How to beat the ads

My brown dress shoes didn’t quite survive the wedding we attended a few weeks ago. So, I’ve been glued to the computer, looking at new shoes.

I haven’t bought any. But the happy result is that now, all of my browser’s banner ads show pictures of elegant, brown, leather or faux-leather shoes. This is more pleasing to have in the background than the usual eye-popping fare.

It also has sparked an idea for making the web advertisements on one’s computer less painful to view – assuming, of course, that one’s ad-blocker doesn’t already keep everything out.

(1) One should choose something nice to look at.

(2) It has to be something one could buy (not, e.g., a fawn or Mt. Fuji).

But:

(3) It should be something that one has almost no desire to buy, so that it won’t distract one (much).

(4) Any specimen should look like any other.

(5) Corollary: the object should come in a standard color. And this color must be muted, not garish.

(6) Ideally, it should be a natural object. (Not a box of Brillo pads. Not a jug of laundry detergent. A transparent, full milk jug is better but not ideal; see, above, the third point.)

(This sixth point will be qualified later.)

(7) One should visit lots of merchant’s websites and click on pictures of the object. One should do this for several days.

(8) Voilà. This pleasant object, and nothing else, will appear where garish things once did.

I suggest looking at lots of merchant’s pictures of unadorned blue spruce Christmas trees. After a few days, your screen will be flanked by a lovely forest rather than by the Las Vegas Strip. If you can’t stomach anything to do with Christmas, browse cacti or cilantro or firewood instead. You get the idea.

Now I’ll qualify (6). You can get away with looking at artificial Christmas trees because they resemble the natural ones. Not all merchandise has this characteristic, however.

December’s poems

Say it isn’t so! Loveless by My Bloody Valentine has been removed from Spotify.

John-Paul: “What’s Spotify even for, if Loveless isn’t included?”

Karin: “A lot, considering how many hours Spotify is used in this house.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Here are reggae lyrics from The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole. Bear in mind, the diarist/​poet is in his younger teens.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Hear what he saying by A. Mole

Sisters and Brothers listen to Jah,

Hear his words from near and far,

Haile Selassie he sit on the throne.

Hear what he saying. Hear what he saying. (Repeated 10 times.)

JAH! JAH! JAH!

Rise up and follow Selassie, the king.

A new tomorrow to you he will bring. (Repeat.)

E-thi-o-pi-a,

He’ll bring new hope to ya.

Hear what he saying. Hear what he saying. (Repeated 20 times.)

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Not a Christmas poem, exactly, but certain themes are characteristic of the season.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Another quasi-Christmas poem:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Little boy, O so small,

Please don’t pull upon my mole.

It’s attachèd to my neck.

When you pull, it hurts like heck.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Karin wrote it.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Mother Goose:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

When good King Arthur ruled this land,

He was a goodly King;

He bought three pecks of barley-meal,

To make a bag-pudding.

A bag-pudding the King did make,

And stuffed it well with plums,

And in it put great lumps of fat,

As big as my two thumbs.

The King and Queen did eat thereof,

And noblemen beside;

And what they could not eat that night,

The Queen next morning fried.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Not only have I run out of “mole” poems, I must give up the “Christmas” pretense.

Christmas with Boney M. et al.

We went to Karin’s mom’s house for our final Christmas party. The best part was hearing stories about Karin’s grandma, who died in 2016. (Don’t tell anyone, but she was my favorite person from that branch of the family.)

Karin’s mom used to consult a book called Mrs. Dunwoody’s Excellent Instructions for Homekeeping.

Mrs. Dimwitty, Karin’s grandma called it.

Karin noted that her grandma was the “queen of ‘work smarter, not harder’.”

She liked to dump ingredients into a vessel and let them bake. Hence her fondness for cookie bars – which are cut out from a grid, not sculpted individually – and for casseroles.

And she’d start washing the dishes while everyone else was eating dessert.

That’s pretty much how I like to clean and cook, except that my appliance of choice is the rice cooker, not the oven.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It was a rough Christmas. Samuel and Daniel opened many gifts and fought over them all day long. I kept thinking of The Gods Must Be Crazy (1980), in which Bushmen fight over a Coke bottle that has fallen from heaven. Would my children fight so viciously no matter what, or would they get along better with less? Some of the famous “peace” churches severely restrict private ownership. Does it help them, peace-wise? The Thomas Friedmans of the world think that competition and accumulation help to make for a more peaceful planet. I really don’t know. This is the sort of thing that ought to interest “peace studies” academics, those who talk about war-curbing and peace-building. How many of them are telling people to get rid of their possessions? I can’t imagine there’d be much incentive for that sort of message, even if it were correct, but again, I don’t know what those writers actually say.

And once more to the apartment

… much to the kitties’ delight. Our reunion with them was most tender.

