Friday, April 17, 2009
Post #100
Yesterday was a beautiful day, so we had class outside on the back porch of the Tri Pi sorority from Animal House. One of the afternoon's highlights was a visit by a pair of mallards, a drake and hen. They waddled up within a few feet of us, pecking at the odd bug, and continued on their way. I hoped they'd join the conversation with a "Mwack!" or two, but they weren't feeling talkative.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Parting
Last fall, one of the students in my Introduction to Communication class, a junior, came to my office and told me he wanted to switch his major to Communication. I knew him a little bit, and recognized that he was both likable and smart, so this was good news. He joined the forensics team and went to a tournament with us (no, he's not pictured below), and wrapped up Intro with solid work and a nice, high grade. Then he signed up for five, count them, five classes with me for this term. I joked with colleagues that after that kind of ordeal, he'd probably drop out.
Early this term, to my surprise, everything began to unravel. First, his attendance turned spotty, then he stopped turning in work, and finally, he just looked miserable in every class meeting. I sat him down in my office to ask if he was having problems, and we had a good talk. Despite that hopeful sign, all three patterns just accelerated: more skipped classes, more forfeited assignments. He became so disruptive in class that one day I had to bark at him, and another day I nearly threw him out. I announced syllabus revisions in all my classes to give myself authority to crack down, and that contained his behavior problems a bit, but the absences and zeros piled up. I worried about him much of the time, and began drafting in my head a tactful suggestion that he take some time off from school. He was just spinning his wheels, and his school experience had devolved into an empty charade. I had become more of an enforcer than an educator, and while that's also a form of teaching, it's not a good one. When it becomes a chronic problem instead of an occasional lapse, then radical changes are in order.
About a week ago, in the middle of a class discussion, he piped up and said he didn't like being told what to do, didn't like being required to follow assignment specifications in detail, didn't like having to be organized or systematic, and didn't understand why such things were necessary. He said his goal was to move the culture in the direction of authenticity and spontaneity, so no one would ever have to sweat over the minutiae of any kind of message. My suspicion, then and now, was that I wasn't hearing the output of his thinking, but the blowback of his frustration. He didn't truly think organization and detail were unimportant. I asked him a couple of probe questions about how, say, medical school should be taught, and he conceded that they're necessary in some contexts. But I think what I was hearing was exasperation passing the critical pressure and erupting. It certainly cast what happened next in an interesting light.
Yesterday afternoon, after skipping his (my, our) morning class, he came to my office and told me he was dropping out to enlist in the military. This from the guy who doesn't like to be told what to do. But it did mean he'd take himself out of the classroom and into a different environment, so I assured him right away that it was a good idea. He told me that most of his friends were opposed, since he's a second semester junior and could finish his degree in just one more year. But he had his parents' blessing; they said that if he was sure he'd be happier after the change, then they agreed. And I think they're probably right. True, he's going to bang his head against military discipline, but he won't be in a schoolroom anymore. I honestly think fifteen years of education burnt him out on this learning environment. He's got very distorted, romantic notions of what life is like outside the classroom, and at this point words are just bouncing off him. He's got to go see for himself.
My fervent hope and prayer is that this is an opportunity for him to grow, to rise to a challenge, to change his ways. I'm still fond of the kid, even though he's generated no end of stress and grief in my life, and the best news in the world would be to hear that he was thriving. He even hinted that after serving his hitch, his GI Bill benefits might bring him back here to school, but I don't expect that to happen. I think I'm seeing the last of him.
And last night, I grieved a little. This place is going to be different without him, and it's not the same kind of difference as saying goodbye to graduating seniors. That's poignant, but it's also a celebration and a success. It doesn't even feel the same as students transferring away, because at least there's a continuity and a next chapter ahead. This is a change that I hope, and have reason to believe, is positive and an improvement, but it's still a breaking off, a rupture, an unculminated, failed attempt at earning a degree. It feels right, but it doesn't feel good. Still, I woke up this morning in a much better mood about it, so I guess one night of grief isn't so bad. God's still got His eye on this kid.
Now, in about half an hour, I have to go to my morning class and nail a cheater. My week so far is not exactly an advertisement for my line of work.
