pleasantries of some sort, the exchanges between myself (the lone white guy) and both "The Reverend" and his pops was almost antiseptic by comparison.
This, at long last, brings me to the essential thrust of my post. After spending four years in a private school lauded for its international flavor and commitment to multiculturalism, I've managed to make twice as many meaningful friendships and acquaintances with folks of another ethnicity in the four brief weeks I've spent in Hattiesburg. I suppose pot shots directed at the ol' alma mater aren't exactly called for in this particular situation, as there were students at Macalester who managed to bridge the gap quite successfully. My closest friends here hail from Nigeria, Bolivia, Japan/Mexico, Conneticut, and Tanzania. The lone American is African-American and I've become the token white guy. Why is this all relevant? Well, those of you who know me well, have likely guessed what's coming.
For some time now, I've marvelled at the sense of community and brotherhood embodied in black culture. I say black culture, because it's the culture I'm most familiar with (unfortunately not through inclusion, just observation from a far off distance...y'all know my style,) but I'm fairly certain this same aura of community exists for other minority groups as well. Minorities share a commonality easily recognized and embraced, which lends itself well to community building. In America, minority has become virtually synonymous with poverty and discrimination. I understand this is hardly an ephiphany for those reading the post, but it still deserves mention. What better way to bind a group of forlorn individuals together than through persecution and poverty? With no money to speak of, folks are forced to rely more heavily on the kindness of neighbors. So I ask, WHO, in good faith, will deny the very same neighbor that helped you pay the electricity bill one short month ago a few hours of your precious time? Purely hypothetical, but you get my drift. Persecution and poverty force those alike to band together and find ways to persevere.
The point is, I wish I had that same sense of community in my day-to-day. I say "I" and not "we" (in reference to my white brethren) because I don't wish that white people had a better sense of community...at least not in the exclusive sense. Instead, and again, some of you have seen this coming from a mile off, I wish I were black. I can't honestly say I wish I was a part of just any minority, but to be black (especially African-American, although I'd take African) is to be a part of something exceedingly unique and profound. The propensity for regular black folks to become soulful black folks is so much higher than for regular white folks. The closest thing a white man can come to being soulful is backwards...the same recipe for turning regular black folks into soulful black folks, churns out backwards white folks.
Now, clearly, my pining for mass quantities of melanin won't solve the problem we've got at hand, but I must say, my yearning for black skin is akin to most folks' yearning for cash money. If, on the other hand, someone can find a way to include me in the black posse that slaps and daps, pops and clutches; well, I'm cool with that too.
Anyway, five of us from the apartment complex were milling about the grocery store when I split off from the group to track down a loaf of bread. While in the bakery section, I spotted "The Reverend" and smiled my hello. His reply was an uncomfortable and perplexed nod, leading me to realize that I hadn't been recognized. Rather than create an awkward situation, I left our exchange at that and went about my business. Later, "The Reverend" ran into another of our party and this time, recognized the greeting individual. When I rejoined the group, I was reintroduced to "The Reverend" and this time he laughed and laughed, remarking that he hadn't recognized me when I first smiled his way. "The Reverend" was shopping with his pops and introduced him to the three of us who happened to be in attendance. While everyone exchanged pleasantries of some sort, the exchanges between myself (the lone white guy) and both "The Reverend" and his pops was almost antiseptic by comparison.
This, at long last, brings me to the essential thrust of my post. After spending four years in a private school lauded for its international flavor and commitment to multiculturalism, I've managed to make twice as many meaningful friendships and acquaintances with folks of another ethnicity in the four brief weeks I've spent in Hattiesburg. I suppose pot shots directed at the ol' alma mater aren't exactly called for in this particular situation, as there were students at Macalester who managed to bridge the gap quite successfully. My closest friends here hail from Nigeria, Bolivia, Japan/Mexico, Conneticut, and Tanzania. The lone American is African-American and I've become the token white guy. Why is this all relevant? Well, those of you who know me well, have likely guessed what's coming.
