ScottRieker.com :: My Awesome Life 2004

MY AWESOME LIFE 2004

(7 January, 2005) Day Thirteen

Watching the sun come up over the mountains of Alsace, and watching the sky turn from black to a light grey and then blue is a moving, spiritual event. Watching the sun come up over Newark is not. Especially when you’re not supposed to be watching the sun come up over Newark. I left Paul & Andre just late enough to arrive at the train station and watch my train to the airport close its doors and leave the platform. So, I got to wait for the next train, and subsequently miss my flight and get put on stand-by for the next flight to Chicago. So much for great planning.

The reason for all of this chaos is thus: I purchased very cheap tickets to fly to France, and for purchasers of inexpensive tickets, things like “simple convenience” are fairly meaningless. Thus, I landed from France at JFK airport (on Long Island, a half-hour cab ride at breakneck speed) last night at about 8:40PM. I then had to get my bags and change airports, to Newark Liberty (in Newark, a half-hour train ride). The only snarl (aside from traveling more than an hour between airports) was that my next flight didn’t leave until 6:00AM the following morning. I wasn’t about to spend the night in an airport, especially in New York, where I have friends living and friends visiting. Thus, the chaos and confusion, and the dreary sunrise over New Jersey.

The plane was on-time to Chicago, and I was able to sleep a lot of the way, and then I got to navigate the complicated mess of Chicago mass transit. I had to take a subway part of the way and the commuter rail out to the suburbs. One would think that if both trains stop at “Irving Park,” it would not necessitate a slog through two blocks of 4-inch snow dragging luggage. One would think, and one would be wrong. The train-ing, if you will, took more than an hour and a half, and given all of the delays, I was now three hours behind where I’d hoped to be. But, the web site keeps getting worked on, and I REALLY need a shower.

Kelli & Phil were nice enough to take me to lunch at a totally great, greasy American restaurant, and then I hopped in the Metro for the journey home. It was much the same as the journey to Chicago, except that there was freezing rain involved, and slush. At first, this doesn’t seem like a problem, until you remember that no heater = no defroster either. So, every few miles I got out and scraped the windshield off until the freezing rain and slush quit. In a rather uneventful way, I made it home to my apartment by 10:15PM, turned on the heater and water heater, went to Wal-Mart with Edward Sharp (It’s great to be back in the States, eh Steve?!), took a shower, and an now headed for a well-deserved rest to process all I’ve experienced and how it will effect who I become as a person and the choices I make. That, really, is the true benefit of travel. By experiencing first hand other perspectives, those issues that one grapples with at home seem suddenly much clearer. Amen.

(6 January, 2005) Days Ten through Twelve

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Day Ten
Marc had to work again today, and left at about 7:30. Thus, I was left to my own designs, aside from meeting him for lunch today. The building we are staying in is being remodeled, which is to say, it has scaffolding up all round it and men with raucous tools are doing unspeakable things to the exterior stone; creating copious amounts of both dust and noise. Yesterday, I was able to sleep through the worst of it. Today, it was hit or miss. Still, I managed to turn the heater up and get a few zees until I needed to meet Marc. I started off toward his office and learned my first major lesson today: My map shows MANY of the streets in Paris, and MOST of these are in the correct place. In a place like New York, where the streets form a grid over most of the city, a general idea or a sense of place is sufficient to find just about anything. In Paris, which looks like it was planned by finger-painting monkeys on crack (or by a delusional Corsican with the original Napoleon complex), a map that is “almost” right is more useless than a map of Johannesburg would have been. Anyhow, in spite of the map and with the help of some friendly Parisians, I finally found Marc’s office and we went out to eat at a little restaurant. From there, I toured the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, which was unusual because all of the iconography within dealt with Mary, the Mother of God. The church looked like the Parthenon on the outside and had no windows, save for three occuli what let in light from above. The interior was then filled with statuary and Baroque wonders. It was a very nice place. I did experience a rather jarring moment when I walked past “Le Creche du Amerindienne,” which was a nativity scene with the characters dressed as Iroquois. George Wilson would be so proud.

My next stop was the Louvre, which was closed, and then a walk along the Seine toward the D’Orsay, which is the second most famous museum in France. Here there was a line that looked to stretch back more than an hour, and since the museum closed at 5 and it was nearly 2:30, I decided to cut my losses and move on. I continued my determined hike along the Seine until I reached the Eiffel Tower, which I have seen before, and which I must reiterate, is tall. Very tall. This was the second lesson for the day, and as the clear elevators ascended, eventually, and the city floated below me, I realized forcefully just how terrified of heights I truly am. As I stood for just over an hour in line, I could hear Americans all around me. Some were that loud, boisterous kind that makes people from other countries hate us, but most were polite families and couples. I, on the other hand, had in front of me a feuding Spanish-speaking couple who were obviously not happy to be there in each other’s company, based on the few shouted words they exchanged, and the pushy elderly Spanish bitch and her husband and grandson. I’m sure the two men were delightful people, but she made a point of digging her bag into my back every time she wanted me to inch forward, until I turned and said in Spanish, “Don’t touch me.” Then, she proceeded to glare at me through the rest of our waiting experience, and then cut in front of me the instant there was the chance. She arrived at the top a few minutes before I did, but, evidently, she didn’t fall off, because I didn’t hear anyone cheering. The views from each level of the Tower are spectacular, and here I also took many pictures. It was really neat to see the shadow of the tower arcing across Paris toward Mont Martre. I did spend a few euros in the tower gift-shop, as a good American should.

As I went down, I walked around some more and took yet more pictures of the Champs d’Mars (the park around the tower) and the Rive Gauche, the famous “Left Bank” of the Seine that was once the home of bohemian artists and now is populated by Parisians with more money than sense. When I walked into one store and saw t-shirts for 500 euros, I knew that these were not my people. My people were in the Eighteenth Quarter, the rough neighborhood where we were staying, where you could buy three sarongs (if you were in the market) for 14 euro. In Rive Gauche, I also saw Les Invalides, a former hospital and military fortress that is now a museum and Napoleon’s grave. It was closed, but I should have gone in and left my map there anyway.

The Rive Gauche was where I learned the third lesson of the day. You know those advertisements you see in catalogs, of clothes by companies that you could never pronounce, and couldn’t afford even if you knew what they were called? I’ve often taken comfort in the sure knowledge that the gorgeous models in these expensive advertisements are just that: models in magazines; not real. Well, lesson three in Paris was: everyone in Paris looks like a fashion plate, both in their expensive finery and in their stunning good looks. Lesson four followed immediately on lesson three: Drivers will run over stupid Americans who are staring at beautiful people and wandering into intersections.

Following that, I walked back across to the Ile de la Cite, took an award-winning picture of Notre Dame reflected in the Seine, and then checked my email at the hotel where we had stayed the first night. There I met Marc, and we hit a couple of bars, had a light dinner and returned to the apartment.

Day Eleven
I firmly intended to get up early and walk with Marc to work, and get to the Louvre when it opened. Instead, I was nearly late to meet Marc for lunch. In a strange parallel to yesterday, we ate at the same restaurant and then I went back to the church. I spent the next four hours plus in the Louvre. I saw the Mona Lisa, and paintings by every famous painter you can imagine. After a while, it just becomes art-overload, and you start to think, “If I see another Madonna, crucifixion, or scene from Greek mythology, I’m going to scream.” The museum was amazing, and I was only able to fly through three of nine wings while I was there. I saw the paintings, Greek, Roman, and Egyptian antiquities, the crown jewels of France (liberated for the head that Louis XVI wasn’t using anymore), furniture and items from the Middle Ages through the 19th Century, Napoleon III’s suites, and the Medieval Louvre, which was discovered when they excavated the central courtyard for the I.M. Pei pyramid and renovation. I need to go back, and for $10/day, it’s really not that expensive for a museum. I had been told that students get a discount, but upon my inquiry, that no longer is the case there, at least. Screw me on the exchange rate; screw me on the discount.

After that, I met Marc and we went for a little shopping, as Marc wanted to get me a birthday present, and the first thing he had picked out was both far too expensive and not something I would wear. I had thought I’d seen a sign that said 2 sweaters for 15 euro, so we went there, shopped around, and eventually discovered that it was, buy the first at regular price and get the second for 15 euro. So, no birthday present, alas. Then we went to the Hôtel Costes, which is an uber-trendy hotel with expensive drinks and very expensive rooms. They are known for the music they play in their lounge, which they have released as seven annual CD compilations. I enjoy these discs, so I wanted to say I had been there. Here, Marc bought me 15 euro cocktail, and I have been duly gifted for my birthday.

From Costes we walked to a bar for happy hour, and then to restaurant that serves classic French food at stunningly modern prices. Contrary to Marc’s recommendation (who wants roast beef in France?), I ordered an andouillette, which Marc disparagingly described as a stinky sausage, only stinkier. Well, I’m part German, and there’s never been a sausage I won’t try, so I ordered it, to prove a point. Don’t order foods in foreign countries to prove points. It was REALLY stinky, and had an alarmingly chunky consistency (because it was made of shredded intestines, tripe, and heart.) But, there was a little block of stinky cheese next to the stinky sausage, and together they were a real treat. I’m not certain I will order another one, but I’m glad I had that. As we were sitting in the restaurant talking, the owner came to our table and poured us a glass of wine, as our bottle had gone dry an hour or so ago. It was the best wine I have ever tasted. I asked what kind it was and the ever-witty Frenchman replied, “It’s a red. It’s sort of like a white, but those are clearer.” Whatever it was, it was good. By this time, my feet were killing me, and we took the metro back.