Early this term, to my surprise, everything began to unravel. First, his attendance turned spotty, then he stopped turning in work, and finally, he just looked miserable in every class meeting. I sat him down in my office to ask if he was having problems, and we had a good talk. Despite that hopeful sign, all three patterns just accelerated: more skipped classes, more forfeited assignments. He became so disruptive in class that one day I had to bark at him, and another day I nearly threw him out. I announced syllabus revisions in all my classes to give myself authority to crack down, and that contained his behavior problems a bit, but the absences and zeros piled up. I worried about him much of the time, and began drafting in my head a tactful suggestion that he take some time off from school. He was just spinning his wheels, and his school experience had devolved into an empty charade. I had become more of an enforcer than an educator, and while that's also a form of teaching, it's not a good one. When it becomes a chronic problem instead of an occasional lapse, then radical changes are in order.
About a week ago, in the middle of a class discussion, he piped up and said he didn't like being told what to do, didn't like being required to follow assignment specifications in detail, didn't like having to be organized or systematic, and didn't understand why such things were necessary. He said his goal was to move the culture in the direction of authenticity and spontaneity, so no one would ever have to sweat over the minutiae of any kind of message. My suspicion, then and now, was that I wasn't hearing the output of his thinking, but the blowback of his frustration. He didn't truly think organization and detail were unimportant. I asked him a couple of probe questions about how, say, medical school should be taught, and he conceded that they're necessary in some contexts. But I think what I was hearing was exasperation passing the critical pressure and erupting. It certainly cast what happened next in an interesting light.
Yesterday afternoon, after skipping his (my, our) morning class, he came to my office and told me he was dropping out to enlist in the military. This from the guy who doesn't like to be told what to do. But it did mean he'd take himself out of the classroom and into a different environment, so I assured him right away that it was a good idea. He told me that most of his friends were opposed, since he's a second semester junior and could finish his degree in just one more year. But he had his parents' blessing; they said that if he was sure he'd be happier after the change, then they agreed. And I think they're probably right. True, he's going to bang his head against military discipline, but he won't be in a schoolroom anymore. I honestly think fifteen years of education burnt him out on this learning environment. He's got very distorted, romantic notions of what life is like outside the classroom, and at this point words are just bouncing off him. He's got to go see for himself.
My fervent hope and prayer is that this is an opportunity for him to grow, to rise to a challenge, to change his ways. I'm still fond of the kid, even though he's generated no end of stress and grief in my life, and the best news in the world would be to hear that he was thriving. He even hinted that after serving his hitch, his GI Bill benefits might bring him back here to school, but I don't expect that to happen. I think I'm seeing the last of him.
And last night, I grieved a little. This place is going to be different without him, and it's not the same kind of difference as saying goodbye to graduating seniors. That's poignant, but it's also a celebration and a success. It doesn't even feel the same as students transferring away, because at least there's a continuity and a next chapter ahead. This is a change that I hope, and have reason to believe, is positive and an improvement, but it's still a breaking off, a rupture, an unculminated, failed attempt at earning a degree. It feels right, but it doesn't feel good. Still, I woke up this morning in a much better mood about it, so I guess one night of grief isn't so bad. God's still got His eye on this kid.
Now, in about half an hour, I have to go to my morning class and nail a cheater. My week so far is not exactly an advertisement for my line of work.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Pescado/Pilgrimage
So on Saturday, I was enjoying a nice, slow breakfast at the OPH, poring over the Saturday Register-Guard, when I noticed in this year's People Choice Awards that second place for best sushi had gone to Izumi Sushi and Grill.
Izumi Sushi and Grill? I thought, wrinkling my brow. Then it hit me: there must be a new sushi place in town I'd never visited. And apparently a pretty good one.
Well, I said to myself, borrowing the words of the elder George Bush, this will not stand. And just a few hours ago, the Easter Bunny presented me with a first-time visit to Izumi.
泉 means "spring water," which strikes me as apt since I explored it on Easter Sunday, and also since it's located just a stone's throw from the McKenzie River, which supplies Eugene (and me) with tap water. And about five years ago, Organic Style magazine crowned it the best drinking water in the United States, so that's no faint praise. I will point out that the McKenzie flows out of the Cascade snowpack, so it's not exactly spring water, but no need to be pedantic. As restaurant names go, it's pretty nifty.