For some time now, I've marvelled at the sense of community and brotherhood embodied in black culture. I say black culture, because it's the culture I'm most familiar with (unfortunately not through inclusion, just observation from a far off distance...y'all know my style,) but I'm fairly certain this same aura of community exists for other minority groups as well. Minorities share a commonality easily recognized and embraced, which lends itself well to community building. In America, minority has become virtually synonymous with poverty and discrimination. I understand this is hardly an ephiphany for those reading the post, but it still deserves mention. What better way to bind a group of forlorn individuals together than through persecution and poverty? With no money to speak of, folks are forced to rely more heavily on the kindness of neighbors. So I ask, WHO, in good faith, will deny the very same neighbor that helped you pay the electricity bill one short month ago a few hours of your precious time? Purely hypothetical, but you get my drift. Persecution and poverty force those alike to band together and find ways to persevere.
The point is, I wish I had that same sense of community in my day-to-day. I say "I" and not "we" (in reference to my white brethren) because I don't wish that white people had a better sense of community...at least not in the exclusive sense. Instead, and again, some of you have seen this coming from a mile off, I wish I were black. I can't honestly say I wish I was a part of just any minority, but to be black (especially African-American, although I'd take African) is to be a part of something exceedingly unique and profound. The propensity for regular black folks to become soulful black folks is so much higher than for regular white folks. The closest thing a white man can come to being soulful is backwards...the same recipe for turning regular black folks into soulful black folks, churns out backwards white folks.
Now, clearly, my pining for mass quantities of melanin won't solve the problem we've got at hand, but I must say, my yearning for black skin is akin to most folks' yearning for cash money. If, on the other hand, someone can find a way to include me in the black posse that slaps and daps, pops and clutches; well, I'm cool with that too.
Friday, September 17, 2004
Ivan The Not-So-Terrible
Well, Ivan turned out to be something less than terrible. Now that I think about it, I should probably call my parents and let them know we're alright down here. I spoke with them the day before Ivan was predicted to hit, when the so-called "experts" were still predicting the fierce winds I spoke so longingly of. As it turned out, we had nothing more than a good old fashioned rainstorm. I stayed up until4 AM Wednesday night in anticipation of getting blown around a bit in the elements, but the strongest winds we experienced here in town were around 45 mph. Some of the folks in town experienced power outages, but the vast majority of Hattiesburg's residents have remained largely unaffected. Preparations for the storm were, of course, rather extensive. (On the part of business owners and worrisome homeowners, not for myself.) Many store owners either duct taped or boarded up their windows and practically the entire town shut down on Thursday. I won't go into detail about the damage inflicted in regions east of here, as I'm certain those more interested will already have searched that information out for themselves. While watching television that Wednesday evening, I saw the coast guard had recorded a 52 foot high wave 4 miles off shore. Talk about keen surfing conditions!
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Ivan The Terrible
I've only got thirty minutes in which to post. Hurricane Ivan, as I'm sure some of you know, is rapidly approaching the gulf of Mississippi and I must stock-up on the essentials in order that I "weather the storm." A few fellas and I will be making a trip tonight to the grocery store where we'll purchase caches of water and beer. I was told that the best way in which to weather a hurricane is to have much beer on hand. Our landlady also informed everyone in the complex that we can expect the electricity to go out for a couple days and I figured my crash course in warm beer drinking while visiting Alf in China should prove to be a lifesaver. Classes at USM have been cancelled from Wednesday (tomorrow) through the weekend and will resume next Monday. They've even cancelled the football game here on campus for this Thursday, which was my first clue that hurricanes are meant to be taken seriously.
As Ben so lovingly pointed out on his own blog, the Golden Eagles of Southern Mississippi defeated his dear Cornhuskers last weekend and in honor of their upset, a rally was thrown at the airport upon their arrival. Was I there, you ask? Hell no, folks down here take their football so seriously that within 20 minutes of the game's end, "USM defeats Nebraska" t-shirts and the airport rally were both being advertised on television.