Day Twelve
Again, I was going to get up early, but I slept in until eleven, took a bath/shower (They don’t have real showers here – just sprayers on hoses in bathtubs. They probably think all of that falling water is unhealthy or something.) and headed out to buy one more item. Marc was kind enough to accompany me, so that I could find my goal without too much confusion, and so that we could still make it to the airport on time. It turns out that it was frighteningly easy to find what I wanted, we went back to the apartment, packed and rolled the luggage to the train station (about 15 minutes), dodging piles of “caca” the entire way. French people let their dogs poop everywhere, so it’s a veritable minefield to navigate the streets of Paris. I managed to be “caca free en Paris,” which was good, and we made it to the train and the airport on time.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a day in Scott’s life without something exciting happening. Today it was a bomb scare at the airport. Someone had left an unattended bag and the whole concourse was closed while they examined it. Nothing came of it, and I’m glad that they are being cautious. Security was a breeze, though I did get randomly selected to have all of y belongings searched. The humor in that is that I had seen my searcher out at the bar the night before. Life’s like that.
Amazingly, our plane left on time, and once we were airborne, we received news that, due to unreasonably strong headwinds, our flight was going to take 9 1/2 hours, instead of 8 1/2. Life’s also like that. Luckly, the plane provides plenty of time to catch up on this journal.

We managed to land a mere twenty minutes late, but for some unknown reason, the specific gate we were supposed to have was occupied for the following forty-five minutes. Sure, there were plenty of other gates freed up and reclaimed, but we had to park at one in particular, and so we sat, on the runway, for forty-five minutes. Then, for another half an hour or so, we snaked through passport control and customs. The homeland security stuff is really ridiculous – I had to wait all of that time and then the agent barely looked at my passport. Maybe they are trained to recognize incoming terrorists by last name or something. Anyway, that took so long that our luggage had been unloaded from the carousel and set aside. We grabbed it and took a cab to where our friends (Andre & Paul, who I visited this summer) were having a dinner party. We spent a pleasant hour or so there, but I was scheduled to meet my friend, Johnny Hochgraefe, from San Diego, so we made a polite exit and Paul & Andre agreed to take our bags back to their apartment.

I haven’t actually seen Johnny since 2001, though we speak by phone frequently. It was good to catch up and see where we both were. And the bar, Therapy, was an interesting place. Unfortunately, I had been up for a long, long time at this point, so we left about 1:30 and headed back to Paul’s apartment. Their, I was planning on sleeping for a couple of hours and then taking the second part of my flight to Chicago.

(4 January, 2005) Days Seven through Nine

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Day Seven:
We woke up after noon, which is understandable given the circumstances, showered, and had more French breakfast. Then, I drug out the laptop and showed the Schneiders pictures of Nebraska, Boston, and New York. I had wanted to bring a gift for them, for their hospitality, so I gave them a small windmill and a picture I took of a windmill in the Sand hills. What could be more Nebraskan that that? We gathered the family together for a group photo, and then Marc and I drove to Cologne, Germany, to meet his friend Daniel. This promised to be one of the least eventful days of the trip.

But, promising and delivering are two very different things. I type most of these while on the road. We have long stretches of driving, so what better time than that to compose? Well, in the midst on one such creative burst, we shot past our exit and didn’t notice it until several miles later. After a brief bout of trying to retrace our steps, we gave up and decided to just follow road signs and ask for directions in Cologne. This was a most sensible decision, especially given MapQuest’s decidedly unhelpful map. With a couple of wrong turns & the assistance of a friendly hotel employee, we finally made our way to Marc’s friend, Daniel’s house. Several of Daniel’s friends arrived shortly and we at delicious leftovers from Daniel’s New Year’s party, as well as some new specialties that Daniel’s friend, Andrew, cooked up.

In Cologne, drinking beer seems to be as natural an activity as, say, breathing is, in the United States. They drink a light kind of beer, called kolsch, out of small glasses. They claim that the small glasses ensure that the beer is always fresh. In my (limited though painfully recent) experience, the purpose of the small glasses is to make it seem like a person isn’t drinking that much, and to help them quickly lose track of how much they are, in fact, drinking. Daniel’s most excellent friend, Sasha (a guy – German is weird, too.) brought over a small keg of kolsch, and we made short work of it. Then, we decided to go visit the local drinking establishments. All totaled, we went to four, bought one another rounds, and had a smashing time. Knowing that we had to be in Paris for a 4:30PM concert the next day called our festivities to a halt early, and we were in bed by 4:30 AM.

Day Eight
What was I thinking? Above, it speaks of a smashing time. This morning, something was very deliberately smashing things in my head – either that or the UNL Percussion Ensemble had taken up residence inside my skull. Nonetheless, we departed Daniel’s by 10, looked for an Internet café to check Marc’s email and see if we had a place to stay in Paris, ate at a McDonalds because it was the only thing open, and hopped in the car for the five-hour trip back to Paris.

Bad planning and heavy traffic made the concert a no-go, but I’m sure there will be other opportunities to hear the pipe organ in concert at Notre Dame. In the meantime, we went to the apartment we were renting for the week, which is in a poorer section of Paris, but is really very charming despite the owner’s apparent lamp fetish (I counted sixteen) and aversion to chairs. The owner has moved in with her friend down the street for the week and is renting out her apartment to people, which seems to be a great way to make money.

Once we had moved in, we went to the train station to return the rental car and change some more money. In the past, I have kvetched, perhaps seemingly endlessly, about how expensive things are here. But watching Marc trade $400 for 240 euros really brought things home. Americans are getting screwed, thank you very much, Mr. Bush. I’d thought that, by keeping my meals around 10 euros, I was being responsible. Looks like I’m going to be eating Turkish take-out from the restaurant around the corner for the rest of the trip, as it’s the only place to offer a respectable amount of food for around 5 euros.

After that depressing endeavor, we walked back to the Marais, about an hour’s walk, and had a beer at a bar called Open, and dinner at a restaurant called Feria. Then we walked back and got to bed in decent style.

Day Nine
For our three days in Paris, Marc has to work from the Paris office, so that it doesn’t count as vacation time. So, today he got up early and was on his way by 7:30AM. He had lunch with a senior director of his company, plowed through a ghastly amount of work that had accumulated in his absence, participated in the company conference call, worked on a few more documents, and got back to the apartment at 10:30PM. From there, we went for Turkish take-out, returned home, I read a while, and he watched French TV, and then crashed.

What did I do all day? I was exhausted, so I slept. It was warm and I spent the entire day, until 7:30PM drifting in and out of consciousness. Sure, I missed one of three days in Paris, but at least I was rested.

(1 January, 2005) Days Four through Six

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Day Four:
Jet-lagged Marc woke up at 3am and couldn’t go back to sleep. I have no problem sleeping, unless someone is banging around the room, so consequently, I was awake, too. Marc went for a run (at 3am in Paris) and I tried to get some more rest, but as soon as I drifted off, he got back and started doing yoga, and then took a long bath. It wasn’t loud, but it was just enough noise that I should have just given up and stayed awake at 3. At seven, the cafés of Paris opened, so we walked ten minutes to “le Pain Quotiden” (The Daily Bread) for a breakfast of several different types of bread and seven or eight types of spreads, from butter and honey to a combination of butter and evaporated milk (tasted like vanilla ice cream) to a hazelnut spread to two kinds of chocolate to two kinds of jelly and a container of pear-butter. Mostly, it was a challenge to try everything, and then to get enough of it once I had tried it. I swear that everything here is delicious, and each thing is better than the last.

I will admit that I was grumpy, as I was still tired and jet lagged. But, I did my best to overcome it as we walked to the Ile de Cite, the island in the Seine that was the site of the origins of Paris, and which now holds the cathedral Notre Dame and many historical and governmental buildings (many which are both, actually.) Notre Dame was amazing, but we weren’t allowed to take pictures, so that is something I will have to keep in my memory. It’s hard to describe how large the building it. Unlike the churches in Rome, where things seem somewhat it perspective though they are huge, in Notre Dame, things get smaller as they get higher, so that the overall effect is of incredible height and great length. It is really huge, but it seems even bigger. The air of age that the building carries is also astounding. I doubt that I have ever been in a structure so ancient (nearly 1000 years old), and the weight of the years permeated everything. It had a sense of grace and permanence, which had seen revolutions and wars, kings and presidents, and millions upon millions of Catholics, and remained steadfast throughout. I was able to attend Mass there, which was nice, considering it was my birthday, and to think that those same prayers had echoed there for nearly a millennium was nigh overwhelming. We chanted an Alleluia before the gospel, and it was an ancient chant, but as we were singing it, I realized that its thirteenth century origin was almost two hundred years newer than the great cathedral itself.

From there, we walked around a bit more, and then I went back to the hotel while Marc went to get the car we were renting. I managed to get a little sleep, and got less grumpy, but on a scale of one to ten, I actually only moved from about a two to a three.