Here is my summary of the last three days at the camp.

It rained often, and so the paths were muddy.

We went to church twice each day. The sermon that I discussed in the previous entry was the best one by far. The others all went on longer than their allotted times, and they rehashed these points:

(1) The importance of the U.S. armed forces.

(2) The importance of the church elders (Michigan district).

(3) The importance of camp, for training the youth.

(4) Dangers that beset the youth. In this last category:

(4a) Satanism in rock music.

(4b) Activities that steer the youth away from camp.

(4c) Homosexuality.

(4d) Disney World – not explicitly named, but inferable from certain mentions of (4b) and (4c).

And lastly:

(4e) Unmanliness in various guises: being an absent father, selling one’s spiritual “birthright,” and failing to “cross the line.” (Julius Caesar, one speaker told us, heroically “crossed the line” when he crossed the Rubicon. The speaker himself had “crossed the line” many times, breaking rules at the mental health center where he worked, so that he could lead a teenager away from Devil worship.)

Yesterday, between services, Karin & I and Karin’s friend, Shad, traveled to the touristic town of Frankenmuth. Much of the town is German-themed. It’s also the site of Bronner’s, “the world’s largest Christmas store.” Like the House on the Rock, the store displays a staggering number of knickknacks. It also has a small chapel.

We returned to the camp. That night was the best night of the trip. We took lawn chairs out into a dark field and watched a meteorite shower. It was lovely, except when other campers drove near to us in their rented golf carts, blinding us with their headlights. “You’re ruining the meteorite shower!” I called out to them.

This morning, Brianna and her retinue tromped into our cabin and woke us up. We packed up our car and drove home, skipping the sermon of the denomination’s president. I plan to listen to the sermon on YouTube.

Holiday woes

You’d think that, during the holidays, I’d have found time to watch High Hopes. Alas, no. So far, my holidays have been as congested as my job days.

Today was the least taxing day in recent memory. Even so, I kept having to get in and out of the car. Karin & I traveled to:

(a) the doctor, for the removal of Karin’s stitches;

(b) the barber, for my haircut;

(c) Karin’s friends’ new house, for a tour; and

(d) Goodwill, for no good reason.

Yesterday, we drove to Michigan to go to church with Karin’s family members. They never showed up. It turned out, they’d gone to church in Indiana.

We were reunited with them at night. After the meal and the gift-giving, they asked us to stay for a quick game of Phase 10. This game did not end until three hours later. Phase 10 is supposed to be brief, like Uno or Skip-Bo, but last night it was more like Monopoly.

Between each hand of Phase 10, I loaded up a new plateful of crackers, cheese, and Christmas ham, in keeping with the seasonal gluttony. … Karin also has eaten a great deal these last few days. She has shattered her personal record of fatness. Today she began to address this plight. At Goodwill she bought a vinyl record of aerobics music, and, right now, she is marching in place while she watches the TV show My 600-lb Life.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

R.I.P. Carlos Muñoz. It’s the twenty-third anniversary of his death. I never will look much like “El Frentón,” and so today I decided to dress like Julio César Rosero, “El Emperador.”

A visit to the E.R.

When I woke up today, it was minus-thirteen degrees F. There was no school, thank goodness. When Karin left for her job, she had to struggle to open her car door because it was frozen shut.

At this moment, I’m at home, figuring out my Bethel students’ grades, which are due tonight. The kitties are glad I’m here. We snuggle together. Right now, though, they’re fighting.

Karin & I were away most of the weekend. From Saturday afternoon to Sunday morning, we celebrated Christmas with Karin’s father’s family. Then we went home; but, a little later, we had to go to the hospital because Karin had stabbed her arm with a knife. She’d been using the knife to dig food out of a pan. The stab-wound looked about the size of a nickel, and it bled plenty, and, inside it, we could see a ghastly white tendon (at first we thought it was a bone).

Mary – rather jubilant, having just received an “A” in her Anatomy and Physiology course – drove us to the emergency room. We waited until it was Karin’s turn to be sewn up. The waiting room was quiet. Then someone began to play a TV show on his phone. There was a faint odor of marijuana.

I read in the South Bend Tribune that my students on Bethel’s basketball team had been robbed while deep-sea fishing. Those students had taken their exams early, I recalled, so that they could travel to Miami.

At last, Karin was sewn up by a doctor and a youngish nurse who cracked jokes that were full of medical jargon. Then the doctor left the nurse to finish things. The nurse asked Karin where she worked.

“At _____,” said Karin.

“Which branch?” said the nurse, and Karin told her. “I worked at that branch for nine years,” said the nurse. “I was the manager.”

How miserable, I thought. To be at the mercy of some healer; and then to find out that this person not only could do your job as well as you do it, she actually has done your job, and probably better than you do it, and for nine years.