I apologize for the transgression, let me get back to the hurricane. I'm almost ashamed to report that the pending onslaught of a Hurricane Ivan has me super excited. I realize that the event is a catastrophic one and that even here, we can expect real damage, but I can't wait to get outside a bit and experience the projected 60-100 mph winds. Getting back to our landlady, she and her husband were around back of the apartment cutting down dead trees this afternoon, in preparation, and managed to punch a hole in the roof of a neighbor's house. Now, I believe they own the home, so legal action isn't expected, but how frustrating would that be to have your landlady punch a hole in your roof twenty-four hours before a hurricane arrives!
And so the bout of relative good health continues. (I've got no time for smooth transitions.) I've now posted four runs (again, every other day) of 10, 10, 15, and 15 minutes a piece. In addition, I've managed two 30 minute bike rides in that same span. My weight lifting/southern cooking weight-gaining regime continues to work miracles and I can now report I'm twenty pounds heavier than I was at the tail end of my senior year track season. I weighed 155 pounds then and 175 now. For those not in the know, I weighed 170 before I arrived (well, before I left for China anyway, damn you Alfie) and in all honesty, I anticipate that I'll be back down around 165 as I work my way back into distance shape. Only because I know everyone's dying to know, I can now bench press 45s on each side of the bar three sets of eight! I'm huge (figuratively, of course!)
I must be off y'all. Unfortunately, with campus being closed until next Monday, I don't anticipate having access to a computer with internet access until then. Who knows though, in the meantime, I wish everyone well and will post at the next available opportunity.
As Ben so lovingly pointed out on his own blog, the Golden Eagles of Southern Mississippi defeated his dear Cornhuskers last weekend and in honor of their upset, a rally was thrown at the airport upon their arrival. Was I there, you ask? Hell no, folks down here take their football so seriously that within 20 minutes of the game's end, "USM defeats Nebraska" t-shirts and the airport rally were both being advertised on television.
I apologize for the transgression, let me get back to the hurricane. I'm almost ashamed to report that the pending onslaught of a Hurricane Ivan has me super excited. I realize that the event is a catastrophic one and that even here, we can expect real damage, but I can't wait to get outside a bit and experience the projected 60-100 mph winds. Getting back to our landlady, she and her husband were around back of the apartment cutting down dead trees this afternoon, in preparation, and managed to punch a hole in the roof of a neighbor's house. Now, I believe they own the home, so legal action isn't expected, but how frustrating would that be to have your landlady punch a hole in your roof twenty-four hours before a hurricane arrives!
And so the bout of relative good health continues. (I've got no time for smooth transitions.) I've now posted four runs (again, every other day) of 10, 10, 15, and 15 minutes a piece. In addition, I've managed two 30 minute bike rides in that same span. My weight lifting/southern cooking weight-gaining regime continues to work miracles and I can now report I'm twenty pounds heavier than I was at the tail end of my senior year track season. I weighed 155 pounds then and 175 now. For those not in the know, I weighed 170 before I arrived (well, before I left for China anyway, damn you Alfie) and in all honesty, I anticipate that I'll be back down around 165 as I work my way back into distance shape. Only because I know everyone's dying to know, I can now bench press 45s on each side of the bar three sets of eight! I'm huge (figuratively, of course!)
I must be off y'all. Unfortunately, with campus being closed until next Monday, I don't anticipate having access to a computer with internet access until then. Who knows though, in the meantime, I wish everyone well and will post at the next available opportunity.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Domesticated Fellers
Again, Benjamin serves as my inspiration for posting. I spoke with the fella earlier tonight and he assured me that updates of any kind would be appreciated. With that in mind, let me begin with this here grease burn on my right wrist.
When I departed St. Paul in late August, I had to make tough decisions about what was important enough to warrant inclusion in my luggage. The essentials like Frisbee golf discs, a bamboo flute, plastic tool box, and glass change jar all made the cut. One of those items that didn't make it was my, "Where's Mom When I Need Her?" cookbook. I figured that at the ripe old age of 24, I knew my way around the kitchen well enough. Since that ill-fated afternoon, I've suffered a third degree grease burn on my wrist, set off the smoke alarm on numerous occasions, and botched even the most basic of breakfasts: pancakes. I really thought I had it figured out, but I failed to include the baking powder, or is it baking soda?