We are driving a Fiat Panda, which is a tiny little car and almost exactly what I want to own in my next automobile. It is a manual transmission; it gets great mileage; it’s comfortable; a person sits high and has lots of headroom; and there’s actually a lot of room for luggage. (I’m going to test-drive Volkswagen Polo in Strasbourg, though, because I think I’d actually really like one of those. Thus, we climbed into the Panda and headed around the Paris loop (along the Champs Elysèes, past the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe (remember National Lampoon’s European Vacation), to the A6 toward Lyon (the A means “autoroute,” or our idea of an interstate). Four hours later, we arrived in the village of Pont de Vaux (Bridge of Cows, for all you French scholars), after stopping at a couple of rest stops (they have one every 6 miles – I’m not kidding) and once to eat at an AutoGrill. We paid the toll (close to $30!!!) and drove to our hotel, which was charming, and then to Marc’s grandparents on their family farm.

Being around the Borjons was very much like being around my grandparents and I was instantly at ease. Neither one of them spoke a word of English, but I don’t speak French, so we were even. Marc translated often, but just as often, the meaning of it was clear and expressed that universal kindness and hospitality that transcends language. Marc’s grandfather, Norbert (nor-BEAR, not NOR-burt, like the dragon in Harry Potter) is a photographer and a painter, so many of his works hung around their house. His grandmother is an excellent cook, as evidenced by the outstanding meal she whipped up when we showed up. That experience was one of continuous eating, as they kept stuffing food in us until we were way past comfortable. It was delightful.

The house was very unique. The first thing I noticed (the hard way) was the very low doors. The house was constructed in 1855, and evidently, French people were quite short back then – short or had lots of bruises on their heads. It is designed in a traditional style of that time, where the house and the barn are one long building, all made of stone. It is two-stories tall, with one long porch running the length of it, where people will sit all summer long to eat and converse far into the night. Then, there were a couple of outbuildings, etc. Marc’s grandparents were never farmers, so there are no animals on the farm, and the Borjons rent out the farm ground, but they keep it in the family anyway.

We stayed there until nearly 10:30PM (remember that we had awakened at 3AM!), and finally returned to the hotel. Evidently heat is very expensive in France. The old farmhouse certainly wasn’t sweltering, and the hotel was downright freezing. Alas, getting into bed was shocking, but with enough blankets, I warmed up quickly enough to sleep far longer than I thought I would.

Day Five:
We had requested breakfast be ready at 8AM. I woke up at 3:45AM, but managed to force myself back to sleep. At 9:30, Marc woke up with a start and we raced down to breakfast. Arrayed on the table were a loaf of bread (baguette style), two croissants and two little scone-like things that were exactly unlike a scone in all the ways they should have been – they were light and flaky, sweet, and delicious – I loved both of them (sorry, Marc!). There was butter, honey, jam and a kind of compote that I didn’t recognize, but went well on the croissant. Then, I had two cups of coffee (think espresso) and a glass of orange juice. Then, quick showers with one of those thingies that attaches to the faucet and we were back out to the Borjons for a second breakfast. Here, more baguette, more butter and jam and struggling with French, a giant bowl of coffee (think 16 oz. of espresso) and finally a couple of pictures and back into town to meet more relatives.

Marc’s great aunt, Therése, lives in Pont de Vaux also, so we stopped in and saw her. Her French I understood almost none of, but we had a nice visit, took a picture and left to visit yet more relatives, down from Paris for a few days. They were Therése’s son, Michel, his wife, Michelle (wasn’t that confusing!), and their son, Stefan, and his wife, Clothilde. Of all of the people we’ve seen in France so far, these people were the least inclined to heat their house, but they were charming people, so it didn’t matter. They all spoke a little English, though Michelle didn’t do so while I was there, and we had quite an interesting conversation. Michel works for NCR (an American electronics company), formerly as an engineer and now as some sort of manager (I think – his English is good, but some words don’t translate very well). Stefan is a designer for a company that makes extremely high-end (think half a million dollars) pens, watches and lighters. I think we’re going to see a boutique in Paris where they are sold. Clothilde has her Ph.D. in Political Science and now works for the French government in counter-terrorism. I think that her insight and outlook could teach the American government a thing or two, especially since France has been dealing with Muslim terrorists since the 1970’s. It’s refreshing to hear someone speak of understanding the terrorists, rather than simply annihilating them. Here, we had yet more coffee, and then got on our way. Marc’s mother passed away in 2001, so we stopped at the cemetery to pay our respects, and then returned to the autoroute en route to Strasbourg.

Here, we traversed some of the more mountainous regions of France, though we didn’t see the Alps or the Pyrenees. It reminded me of the lower Appalachian Mountains. Winter in France means fog, so we didn’t see a lot, but occasionally the fog would lift and we could see across some spreading, snow-covered valley, just like on the Christmas cards that have Silent Night printed on the inside.

We finally arrived in Lièpvre, the village in Alsace where Marc’s aunt, Claire, her husband, Marc (more confusion!), their four children, Arthur (ar-TYR), Robin (ro-BA), Theo (TAY-oh), and Jeremy (djzeh-reh-MEE), and their three foster children, Jamal (djzah-mahl), Kevin (keh-VA) and Cynthia (SEEN-ti-uh)…yup, French is weird) live.. They all live in a great old house, that was built in 1861, and which they have remodeled extensively to make it wonderfully inviting, cozy, and comfortable. And, maybe it was because we had our own room, but even with all of us in the dining room, it never seemed cramped.

Let’s talk about the dining room and the dinner table. I had been told that the French eat a lot. I had no idea. The center of our existence for the next two days would be the table and its many earthly delights. Upon our arrival, we had the obligatory coffee and bread, and shortly dinner arrived: a sort of noodle with a roasted leg of lamb and a red sauce: simple and delicious. As I struggled through French, and Marc and Claire struggled with English, Marc told me that the first thing he learned to say in English was “The pig is pink.” I replied that this was about as useful as the first thing I learned in French, “The boy on the table.” After stuffing myself with that meal, and then the following course of cheese, and lots of wine and beer, I smiled at Marc, rubbed my very full stomach, which was currently covered with my orange turtleneck, and said, “The pig is orange tonight.” We stayed up and talked for quite a while, but as the discussion turned to family remembrances, I excused myself to go to bed.

Day Six:
I am told that this is a typical day in French culture. If so, I’m moving to France immediately. It began with the leisurely traditional breakfast of coffee, breads and spreads that I am rapidly coming to love. Then, we bundled up and went for a walk. I was told that it was going to be a “couple of miles in the hills behind their house.” In reality, it was about a five-mile hike in the mountains. It was beautiful, and I got to know Claire, Marc, and Arthur, who came with us, as well as Oran (oh-RA) and Venus (Veh-NOOZ), the two dogs that the Schneiders keeps as pets. We saw the countryside intimately, in a way that I doubt I would ever has seen as a tourist. We walked along wooded trails, past small farms, a foie gras farm (mmmmm….), a bed and breakfast, a filling station, etc. There were no McDonalds, no advertisements with celebrities – just the country and its people living their lives and allowing me a glimpse into them. I took lots of pictures.

When we got back, I got a shower and then a little nap, and then Marc and I hopped back into the Panda and drove along the Route du Vin d’Alsace (the wine road of Alsace). This region of the world (I’ll not say “this region of France” or “this region of Germany,” since they consider themselves a race apart anyway, and two world wars have been fought over that definition…) is famous for its light, white wins. So, of course, we had to buy some. We drove through hills covered in leafless vineyards, with little villages sitting in the shadows of great chateaus, or of towering churches. Every vineyard has a great stone crucifix watching over it, as if to chase away the demons of blight (and tourism?). Our destination was Rickwihr, a medieval village replete with stone wall, gates, portcullis and winding, claustrophobic streets. The gate was inscribed with a construction date in the 1400’s, and I assume that a lot of Rickwihr was older than that. We walked around, had some of their famous mulled wine, and then purchased bottles of outstanding wine at ridiculously low prices, even given the abominable exchange rate. And, wonder of wonders, the kind clerk behind the counter not only spoke perfect English, but was also willing to pour samples of the wine to allow us to decide what to buy.

We drove back along the Route du Vin, and arrived just as guests were arriving for the Schneider’s New Year’s Eve party, which began at 5:30 (and would conclude almost 12 hours later!!!!). I decided that another nap was a good idea, and accidentally slept until almost 7. Oh well.
Once downstairs, I met Marcel, one of Marc (Schneider)’s competitive swimming buddies; Marcel’s girlfriend, Martine, and English teacher who was in the process of trading in her old, worn-out husband for Marcel; François (fran-SWA), who spoke no English, and sat at the other end of the table, so I didn’t meet him; Svetlana, a Russian immigrant and Russian teacher; her mother, who I mentally referred to as Grandma Ruski; and Inga, Svetlana’s “friend,” who is a news reporter in Moscow. (Marc got a little Indigo Girls vibe from Svetlana, and Inga was wearing a highly bedazzled outfit…who knows?)