But Karin took it in stride. Karin is much humbler than I am.

“En España critican el trofeo que el United dio a Antonio Valencia”

He was named the best player of the month at Manchester United.

Here he is with his little trophy.

As El Universo points out, this trophy is not being treated kindly in the European presses.

They say that it looks like a Christmas ornament.

Also, that it can be bought on the Internet for £12.99.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

This morning, due to the snow, the high school where I work was closed. I went to Bethel and trudged around to various departments, looking for blue books for the exam that I’m going to administer on Wednesday.

The students whom I talked to didn’t know what blue books were.

I suspect that the departmental secretaries whom I talked to didn’t know, either.

Blue books seem to have gone out of fashion at Bethel.

At last, I found a sympathetic professor. “I have a secret stash of blue books,” he told me.

And so my preparations for this semester have been completed. I would’ve been disappointed if I hadn’t been able to use the blue books. Giving a blue book exam is one of the few joys that remain in the academic profession.

I dream of hippos

My health is improved but does not, shall we say, sparkle. Tonight a winter storm is forecast. I’m hoping that tomorrow my high school workplace will be closed, or at least that its classes will be delayed for two hours; and that Bethel will not be closed. It’ll be the last day of regular classes there. I want to finish watching The Two Escobars with my students. It was gratifying, yesterday, to listen to them gasp at René Higuita (his famous escorpión play) and at Carlos Valderrama (his mere physical appearance).

Reflecting on Colombia, I am pleased to think of its wild hippos, whose ancestors escaped the finca of Pablo Escobar. Sadly, this article reports that the authorities have set out to castrate those hippos. Happily, this article suggests that it will not be easy to subject them to the knife.

Karin put up our Christmas tree last night, and while we slept the kitties knocked it down, which surprised us zilcho. Now we’re home from work. The tree is still upright. The kitties seem to have accepted the tree. I have two or three chapters of John Charles Chasteen to read this evening, and ten study questions per chapter to write, or else my students will get off easy when they take their final exams. As I said, the semester is nearly ended. I’m making a mental list of holiday readings for myself. I hope that over Christmas I’ll enjoy a respite from illness so that I can lie on the couch and read and watch TV.

Some gluttony

Mary was given a new used car. Our Uncle Stan brought it as near to us as Indianapolis, and so I went there to pick it up with Martin and his parents.

Close to the Grissom Air Reserve Base, we stopped at a roadside café. Martin’s parents bought us breakfast.

It’d be ungrateful of me not to describe this meal. I’m no food writer – but here goes.

It was the Babette’s Feast of breakfasts. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet. The biscuits. The bacon. The casserole. The sausage. All were made from old Amish recipes. I knew, from the first bites, that this would be one of the greatest breakfasts of my life.

Caveman dieters, Martin’s parents ate just a few fried eggs. But they enjoyed the other food vicariously, keenly watching Martin and me. Their eyes took in every detail. They listened closely as we described what we were eating.

It was the first day of our Christmas break.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Yesterday, for most of the high school students, I photocopied crossword puzzles about Christmas (also, a few “Winter Wonderland” word-searches, for the heathen). Teacher after teacher came into my office and gave me money, cards, and sweets. Then, after school was over, Martin and I went to the staff members’ Christmas party. I ate hors d’oeuvres and watched the teachers drink a lot of beer.

Los regalos, pt. 2

I’m writing this with the help of my new best friend — my smartphone, given to me for Christmas by Martin & Mary.

Other booty:

• The English Constitution (Walter Bagehot);
• The Sense of an Ending (Julian Barnes);
• Essays in Quasi-Realism (Simon Blackburn);
• Hard Rain Falling (Don Carpenter);
• Hons and Rebels (Jessica Mitford);
• contact lens solution;
• socks;
• candy;
• money;
• probably, something I’ve forgotten.

So it was a good Christmas.

(I stopped typing with the smartphone long ago. I switched over to my computer.)

Ana & David have been visiting from Houston — and I hope this isn’t insulting or condescending or whatever, but they both seem calmer and more contented, having been married for several months.

Los regalos

December is just beginning, and already we’ve erected our Charlie Brown Christmas tree and put gifts under it. Why are we so “Christmassy” this year?

Because of David. Some weeks ago, he sent us his wishlist. (Life in Houston must be very dull.) Since then, we’ve all been posting wishlists. I’m not sure how effective those lists will turn out to be. For example, I can’t buy what Mary asked for; I mean, not without withholding the Gift of Rent from her.

She, on the other hand, has been buying quite a lot of gifts. Useful gifts. Salutary gifts.

She bought a storybook for her little niece.

She’s going to buy gum surgery for her husband. (These holidays, poor Martin will subsist on liquids.)

To me, she said: “I won’t tell you what I bought you — it isn’t what you asked for, but it’s for your benefit.”