My bedroom is a whole other story. I'm quite positive the room is in serious violation of multiple interior decorating rules, not the least important being the need for height and levels in any well arranged room. When I sit up from the floor in my room, I'm the second tallest item in the room, behind my bike. I've yet to purchase a bed, dresser, desk, night stand, lamp...and anything else a domesticated feller might purchase for his bedroom? I have, however, purchased a printer/copier for my laptop, which sits atop my 1-foot tall filing cabinet. Oh yes, and a TI-83 plus for my statistics class, which reminds me, I ought to send in that rebate. For those who know me well, I need not bother pointing out the theme here. In case anyone's wondering, Michelle has informed me I'd better have a bed by the time she arrives, so I figure I've got a little over a month before my next major purchase. My clothes are arranged in piles on the floor (pants in one, shirts in another, etc..) My school books are kept in one corner alongside notebooks, old term papers, journal articles, and pens. I sleep on the floor, of course, and use one blanket for added cushion and another to cover up with. I think a plant or two might be nice some where down the line.
In other news, I ran today for the first time in a whole long time. Ten minutes on the treadmill. Mr. Steve Pasche, everybody's good friend and my former cross country coach, urged me to seek counsel for my ankle this past weekend, insisting that a specialist just might have some real insight into treatment for a partially torn ligament. Steve reckoned that they might suggest I start running again to feel things out. I thought, hey, why not skip the specialist and give it a try anyway? And that's what I did. Feels pretty good.
When I departed St. Paul in late August, I had to make tough decisions about what was important enough to warrant inclusion in my luggage. The essentials like Frisbee golf discs, a bamboo flute, plastic tool box, and glass change jar all made the cut. One of those items that didn't make it was my, "Where's Mom When I Need Her?" cookbook. I figured that at the ripe old age of 24, I knew my way around the kitchen well enough. Since that ill-fated afternoon, I've suffered a third degree grease burn on my wrist, set off the smoke alarm on numerous occasions, and botched even the most basic of breakfasts: pancakes. I really thought I had it figured out, but I failed to include the baking powder, or is it baking soda?
My bedroom is a whole other story. I'm quite positive the room is in serious violation of multiple interior decorating rules, not the least important being the need for height and levels in any well arranged room. When I sit up from the floor in my room, I'm the second tallest item in the room, behind my bike. I've yet to purchase a bed, dresser, desk, night stand, lamp...and anything else a domesticated feller might purchase for his bedroom? I have, however, purchased a printer/copier for my laptop, which sits atop my 1-foot tall filing cabinet. Oh yes, and a TI-83 plus for my statistics class, which reminds me, I ought to send in that rebate. For those who know me well, I need not bother pointing out the theme here. In case anyone's wondering, Michelle has informed me I'd better have a bed by the time she arrives, so I figure I've got a little over a month before my next major purchase. My clothes are arranged in piles on the floor (pants in one, shirts in another, etc..) My school books are kept in one corner alongside notebooks, old term papers, journal articles, and pens. I sleep on the floor, of course, and use one blanket for added cushion and another to cover up with. I think a plant or two might be nice some where down the line.
In other news, I ran today for the first time in a whole long time. Ten minutes on the treadmill. Mr. Steve Pasche, everybody's good friend and my former cross country coach, urged me to seek counsel for my ankle this past weekend, insisting that a specialist just might have some real insight into treatment for a partially torn ligament. Steve reckoned that they might suggest I start running again to feel things out. I thought, hey, why not skip the specialist and give it a try anyway? And that's what I did. Feels pretty good.
Friday, September 03, 2004
Bobby D. and Jimi
It's no surprise really that now, after months and months of inane bullshit and a profound lack of creativity, I'm struck with an urge to pick up the guitar. For that matter, I feel like reading novels again, even Sir Charles Dickens would be fine with me. Quite frankly, it doesn't matter a damn bit who the author is, so long as they don't address inhibitory functioning versus appetitive functioning or taxometrics or electrodermal reactivity. My studies are engulfing me in a process known as phagocytosis (and if you don't know what it means, look it up...It'll be good for you, at least that's what my parents told me.)