When everyone had arrived, we drank wine. I probably had at least three bottles myself, but not all at once. The appetizer was foie gras, caviar, and a salmon dish that Martine brought, and that I now have the recipe for (watch out, North America!). Then, we had the entrée, which in France isn’t the main course, which the Russians brought. I referred to it (again, mentally) as beet hell, because it was that same beet, mayonnaise & herring (!?!?) salad that I had with Marc this summer, and another beet and vinegar salad. Luckily, there was a lot of salmon left. After that, and much more wine, came the main course (the plat). Here, we would call it a variation of chicken potpie, though it was much more delicious. About this time, it turned midnight. In France, they don’t go to clubs or bars (at least in rural France), they don’t gather to watch a ball drop or listen to Dick Clark and drink excessively while kissing everything is sight. Instead, they eat the new year in, and at the stroke of midnight, race into the streets of the village and throw firecrackers and bottle rockets at one another. Happy New Year, indeed. Then, there is the ceremonial kissing of everyone in sight, which is differentiated from the above-mentioned American tradition by the presence of small children and the absence of utter intoxication or ulterior romantic motives. Following that, the whole party headed back indoors for the cheese course.

We had now been eating for four hours, and I think that the cheese course constitutes my favorite part of French eating. We each yank off a chunk of baguette and then reach toward a plate full of cheese, brandishing a knife, and hack off what we want, while drinking more wine. This continues for nearly an hour. The next course is dessert, which in this case was four 18-inch sorbet logs. The children were eating six and seven slices, but when it was all said and done, most adults had exceeded even that. In addition to the sorbet were many different chocolates, an Alsacian cake thing, coffee, champagne, and more wine. Following dinner, we adjourned to the living room and started to watch a movie: X-Men2, in French. Patrick Stewart should NEVER have a French voice-over. That lasted for maybe 20 minutes, until they decided to put on some music and hang out. At this point, it was almost 3 AM, so I begged leave and went to bed. I learned the next morning that the guests had stayed until after 5, and I actually saw Françoise at breakfast.

(28 December, 2004) Days One through Three

(See Pictures)

Day One:
After a mere five hours of sleep, I woke up at 7:30, showered, remembered a whole host of things I had forgotten to do, and was still out the door by 8:30 AM. The trip to Bassett over the previous two days had been great, though telling my brother I was intending to drive home on Sunday, Christmas Day (which was a Saturday in actuality) caused no little confusion. Upon leaving the apartment, I headed straight to Wal-Mart to get my oil changed. It’s surprising how much driving I do, to need three oil changes in less than a month. A MacDonald’s breakfast, new oil and a full tank of gas later, I was on the road - cruising out of Lincoln by 9:30: a mere hour and a half behind schedule.

If I could sum up the drive to Chicago in one word, it would be “cold.” If I could use two, “fucking freezing!” The heater on the Geo has failed, and whether the problem is (in increasing costliness) a broken switch, a broken valve, a broken heater core, or a broken water pump ($!), it has been too cold for me to have a look at it, and I’m much too cheap to take it somewhere. So, instead, I bundled up in my parka, scarf, gloves and hat, wrapped a blanket around my legs, and nestled a DC heater inside, and began a brisk drive across Iowa and Nebraska. I’m not sure the heater actually added to the warmth of the endeavor, but I’d just bought it, so it made me feel good to use it.

Eight very chilly hours later, I arrived at the Circuit City in Lincoln Park, where my friend, Ryan, works. I was hauling the inestimably precious cargo of his computer, which his psycho roommate had insisted wouldn’t fit on the moving van six months ago, and he was understandably elated to see me. I got his keys and drove back into downtown, where he lives a few blocks from the Sears Tower; in an area known as the South Loop. Being the gracious soul that I am, I unloaded his computer and my luggage, and hopped back in the car to drive WAY out into the suburbs. My cousin, Kelli, and her husband, Phil, live in Crystal Lake, and have just had a baby, a son, Mason. They were gracious enough to allow me to park in their driveway during my trip, as well as to feed me and buy me a great tape measure for Christmas. While I was there, I also got to see my cousin, Jacqi, and her husband, Tom; my cousin, Jonathon, and his almost-fianceé, Katie, and my uncle Dan and aunt Kathy, who were also kind enough to get me a Christmas present. Due to time constraints, I spend exactly forty-five minutes with them, and then was driven to the commuter-rail station to ride back into the city.

That ride took just over an hour, and took me a brisk, ten-block walk from Ryan’s apartment, where I went upstairs, lounged with the cats, and read a novel. Ryan got there just before midnight, and by 12:30, we were on our way out to the bar to meet my friend, Kurt, who lives in Chicago, but is also my neighbor during the school year. He was having relationship drama, but it was fun to see him and have a drink. Then, back to the apartment, watching my first episode of FarScape, and finally falling asleep around 5 AM.

Day 2:
After six hours of sleep, I awoke to find Ryan staring lovingly at his computer, which he had (evidently) missed so dearly. He was making me a CD of travel music, which ended up being nearly 10 hours of MP3’s. His roommate, Kala, also woke up and joined us for a wholly satisfying lunch at Taco Bell. I then took some cool pictures, read The Book of Bunny Suicides (which I highly recommend), and packed up. I took the subway to O’Hare – another hour-plus train ride – and checked in for my flight. The lines were very long, but moved very quickly, so no harm done. I ate MacDonald’s for dinner, as I figured I wouldn’t be eating it in France any time soon, and it would probably piss off the French in principle. Our flight was late getting to the gate, so we were understandably late taking off, but only an hour.

For some reason, any sort of physical coordination or grace (of which I possess too little to begin with) I may have had departed by the time I got to the airport. Maybe it was 10 hours of driving, little sleep, and an evening of dissolution. Who knows? But, whatever the reason, this lack of poise became painfully obvious as I stumbled to collapse in a heap in my seat on the plane. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the woman in the seat next to me hadn’t been standing directly behind me, to assist in gather my possessions again. She was very kind about it, with that sort of patronizing, “you’re a clumsy boob” sort of look about her. I was rather nonplussed by this point, and felt no strong inclination to speak overmuch, and was back in my book shortly. Luckily, she was also quiet and read her Scientific American.

Alex was a wealthy nerd from St. John’s College in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I learned this when dinner arrived and we were forced to interact by a pushy stewardess, who felt it was her God-given duty to ensure that everyone on the plane was friends. (She was the same stewardess who unapologetically neglected to bring my breakfast, while bringing it to Alex.) She (Alex) was a graduate of St. John’s, who now worked there. The college is a Great Books school, which means she, like me, has a ridiculously strong grounding in philosophy, literature, and many other subjects which have no immediate bearing on “real life.” When she discovered we had that in common, she was a wealth of chatter all through dinner and beyond. Finally, I begged off tired and went back to my book and then tried to sleep. I managed to nod off eventually, and when I awoke with my neck in a horribly unnatural position, I was both grateful for the rest and deeply concerned that I had discarded the receipt for my virtually non-functional travel pillow.

Day 3:
I awoke in the above-mentioned position after 3 hours of sleep, forty minutes outside of Paris. Clearly, this was much too late for breakfast for someone in the middle of the cabin - though people at either end were still being served. My flight had only arrived half an hour late, so I felt good about that. I was supposed to meet Marc in just under an hour. We deplaned on the runway, which I always love, and then were bussed to the terminal, where I went quickly through customs and then waited for my luggage. Through an act of God, it did arrive, and then I sat down to wait for Marc. His flight was, evidently, delayed too, because after standing in a line to reach an English-speaker, I discovered that he wouldn’t be here for another hour and a half. So much for timeliness. So: the perfect time to type in this journal.

Adventure Number One: while I was asking the information guy when Marc’s flight would arrive, someone left a bag next to mine. Because we are so terror-conscious in America, I dutifully notified the authories, who promptly ignored the bag for a while, and then went and searched it. I would have assumed that they would have some sort of protocol involving x-raying it or something, but they just opened it up and dug through it, in a refreshingly pre-9/11 sort of way, trying to determine who the owner was. Then they took the bag to be claimed by its owner. Maybe we are a little phobic in the States.

Once Marc arrived, we took the train into Paris. Everything is so expensive!!! Thank you, Mr. Bush, for devaluing our currency. I’m betting it’s his plot to keep ‘Mericans from going abroad and learning seditious new ideas from those untrustworthy foreigners. The subway ride cost the equivalent of $10, a cup of coffee is $3, and don’t even ask about dinner. At least the beer is reasonably priced. I guess I’ll have to focus on drinking. We checked into the Best Western (I’m not kidding – and let me just say, their “French Milled Soap” is a LOT nicer than that crap they give out in ‘Merica.) and then toured Marc’s old stomping grounds in the Marais. We met up with his friend, Wendy, a French/American Jewish woman who spends time in both countries. She’s a trip. Then, we stopped at a couple of bars, had a light dinner, and crashed about 8pm, because of the jet lag.

Two words for Paris thus far: fresh crépes.

(25 December, 2004) Burying Role Models & Other Holiday Reflections

Sometimes, so much happens that it’s hard to process it all, and inaction becomes a choice all its own. I’ve been meaning to update the site for quite some time. Things have continued apace: classes, concerts, tests, activities, etc. But, when my best friend’s dad died on the 10th, life just sort of stopped. And now, sitting in the living room with my grandparents, cousins, mother, brother, and uncle, amidst the noise and distraction, (on this, the anniversary of my Uncle's death last year) I have a strange sort of peace that lets me reflect on what has happened.