Edoarda & Stephen bought a bookcase for me, which is nice, because now I’ll be able to bring more of my books up from the basement. Stephen gave some old shoelaces to Bianca.

Principles of composition

Now that Christmas and Carlos Muñoz Day are over, I’m getting ready for my next semester of Principles of Composition (W130). I’m revising course policies … perusing new readings …

… and writing a sample essay.

(I want to suffer what my students suffer.)

IUSB’s English faculty have determined that in each W130 essay, the introductory paragraph must list all of the sources, and each body paragraph must explain how passages from at least two different sources are related to one another. Consequently, these essays are like nothing else I’ve read. They’re their own kind of artform.

Like the sonnet.

Later, I might post my own W130 essay — my opus.

But I’m not 100% sure whether I’ll teach the course again, because the contracts still haven’t been issued, and when you’re adjuncting it’s better not to count your chickens.

The mall rats

Day Two of the winter holiday. Mary exercises at her gym; Martin cleans; Stephen cooks; I read.

Later, it might be interesting to watch some TV.

Stephen asks me to go with him to the mall. He’s itching to leave the house. Well, the mall does have a bookstore, and I do want to buy Dance Dance Dance — the sequel to the Murakami novel that I’ve just finished reading — and The Luminaries, the most recent Man Booker winner.

We’re all set to ride the bus when Mary comes downstairs: “All right, I’ll drive you to the mall.”

Then she sees Bianca sleeping on a chair.

“Hello, my little furry friend. You’re so cute. Who is it who loves you? Who is it who takes you to the vet?

“I love you, Bianca. Will you cuddle with me? Do you enjoy being cuddled with? Do you like it when I hold you? Will you miss me when I go away to the mall?”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Mary drives us to the mall.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

At Barnes & Noble I run into an IUSB student who got an F in my course. Friendly as always, he shakes my hand. I glare. I’m not very gracious in these situations.

Mary buys me The Luminaries, which turns out to be an 830-page (zodiacal!) mystery set in 19th-century New Zealand. Its prose style reminds me of Kate Beckinsale’s in the movie Cold Comfort Farm (“The golden orb had almost disappeared behind the interlacing fingers of the hawthorn”) … which is a good thing, in my opinion.

The Luminaries is Eleanor Catton’s second novel. Aged twenty-eight, four years my junior, Catton is the youngest recipient of the Man Booker Prize. Jeez Louise, I feel unaccomplished.

Christmas 2012

Christmastime: family, family, and more family. It’s been kind of nice.

I hadn’t expected that Mary & Martin would be here in South Bend — they’d intended to go to Illinois — but on Christmas Eve, Mary got an infection and had to be admitted to Memorial Hospital. I visited her for several hours. It was kind of nice.

She’s out of the hospital now. She’s better.

I spent three consecutive days with my Uncle John, my Aunt Lorena, and their daughters, Annie & Vickie. Today I went to their house for Christmas dinner. At first they were surprised, but then they remembered they’d invited me. We ate spaghetti. It was good. … I convinced my aunt and cousins to read Wuthering Heights with me, one chapter each day. I’ve never read it. My aunt has, several times.

Annie was given a tree for Christmas — a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Here it is:

:) :) :)

Tomorrow is Carlos Muñoz Day.

Spain, pt. 386: On tackling

This is from my brother Stephen:

Xabi Alonso on English soccer:

There is a pause as Alonso reaches, again, the crux of the issue. A single English word he returns to that, unpacked, analysed and investigated, explains much. “I don’t think tackling is a quality,” he says. “It is a recurso, something you have to resort to, not a characteristic of your game. At Liverpool I used to read the matchday programme and you’d read an interview with a lad from the youth team. They’d ask: age, heroes, strong points, etc. He’d reply: ‘Shooting and tackling.’ I can’t get into my head that football development would educate tackling as a quality, something to learn, to teach, a characteristic of your play. How can that be a way of seeing the game? I just don’t understand football in those terms. Tackling is a [last] resort, and you will need it, but it isn’t a quality to aspire to, a definition. It’s hard to change because it’s so rooted in the English football culture, but I don’t understand it.”

The tackle is perhaps the greatest expression of an English conception of the game — physical, epic, emotional. By definition, reactive. …

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Come to think of it, what is the Ecuadorian word for tackling? I’m not sure. The behavior lacks referential magnetism.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

So it goes for soccer — and for religion — and for romance more generally. Fleeing solipsism, we embed ourselves into those narratives which seem most universal, only to discover, bitterly, that the tropes which are most sacred to us are widely disregarded or despised: not just by foreign interpreters, but also by our colleagues, and even by our loved ones.

There are some who are shocked or saddened because I’m not fond of Lent or Christmas; and I pity those who can’t sense that a backpass may be performed simply to sustain a pleasing rhythm.