Anthony plays his guitar around our apartment a fair bit and over the years, has developed a real passion for rock 'n roll and the blues. He's the only black man I've ever known (granted there haven't been many) who cites Eric Clapton, Kenny Wayne Shepard, Brian May (of Queen infamy), Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Eddie Van Halen as his musical idols. Earlier this week, Anthony confessed that he'd been feeling rundown and generally out-of-sorts due to the sheer abundance of reading. My suggestion to him was that he search out some blues or rock music at our library. As it turned out, the library here on campus doesn't have much in the way of compact discs (at least not that we've happened across yet,) but they do have an extensive video library. There, Anthony discovered a series dubbed, "The History of Rock 'n Roll." Perhaps many of you are familiar with it. In all their are roughly ten videos, each approximately 90 minutes long and I've already sat through three in one day's time. I'm noticing here that the paragraph is stretching on, so I'll end it quickly by saying that Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan were and still are untouchables. Those two men, flat out, knew how to play.
The extended weekend is upon us and thank you Jesus for that. Contrary to the previous weekends down here, I've got a couple things planned. Several of the guys in the clinical program (there aren't many) get together monthly for a friendly poker tournament and I've opted to accept their invite for this Saturday evening. In addition, a barbecue will be held on Labor Day by another of my peers and I'll be attending that as well. Both will be a good opportunity to get out and unwind a tad. I know this sounds like real good times and I have no doubt that I will enjoy myself, but let me assure you each and every available moment outside of those obligations will be devoted to the ever-growing stack. Naturally, this can have a dampening effect on a man's spirit and I'm fighting an uphill battle to remain optimistic. Largely successful, mind y'all, but uphill non-the-less.
I'm tempted to share samplings of the assigned readings I've been given, but that would be an attempt at stalling and we can't have that. In the meantime, know that I WILL fill y'all in and you're gonna like it. We're talking, articles like, "A Proposal to Classify Happiness as a Psychiatric Disorder." It's good, I promise! Later everyone.
Anthony plays his guitar around our apartment a fair bit and over the years, has developed a real passion for rock 'n roll and the blues. He's the only black man I've ever known (granted there haven't been many) who cites Eric Clapton, Kenny Wayne Shepard, Brian May (of Queen infamy), Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Eddie Van Halen as his musical idols. Earlier this week, Anthony confessed that he'd been feeling rundown and generally out-of-sorts due to the sheer abundance of reading. My suggestion to him was that he search out some blues or rock music at our library. As it turned out, the library here on campus doesn't have much in the way of compact discs (at least not that we've happened across yet,) but they do have an extensive video library. There, Anthony discovered a series dubbed, "The History of Rock 'n Roll." Perhaps many of you are familiar with it. In all their are roughly ten videos, each approximately 90 minutes long and I've already sat through three in one day's time. I'm noticing here that the paragraph is stretching on, so I'll end it quickly by saying that Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan were and still are untouchables. Those two men, flat out, knew how to play.
The extended weekend is upon us and thank you Jesus for that. Contrary to the previous weekends down here, I've got a couple things planned. Several of the guys in the clinical program (there aren't many) get together monthly for a friendly poker tournament and I've opted to accept their invite for this Saturday evening. In addition, a barbecue will be held on Labor Day by another of my peers and I'll be attending that as well. Both will be a good opportunity to get out and unwind a tad. I know this sounds like real good times and I have no doubt that I will enjoy myself, but let me assure you each and every available moment outside of those obligations will be devoted to the ever-growing stack. Naturally, this can have a dampening effect on a man's spirit and I'm fighting an uphill battle to remain optimistic. Largely successful, mind y'all, but uphill non-the-less.
I'm tempted to share samplings of the assigned readings I've been given, but that would be an attempt at stalling and we can't have that. In the meantime, know that I WILL fill y'all in and you're gonna like it. We're talking, articles like, "A Proposal to Classify Happiness as a Psychiatric Disorder." It's good, I promise! Later everyone.