Walt was such a role model. There was so much I still wanted to share with him; so much I wanted his opinion on; so much to learn from him. As with everyone, there are many people in my life who make no noticeable contribution one way or the other. And there are those who do more harm than good. But there are those few who I could just spend time with and hope that it wouldn’t end. Walt was one of those. For as much as he frustrated and challenged (and once upon a time, intimidated) me, I quickly learned to value his advice and opinion, and used it to shape mine. I just can’t believe he’s gone.

So, that was last week; finals, funeral, 16 hours on the road; arguing with University officials that Edward, my friend and Walt’s youngest son, shouldn’t have to miss his father’s wake to take a chemistry final. (He was told to take the final or fail until I was able to contact people high enough on the food chain to get something done. Assholes.) My classmates and I decided to make a turducken, and that was the 13 hour project on the 14th.

Nothing else seems really very meaningful anymore. I passed all my classes and will not take another until I begin from my Master’s Degree. I will student teach next semester at North Star High School, in Lincoln. It is one of the two new schools that opened two years ago. And, I’m going to France with Marc on the 27th. I can’t wait for that.

If all goes well, my next post will be post-France.

(4 November, 2004) Art & election

I could explain why I haven’t posted for months, but that explanation is way too long.
There is a giant fiberglass vagina in the entryway to my apartment building. It’s close to six feet across, realistically colored, and I don’t think it would bother me so much if it wasn’t supposed to be a giant vagina. But it is, and so it does.

The artist whose show is at the Haydon has some fantastic paintings of interesting, fully-clothed people, some fascinating paper sculpture that is blessedly abstract, and this behemoth reproductive organ. The real question on my mind is, “why?” I’m sure it’s supposed to symbolize something; maybe our desire to be mothered, or our dysfunctional sexuality, or something equally as meaningful. Artists are like that. But to me, it’s a distracting eyesore that alarms my guests as they come to visit me.

“Why” is a great question to ask about a lot of things this week. The punch line to the political cartoon in the campus paper was a father telling his children a bedtime story, and ending it with “And the two children opted not to escape when the opportunity came, but instead chose to stay with the ogre despite his desire to destroy them & sell their bones to his ogre friends.”

(9 August, 2004) Advice

Be it my innocent youthfulness or my apparently directionless life, I am often the recipient for advice. What follows is a brief sampling of what I've heard this summer. (Most of it is bad)

On Music - People are full of advice for aspiring music teachers...
- A random guest at a party in New York: "Oh, a music teacher. I'm getting my Ph.D. in Organic Chemistry." <walks away>.
- Arthur (say: AW-thuh, we are in New England, after all), at work: "Buy a guitar, even if it's a crappy one. You can always get a better one later. It's always good to have a guitar around when your relaxing and hanging out. You know, when I used to live in Central Square, everyone would be playing guitar and smoking these huge joints - you could get high just walking down the street, or sitting in the living room and breathing the smoke blown in from across the street." <doesn't notice my eyes glazing over>
- Again, Arthur: "You really need to go to the Rock and Roots music festival. It's awesome. It's not like these other day trip things, though some people do it that way. No, it's a camp out for three days - no running water, no electricity. It's great. There's music 'til two AM, and then, someone will wake you up having a jam session on a fiddle. It's just like that. It's fantastic." <wanders off>
A different random guest at a party in NYC, on entertaining: "Oh, you study voice. Why don't you sing some show tunes? I know everyone here will just love it! You start in and I'll join you." <I walk away>
On where I should drive: "Get off the road, you f*cking moron." <gets out of car>
On where I should live, from the same courteous Massachusetts driver: "Go back to Nebraska, where you belong, you f*cking *sshole." <shakes fist as I drive off>
On how to get to New York City: "Take the Chinatown Bus Company, Fung Wah, I think they're called. It's 10 bucks, and sure it's a little disorganized, but hey, it's 10 bucks." <After waiting for two hours for buses that never came, we went back to my car and drove to NYC.>
On what to wear to a party: "It's a theme party. Look like you just came from the beach." <Arrive in swimming suit and beach shirt, to be greeted by people in ties>
On the DNC, from every member of Boston city government: "Don't go to work during the Democratic National Convention. Take a vacation. Don't come into the city. Don’t drive." <shortest commute of the summer- usually 50 minutes; DNC week: 35 minutes with a stop for gas.>

A few pieces of good advice:

On new drinks, from Marc's friend, Paul: "Try Campari and grapefruit juice." <new favorite drink>
On basic self-preservation, from Marc's roommate, Mark: "Don't plug too many things in at once - the wiring's old" <sparks shooting from outlet prove this advice true>
On parking in Cambridge, from a random neighbor: "Oh, for God's sake, don't pay for parking! If you just get a visitor's pass, they'll leave you alone. Just move your car every day. It's to keep people from just parking heaps of junk on the street." <so far, ...>

And, two funny quotes to round it out:

On the Bush re-election platform, from Mr. Bush himself : "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we." <?>
On Love, from a song I heard: "Cupid can take his arrow and stick it, deep." <!!>

(4 August, 2004) The Dog Days

I don't know the origin of the term "the dog days of summer" because I didn't bother to look it up. Instead, I prefer to just think about lazy, hot dogs (not hotdogs, mind you), lying on the front porch with their tongues flapping in the heat. When I think of "dog days," I think of being close to heat stroke and doing nothing (quite possibly because of the nearness of said heat stroke). And so it is in Boston.

Being next to the ocean and all, the humidity is really quite high, which makes the 90 degree days real scorchers, and the 80+ degree nights times for doing something besides sleep, which is impossible. The electrical system in the apartment was obviously wired around Edison's time, which means that each room has one outlet, and that the walls are filled with the thinnest wire available. Thus, no air conditioner, unless we're fond of sitting hungry in the dark, guarding against wall fires.
Add that to the utter and complete boredom that my job supplies, and I guess we have the making of either a great artist or a serial killer. Sadly, I'm opting for the dog approach to this one. I sit around and do nothing. A little web work. A little work in PowerPoint. A little work in PageMaker. But mostly, napping. I feel like such a slob.

In one more interesting note, Marc and I went to the Museum of Fine Arts, in Boston. A little accounting magic showed me that an annual membership would be paid for in four visits, so that's what we did. Then, we got a whirlwind tour and the museum closed. So, we have to go back. Also, we got to see my friend, Karen's baked goods stand at the South End Open Market. She makes a damn good cookie, and an ever damn better chocolate chip muffin. (See Pictures from This Excursion Here...)

My trip to visit my mom got scrubbed. Marc was going to accompany me, and then his job took back his vacation time, and sent him to Denver to train with a really important person there. And, since I saw mom a week and a half ago, and will probably see her in September, as she crashed on my couch during NCA Convention, I decided that it wasn't worth the 24+ hours on the road. Instead, the next two weeks are dotted with Farewell-to-Scott dinners, an organ concert in Methuen, a weekend trip to Montreal (hopefully), and a couple a days in Pennsylvania and Maryland.

And 8 more days of work. But who's counting?

(7 July, 2004) Why?

I sat across from a homeless man on the train, coming home tonight. He had a bushy grey beard, crazy grey hair, long, cracked fingernails, and an incongruous air of calm and authority in his dingy Keds, argyle socks, and tattered, tan denim suit. He had a stack of newspapers and six plastic shopping bags, filled with trash - or all his worldly possessions.

As he moved to sit down, his bags scattered, so I picked one up and handed it to him. He met my eyes, and we smiled a little.

For the remainder of the ride, he read an essay on globalization, and I stared into space, thinking about all of the money I'd spent on dinner and drinks - afraid to make eye contact.

As I left the train at my stop, I looked back, met his gaze, and half-smiled again. "Have a good night," I said, as I gave him the only thing I had to give him: his dignity as a person.

Everyone else on the train continued to ignore him, and he returned to his essay. Don't we live in the greatest country on earth?

(4 July, 2004) Jericho in the Kitchen

In the Bible, Joshua marched around the pagan city of Jericho, blowing trumpets and shouting, and the Lord caused the walls to come "tumblin' down." The trumpets were missing, but the shouting occurred and destruction was lamentable rampant, at a modern-day Jericho in Marc's kitchen last evening.

It started, as these things usually do, with a good idea and generous intentions. Hanging above the stove, to provide light by which to cook, was a single, clear light bulb, in a gold socket, suspended from an extension cord that was run through the suspended ceiling. This, according to the ever-droll Marc, was the gulag lightbulb, and was the bane of his apartment existence. I have to admit, it did look a little tacky. So, yesterday, we went on a quest to Home Depot, and purchased, for the lofty sum of $19, a halogen puck-light, a switch, and some screws, which I was going to mount above the stove. In my enthusiasm, I overlooked the ladder on the back stairs and decided instead to stand on a box on a kitchen chair. Marc steadied me as I slowly raised my head into the space above the suspended ceiling, to learn that nothing was wired as I had expected. I turned slightly to examine another (yes, there is more than one) extension cord in the ceiling, my weight shifted, which shot the box off the chair and, gravity being what it is, caused me to come crashing down on my butt. "Luckily," I had a hold on a bar of the suspended ceiling, which tore free and brought a tile and years of chipped paint cascading down upon my head.

For a split second, I was sure that the entire ceiling had collapsed, and that our noble deed was going to turn into an infamous debacle (as many of my "projects," strangely, do). The hoped-for response of the returning roommates: "wow, look at the new light," was going to be replaced by, "Oh, my God, there's a hole in the ceiling!!" As it turned out, aside from one shattered tile, a mangled 4 foot ceiling bar, and an ocean of (lead?) paint chips, the damage was fairly light. Some sweeping, another trip to Home Depot, $12 and two hours later, the damage was repaired and the fancy new light installed. [In addition, the second trip to the Home Depot had allowed me to purchase a switched plug in, so that an extension cord could control the new light - excellent!) The only drawback - the new tiles are white, which old tiles never are, and the new bar is slightly off-color as well. Ah, the price of convenience.

(21 June, 2004) Borscht

Borscht is Slavic beet stew. Now, if your experience with beets has been similar to mine, the idea of beet stew sounds about as appetizing as, say, grilled rat bowels. But, Marc swore that, even people who loathed beets as strongly as I do love his borscht. So, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and try his secret recipe.

I think that borscht is also the Russian word for heavenly deliciousness, or something along those lines. I'm not sure at what point it happened (no altar-servers were around to ring bells, and I am in Boston, after all), but a miraculous transubstantiation occurred, and the wretched beets were replaced - not by the Body of Christ - by a rich, dark, flavorful substance of which it is impossible to eat too much. Russian butter. Cabbage, carrots, potatoes, garlic, and heaven only knows what else went into it, but I know I dove into it with a rather unbecoming frenzy. Then, we had [po-MAY-nee] (it's in Russian, so it really doesn't matter if I spell it phonetically, now does it?), which is like Russian pierogies, some sort of eggplant spread on heavy rye bread, and Russian chocolates afterwards. Did I mention Marc used to live in Russia?

So, in closing, a great weekend, with great food. I still hate beets (there was some beet and herring (!?!) salad that was out of bounds, but boy do I love borscht.

(16 June, 2004) Getting the Third Degree

Burns, that is. Sunburn, in fact. This Saturday, I attended the Boston Pride Parade, and stood on Boston Common, without benefit of cap or sunscreen, and turned red. What a silly thing to do, you say. I agree. I was watching the Boston Pride parade.

What I was struck by (besides a lot of sun) was the overwhelming "normalness" of the parade's participants. Sure there were the occasional drag queens or other persons feeling the need to play dress-up, but the enormous majority of those folks were just that: normal folks. Young and old people, people of many different faiths, people of all ethnic backgrounds and all social classes, professionals and laborers…these people who look no different than any other slice of society, and have the same dreams, goals, and aspirations, were walking quietly or joyfully. And, in seeing them, it was hard to understand that these are the people charged with the destruction of our society and culture.

Having been made familiar with the rhetoric, I was surprised by what I didn't see. I didn't see militant chanting mobs threatening to tear down the government. I saw, instead, people who had been together for 40 or more years, who were now legally married in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I didn't see a menagerie of freaks wearing outlandish costumes and advocating all sorts of deviant behaviors. I saw, instead, people who have a motorcycle club, a flag-football league; people who own plumbing and construction and catering businesses, and bankers and car dealers and policemen (and women) and firefighters; bar tenders and school teachers - in short, people I would walk past in the supermarket and never credit with attempting to overthrow our values.

In Lincoln, where many of the gay people I know tend to self-separate from greater society, through action, dress, speech, or any number of other means, and thereby form a culture which really is in vocal opposition to the accepted way of life, I think I can understand where accusations of the "gay agenda" arise. Boston Pride demonstrated something different; a new way of thinking: a novus habitus mentis.

So, I sit here at work, looking for the world like a tomato, but starting to peel, I am reminded of the first words to a song, whose advice I value very much: "Wear Sunscreen."

(8 June, 2004) Employment!

I decided to type this in Microsoft Word, here at work, and I am imagining myself spending the next 20 minutes or so banishing the little dog that’s scratiching his ear at the lower right-hand corner of my screen, and removing all of the other unwanted formatting, automatic lists, etc. Hopefully, it won’t be that bad.

I'm blessedly employed - hooray! After the debacle of last summer, working a mere three weeks, and then trying to afford a weighty year of studies, any work is a boon. And, this qualifies as "any" work. I'm in a data-entry and filing position for DePuy Mitek, a Johnson & Johnson company. (LINK) …okay, now the dog has a lightbulb over its head…what's it going to ask me to do now?

Anyway, the above link to DePuy Mitek is actually pretty darn cool. They make sports medicine supplies, mostly for surgeries involving joints and their reconstruction. If you know anyone who's had their rotator cuff repaired, chances are, they've got stuff that was sold through this office still stuck in their arm. From a technical standpoint, it's pretty nifty, too. The way the tiny little devices lock in place to hold delicate tissue is fascinating. And, though the pictures are fairly sanitized, anyone with a good dictionary and a little imagination best not be squeamish when surfing that site. Also, from a financial standpoint, I get to see how cool the medical industry really is. You've heard stories of hospitals charging $300 for a screw? Well, it seems that that's because that's what the manufacturer is charging them. So, who's getting screwed here?

Which brings me to what I do. I submit faxed orders to the warehouse. (Today, I did 44) I hunt through the PO that the hospital sent in (they're all different) to find their customer number, PO number, fax number, shipping address and preferences, and their actual order. I type these bits of information into the computer. Then, if press F11, Enter, F5, F2, type "FAX," type "12," then Enter twice, then F5 and F11. (F'd Up) In conclusion, I stick a sticker on the PO that lists today's date, the expected arrival date and the order number. This, I then fax back to the purchaser, for their records (or their recycling, I'd guess). I've always thought that fax cover-sheets were redundant. Now I know it is so: all of the information you need should be on one sheet, without any cover sheet wasting paper and valuable phone time. Oh well. The other side of my job is filing. All of this ordering and faxing generates a rather large amount of paper - about a ream a day, or so. I file each sheet (usually individually) inside the folder it goes in, based on the customer number. This usually takes about two hours. Fun stuff. But, at least I'm indoors, far away from the sun or natural light, fresh air…"$10.50 an hour"…"$10.50 an hour…"

All of this pre-supposes my presence in Boston, which is, in fact, the case. I arrived a week ago, Tuesday evening, in the midst of the famous Boston traffic. I moved into an apartment that my friend, Marc, shares with two other roommates, Mark (isn't that convenient) and Fannie (she's from Belgium: say "fah-NEE"), and now, Fannie's boyfriend, Paul, is in the mix as well. It's a little crowded, but so much about it is ideal, I hope that I don't have to move out. Fingers crossed.

Other than that, my entrée into Boston was uneventful. Aside from some heavy weather (think: tornado warning) in upstate New York, the drive was quiet and uneventful. I drove from Lincoln, Nebraska to Erie, Pennsylvania on Memorial Day, and from Erie to Boston on Tuesday. I saw a spectacular double rainbow, lots of bad driving, tons of cops, and many a gas station between here and there.

Okay, time to hit some more F keys.

(30 May, 2004) Missa Solemnis

My friend, Fr. Chris Goodwin had his First Solemn Mass of Thanksgiving today. A newly ordained priest usually celebrates his first Mass with the full complement of music, incense, beautiful vestments, etc., in thanksgiving for the gift of priesthood. Chris was no slouch, especially since he allowed me to do the music and programs. Jeremy joked that it was kind of my first Mass, too.

We had a choir composed of Newman Center students, Newman Center alumni, School of Music alumni, and people who are any combination of the above, including three Protestant friends of mine, who are outstanding singers and wanted to join us because of some of the pieces we were performing. I've posted parts of Chris's program online, if you're interested in what went on in the music department. Technically, we did really well. If we'd have had months to rehearse, it would have been unbelievable. As it was, we were fantastic. Musically, I still need to practice my conducting (thanks, Ben), but that's what school's for, right?

The homily was simple, appropriate, useful, and passionately delivered by the chaplain of Mount St. Mary's College, Fr. Ray Harris, probably the best preacher I've ever heard. All in all, it was a great day. It was held at All Saints Church in Holdrege, Nebraska - my home parish, so it was also very rewarding to see all of the old (and getting older, sadly) faces again.

The weekend prior was the Sharp's move from Madrid to Aurora. We did it in one day instead of two. We got everything moved, and I even got to mow the lawn and meet the neighbors. I've also sort of turned into Willa's last resort - "If she's crying, give her to Scott; maybe she'll stop."

That's all.

(22 May, 2004) Pomp & Circumstance

As I get ready and packed to head to Madrid (Nebraska) tomorrow, to help my best friends move to Aurora (also Nebraska), I am reflecting on the last weekend and the past week. Las weekend, my friend, Edward Sharp, graduated from Gordon High School. (You can also see his super-awesome Senior Pictures on this site...).

I drove to Madrid from Lincoln on Thursday. That evening was spent hangning out with Jeremy, Megan, and Willa. Willa is teething, so she's sort of cheerful, but she doesn't sleep. And, consequently, neither do we. On Friday, we drove to Gordon in the evening and chilled with Jeremy's folks and Edward. Saturday, Larry and Stephanie and their children, and Kathleen and her two boys, and various and sundry uncles, aunts, and cousins began to arrive. Sunday was the big day, and back to Madrid. Monday, back to Lincoln.

This week has been super-busy with work, especially tailing up the major screw-ups that one of my former co-workers habitually made, and we are still discovering. Grrr. Also, the program for Chris Goodwin's First Mass is done and to the printers. Now, to pack and sleep.

(8 May, 2004) Good-Bye Dot Menu

Hello Mac-friendly navigation. If you are a regular visitor to my site, you've noticed the new menu/navigation. It seems that the cool little blue dot was just incompatible with Mac, no matter how I coded it, so I've got this new sliding thing.

Strangely, this meant a really in-depth revision of my web site, so I got to re-visit every one of my pages, re-code a bunch of stuff, and now it's great. Yeah, me!

(6 May, 2004) BIRD SPIKES!!!

Please visit my Bird Spikes page to learn all about this hugely important advancement in my life.

(4 May, 2004) Whirlwind

This is what happens when you change computing platforms, have a gazillion classes, concerts, etc., and then try to have a job and a social life: things like “interesting web logs” go by the wayside. I should apologize right away to Adam and Stephanie. The pictures you sent are going up, finally.
As I did in an earlier mass-update, I’m contrained to just giving the basic events of the last month+. Read between the lines – email for the dirt.

M y friend, Kim Alspaugh, had a fantastic Senior Recital, on the piano.
My friend, Elaine Walters, had a fantastic Doctoral Recital, on the bassoon.
I went to visit my old friends ("old" as in "known for a long time" - they’re both younger than I am!), Adam and Stephanie Quinn, and their two charming daughters, Catherine and Teresa, outside of Colon (yup, Colon), Nebraska. They're doing some really cool re-modeling on their house. The food was great, as was playing with the girls. Pictures of this event may be found on my Friends and Family page.
My friend, Katie, turned 21. That was an adventure all by itself.
Then, I went on the Big Red Singers tour to the Kansas City area. Whilst I have opined at length on the organizational structure of the group, the tour was a whole hell of a lot of fun. There are pictures on the Big Red Singers page. We went first to a member's house, for a really good dinner. Then, we went to our hotel, which was in a kind of shady area of KC, but a little group of us went walking in downtown KC that night. A trip to Denny's, homeless people, gang members, a man peeing in a trash can, and a group of sketchy guys in an SUV, but the crew from small-town Nebraska didn't act like tools most of the time. I was able to re-live some of my favorite memories and places from National FFA Convention. The next day, the choir performed for the MTNA National Convention. Their director, Keith Currington, gave a presentation on gospel singing, and they were his demo-choir. Then, we explored The Plaza - a rather cool shopping district outside of downtown KC. My portion of the trip ended in Pleasant Hill, Missouri, at their high school. There, the Big Red Singers performed their show really well, and the high-school students performed theirs. Several members of the band didn't stay for that due to several tests we had the next day, but I think we missed a good show. And then there were the two high-schoolers (one senior, one sophomore) who made it their life's mission to hit on me - much to the delight of my friends. I mean, they were good-looking, but I swear to God, I don't initiate this stuff. It's all a Communist plot to undermine my good name.
Then, I started my practicum. This is where we education students get to "practice" being teachers. This particular semester was our "off-area" practicum. Thus, instrumental-area students had choral practica, and choral-area students, like myself, had instrumental practica. I had Junior High Orchestra - 13 7th and 8th grade girls, who didn't want to be there, and walked all over their teacher. One girl had a tiger-striped violin. One girl got expelled for felonious vandalism. One girl, when she didn't want to play, would lay her bass down and curl up beside it to take a nap. One girl ate and/or damaged over $100 in food at the local grocery store, and also was into mixing bleach and ammonia in her back yard to watch it explode. Several of them spoke of getting drunk frequently. Three were musical geniuses. Eight or nine of them were extremely talented, and the others were very hard-working. We had a few control-moments, but after they saw that I wasn't going to budge, and that I did, in fact, enjoy them, we got along famously. We got to work on a piece I wrote, and my practicum partner and I brought them doughnuts and OJ on the last day, to get them all sugared-up for the rest of the day. That was classic - they were actually running on the chairs and counter-tops, screaming. It was a blast. I love to teach junior high.
Palm Sunday weekend was the Weekend of Concerts. We had a University Singers concert with Abendmusik-Lincoln, singing a dozen opera choruses, at First Plymouth Church on Saturday, which had rehearsals for three hours on Wednesday and Thursday prior to the concert. Then, I had Messiah in Kearney again this year, which rehearsed Friday, in Kearney, of course. That was Sunday night. But, Sunday morning, the UNL Varsity Men's Chorus sang for two services at First Plymouth. I was about ready to hate singing forever, but I’m over that now. Singing in First Plymouth is really cool, so I guess it's worth the exhaustion.
Mom came back for Easter, after working at the ACA National Convention, also in Kansas City, a mere week after my trip. It was good to see her in person again.
Big Red Singers performed their show for the UNL School of Music, in conjunction with the Kansas State Show Choir. After seeing that, I realized that BRS is actually a pretty talented ensemble. And, do I have a sign that says, "Hi, please hit on me" at show choir performances?
On Good Friday, I got to make Stations on the Cross with my friend, Kim, at 11pm. That was neat.
Holy Saturday and Easter Sunday, John and I went to Bassett to be with the family. It was sort of a shame that more of the family was unable to attend, but I guess everyone does things in their own time.
Then, there was the Men's Chorus tour to National MENC Convention in Minneapolis. We were one of, maybe, thirty choirs from around the nation asked to perform for this convention, and - I believe - the only men's group there. First, we sang in Ankeny, Iowa, on the way there, because a UNL alumnus is the choral teacher there. Then, we drove on to Ames, and had a concert with the Iowa State Men's Choir. That was also great. They sang easier music that we did, but they sang it very, very well. Hopefully, we can do something with them on an annual basis. Then there was Minneapolis. It was awesome. Our concert went very well, and it really was an honor to be there. That evening, my friend, Kenny, and I, along with some of our other friends, went to a Middle-Eastern restaurant for dinner (outstanding), and then went to a dance club for the evening. That was also a whole lot of fun. It's always fun watching people being pressed outside of their normal comfort zone, and to bear up and become more diverse folks. On the way back from Minneapolis, we got to sing for Morning Prayer at St. Olaf College. Then, we got to eat in their cafeteria. I know, that sounds anti-climactic, but the food was really good, and so was the scenery.
My friend and classmate, Emily May, had a great Senior Recital, in voice.
The UNL School of Music (the Orchestra and the combined choirs) performed Beethoven's 9th Symphony the weekend following Minneapolis. This was no small undertaking - a 100+ piece orchestra a some 300 singers, on the Lied Center stage. The music is really difficult, for orchestra and chorus alike, and we ended up totally kicking its ass. Only one other time in my life have I heard a roar emanating from the audience before the final cutoff has rung in the air. People were out of their seats, cheering, and, yes, it really was that good. I was greatly privileged to have been a part of that experience.
In the meantime, my friend, Marc, from Boston, came out to visit. He got to go to the concert, and we had a great time hanging out and seeing what there is to see in Lincoln. You can see a really great picture of him on my Friends and Family page, too.
Also in the meantime, Big Red Singers had one final concert. Time to open the spleen again. Of course, I wasn't told about this concert at the beginning, so I had to re-budget my time to accommodate it. But it gets better. First, the conductor forgot to reserve a hall for the concert. A couple of weeks before the performance, he asked to reserve the recital hall, and was told, in essence, to ask in January like everyone else does. Then, we couldn't have it in the normal rehearsal room, because there was a recital going on next door and the noise would have been distracting. So, he finally got the Howell Theater, in the Theater Dept. building, a block and a half away. So, he was going to get a UNL truck to cart the risers, etc. over there, but he forgot to do that, too. So, we got to haul a thousand pounds (I'm not kidding) of risers, all of the musical instruments, stairs, and everything else, over there on a rolly-cart. The funny thing about Howell Theater is that it's really small. The stage opening into the theater was too narrow for the riser configuration, so some singers spent the entire concert singing meaningfully into a brick wall. And, the stage wasn't deep enough, so the band was spread out in single-file behind the risers, so that they couldn't hear each other. Plus, the show requires costume changes on each side of the stage. Well, the stage is too narrow, so they set up a privacy screen where the stairs to enter the high platform used to be. This caused two more problems: (1) they had to re-choreograph their entrances, and (2) five brass players, spread out in single file, were now totally hidden behind the privacy screen, unable to see the conductor, unable to be seen by the audience, and in full view of the changing girls. And, finally, we were used to dealing with three cordless microphones. Howell Theater had, exactly, none. So, we got to fish cords around and hand mikes around stage in choreography at least as elaborate as what the choir was doing. Now, I had budgeted an hour and a half for this undertaking - half an hour to set up, as per usual; half an hour to run the show, as per usual; and half an hour to tear down, again, as per usual. I arrived at 4:30 to set up, and at 6:45, when setup still wasn't complete because of the total lack of organization, I went home to have supper and change into my blacks. I arrived back at 7:20 and began to set up for the show, when I was asked what I was doing, and then informed of an hour of solos that were to take place before the actually BRS show. Let's see here, 2 1/2 hours to set up, then another 1 1/2 hours for the concert…must control fist of death! The show actually went off without a hitch - well, as well as it could. And, before the clapping stopped, I was out the door. I think that really pissed some people off, because the director still isn't speaking to me. Watch me cry about that one.
I was able to cancel my Alltel cell phone after a year of total hell. It was a glorious day.
Web business is picking up, finally, so maybe I'll see some money.
My friend, Adrienne Dickson, had a fantastic Doctoral Recital, in voice.
I auditioned for University Singers for next year.
I passed my Piano Skills jury, which means I will be allowed to Student Teach in the spring. Halle-freakin-luja!! (and I got a 90!)
On Saturday, I had a party, and 20-25 fun people came. It was really a good time, and I was told that my guests enjoyed themselves as well. The best part was, the guests left and I was in bed by 1:00AM.
Sunday was another Men's Chorus Concert at First Plymouth. This time, we sang with the University Women's Chorale. They do such a nice job.
Yesterday, I had my Theory final exam, which I think I passed. I was given the Scale Degree 2 award, for my "super enthusiasm and good attitude toward theory." Heh heh. Then, I had my Voice Jury. That also went very well - I got a 90+. And, then, I taught one of my professors how to use Dreamweaver. That also was enjoyable. I like to teach cool people cool stuff.
And, tonight, I met with a friend's daughter, to design her wedding invitations, and then have spent the last several hours updating this ridiculous thing.

Okay, have I rambled enough? This is Finals Week, which is probably the most relaxing, and most stressful week of the term. Lots of free time to sleep, then a big test. Tomorrow and Thursday, I direct rehearsals for Fr. Chris Goodwin's First Mass on May 30th in Holdgrege. Friday, two tests. After that…? Who knows?

(23 March, 2004) Bad Ideas I've Had

I've always wanted to entitle something that. "Bad Ideas I've Had." My list was going to include things like six long-island iced teas on Sioux Falls (and the subsequent tandem vomiting), steel-toed Doc Marten's on airpline flights, and now: volunteering to help tech the Big Red Singers.

Who, you ask, are the Big Red Singers? The are the show choir for the School of Music, here at UNL. Because of what has been euphemistically called "creative difference," and is in reality, a battle over fiefdoms, the Scarlet and Cream, the well-known UNL show choir, is now under the auspices of the Alumni Association, but the School of Music could not be without a show choir, soo....Big Red Singers. (Sadly, the also describes many of the women in the choir, after a few of the dance moves...;-(

Anyway, my reasons for helping were valid. In Nebraska, show choir is a vital and politically charged portion of high school music programs. So, it never hurts to network. Also, my own experience with show choir is very limited, and as a future music educator, I owe it to my students to become familiar with this art form. What I didn't anticipate was the disorganized cluster-f**k that the rehearsal and performance experiences are. The conductor has a vision, but lacks the patience to express that vision. Consequently, the students run the rehearsals, everyone knows what should happen and no one does anything productive. Add this to the constantly changing program, and it makes for a tech man's nightmare.

"Okay, you've changed this ten times. What is it that you want me to do here, you disorganized @#%^$&?!?!?!?!"

So, here I sit, with three tests this week, when I should be practicing and studying, but instead, I am stuck in this mess, trying to act interested and non-homocidal. GRRRRR.

(4 March, 2004) On the Road Again

Currently, I'm sitting on a bus, full of college guys, driving to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. There's a lot in that statement, really. Oh, yeah, and it's 6:30 AM, and I can't sleep because of, you know, guy things (oh, my poor nose!)

My favorite part of the trip thus far has been the ability to use my NEW LAPTOP!!! After various and sundry flirtations with death, my PC has basically taken itself out of comission, and is now sitting, alone and forlorn, in my bedroom, collecting dust and being used as a laptop stand. When Windows XP decided that defragmenting the hard drive was far too complex, and that it would jsut start eating data, I decided that a new computer was in order. So, God bless America, I came to my senses and joined the Dark Side. I am now the proud owner of an iBook G4 - that's right, an Apple. I've had it for almost a month now, and it hasn't crashed once. In that time, I've used my PC on, maybe, twenty occaisions, and it's crashed at least 30 times in those computational attempts. Good riddance!

So, in addition to having a fantastic laptop, I am traveling to Sioux Falls with UNL's Varsity Men's Chorus for the regional ACDA (American Choral Director's Assoc.) conference. Evidently, this is a big deal. (Even more of a big deal, in April, we're singing at the MENC (it's like the American Medical Association for music teachers - don't ask what it stands for) National Convention in Minneapolis. We were on of, maybe twenty choirs from all across the country, who were selected to perform at that event. Anyway, the thing we're going to, it's like a mini Minneapolis trip [say that out loud].)

The nice thing about being really tired (my friend, Brenda, her sister, Jen, and I caught up last night, over several beers, and then, well, I had to go to Wal-Mart) is that I can ramble, and it doesn't matter.

The itinerary is thus: leave Lincoln at 6:30 AM (reallly, 7:00 - guys are less punctual than girls sometimes!), drive to Sioux Falls, have a sound check, sit around for several hours, sing at 9 at night, undisclosed activities for those of the age of majority, perform at a high school on the way back the next day, and eat school lunch there, and arrive back home at 3:00 PM.

I sit here and ponder - is nothing new and interesting in y life? The answer is, "Nope, Scott. All you do is go to class and study ." Alas.

26 January, 2004) Skinny White Boy

An ice storm. Freezing rain. 1/8 inch of ice on everything. 8+ inches of snow on top of that. Wind.

I know there is a great joy in driving through miles of untamed snow in a four-wheel drive pickup, as my years of experience doing just that will attest. But, there is nothing like the frighteningly primal satisfaction one derives from demolishing snow drifts on city streets with one's Geo Metro. The thrill fo bursting through a snowbank nearly as tall as the car; the joy of racing up and down an empty street, throwing clouds of snow in the air at each radical turn; these are the joys of living in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Every time is snows, the City of Lincoln saves money. For those of you who inhabit what is known as "the real world," which is made up of something more than ledgers and columns of figures, this may seem a bit odd. But, the accounting geniuses at the City/County Building have discerned as follows. Plowing the streets costs about $70,000 (honestly, that's what I've heard!) each time it's done. So, if the city only plows the "essential" (read: "none") streets, they can save nearly $70K. This seems great if you have a nice office across the street from where you live. For the rest of us, this is frustrating. The above tale of snow-inspired frivolity took place on 8th Street in Lincoln. 8th & R. This is downtown Lincoln - a vital business, shopping, dining, and entertainment area. Yet, as is par for the course, plows and trucks (if they arrive at all) will not be here for at least three days. In the mean time, I will continue to bust drifts and risk certain high-centering on the main street that leads to and from the Central Lincoln Post Office. You'd think that was "essential?"

Oh, yeah, the title. So, I've turned over some new leaves. Mostly, I'm tired of being said skinny white boy, so I'm going to the rec center on campus, running, and lifting weights (!) at least three times a week (!!). For those of you who know me, it will be particularly alarming to hear me recount that I am, in fact, NOT the skinniest, whitest, weakest guy there. There are, in fact, Computer Science and Engineering Majors there - Glory be. Of course, my newfound feelings of buff-ness rapidly evaporate as someone who has successfully defined each of their muscles walks by and lifts, you know, and entire stack of weights or something. Then, it's back to my little lifting machine.

Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. (Thanks, Ellen.)

(11 January, 2004) Tomorrow: the Deluge

As I clear away the mess in my apartment, mostly left over from removing my waterbed and setting up my SUPER-COMFORTABLE NEW BED!!!!, I am relecting on the nature of what's to come. A year from now, I'll (God willing) be starting student teaching. In 24 hours, my first day of my new semester will be done. Time waits for no man, I guess.

Last night was a return to Mary's Place, the seedy dance hall I seem to frequent with my friend Hope and her boyfriend Adam. Last time it was patrons wearing silver lamé and Beehives. Last night it was a woman in a wheelchair disco-ing, a bunch of bikers chasing random women, two gay guys dancing like crazy, and some old guy who must have found the love of his life, at least judging by what he was doing to her on and off the dance floor. Let's hear it for Viagra.

There's not much else to write. I'm only taking 11 classes this semester (versus last semester's 13), and will only be getting 18 credits for the 27 hours/week I will spend in the classroom (versus 18/34 last semester). Cleaning calls.

(8 January, 2004) A Harsh Grace

Christmas is supposed to be a time of rejoicing and familial happiness, according to everything you see. And for my family, it usually was. This year, was different, however. I don't know whether to rail bitterly or lapse into pious musings - the temptation to either is great. But, I suppose that this is life, and good comes with bad; beauty with horror.

On Christmas day, at 12:15 PM, my mother's brother, my uncle, died from complications with pneumonia. He'd only checked himself into the hospital less than two days prior, and on the 24th, he'd been conversing with two of his children. When we got called at 4AM on Christmas, to tell us that he was on a ventilator, we rushed the three hours to Grand Island, where this man who had been such a role model and, at times, substitute father, lay struggling for breath and life.

As we watched and waited, he failed and died. Three of his children weren't able to make it in time. He was in the hospital with his brother and sister, his oldest son, his mother and father, and me.

Parents shouldn't have to bury their children.

I keep recalling: He didn't suffer long. Thank goodness mom was back from North Carolina. The community and his friends have been outstanding. But these are graces with sharp, sharp edges, and I wish I had never needed to receive them.

Read About 2003 - Click Here.

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