Lower left are two 鰻握り, eel nigiri. Upper middle are three 鮭巻き, salmon rolls. Lower middle is 鱈場蟹握り, king crab nigiri. And on the right side, from far to near, are とろ, toro, 鯖, mackerel, and 鱸, striped bass. The 麦酒 is 麒麟一番, naturally.
I tried the king crab because the odd associate of mine from Alaska recommended it quite wholeheartedly. Of course, that recommendation came with a warning that it has to be absolutely fresh to be any good. I hoped that Oregon was close enough to Alaska, and a good sushi place obsessive enough about the freshness of its product, that it might hit the mark. And I have to say, I was disappointed. It was crab meat. Nothing special. I mean, it wasn't bad. It wasn't, say, "imitation krab meat." But it's not something I'll order again.
The toro was also a letdown. I'm starting to think toro is mostly hype. I've had it a few different places now (Sushi Domo, Sada, and now Izumi) and it never lives up to my expectations. All the folks who say it's a delicacy must either have refinement to their palate that I'm missing, which is certainly possible, or else they're admiring the Emperor's new clothes.
The striped bass was nothing special. The mackerel and eel were both quite good, but they usually are. So far, nothing to rave about.
But oh. The mainstay of the meal. Oh my. Oh my my my my my.
Years and years ago I visited a place in Addison, Texas called Mr. Sushi. The sushi fans I knew in Texas always lowered their voices when they mentioned it. Once I finally scraped together enough scratch to afford a visit, I found out right away what they were whispering about. I popped tuna into my mouth and made a discovery.
I don't know if you can pinpoint a memory of first stumbling upon something new and wonderful. Maybe it's the first time you touched silk, or maybe it's the first time you smelled the perfume or cologne that hooked you. But it's an electric sensation, a combination of pleasure and utter surprise, a revelation, a sense of "This is all the more wonderful because I never dreamed this existed." That evening at Mr. Sushi, I finally understood all the yammering about appreciating sushi for its texture. It's a hard thing to describe. You've either experienced it, in which case you already know what I mean, or you haven't, and this won't help. But the tuna that night was firm, solid, had integrity, and then suddenly vanished when I bit down. I don't mean it was like cotton candy, insubstantial and unsatisfying; no, the farthest thing in the world from that. Biting down on it made it surrender, in a funny kind of way. It wouldn't dream of being stringy or tough or rubbery, because that would be rude, and this was an impeccably well-mannered mouthful of food. I slowed down to savor it, which I rarely do, and when it was gone, I wished for more. And dreamed of more for several nights following.
I went back to Mr. Sushi a number of times, hoping for a repeat performance. I usually enjoyed myself, but it was never quite as intense again. But tonight, at Izumi, the salmon was fully that good. As before, I was in awe of the food's texture, and even as I finished a mouthful and was convinced that I had a handle on how good it was, I always gave in to utter astonishment at how good the next one turned out to be.
Probably there's a point to this: the delicacies ranged from fair to mediocre, while the staple was spectacular. Probably there's an aesthetic principle at work. But why spoil a good meal by extracting too much lesson from it? Why chloroform a butterfly that's so beautiful, it takes your breath away?
Izumi Sushi and Grill? I thought, wrinkling my brow. Then it hit me: there must be a new sushi place in town I'd never visited. And apparently a pretty good one.
Well, I said to myself, borrowing the words of the elder George Bush, this will not stand. And just a few hours ago, the Easter Bunny presented me with a first-time visit to Izumi.
泉 means "spring water," which strikes me as apt since I explored it on Easter Sunday, and also since it's located just a stone's throw from the McKenzie River, which supplies Eugene (and me) with tap water. And about five years ago, Organic Style magazine crowned it the best drinking water in the United States, so that's no faint praise. I will point out that the McKenzie flows out of the Cascade snowpack, so it's not exactly spring water, but no need to be pedantic. As restaurant names go, it's pretty nifty.
戴
き
ま
す
き
ま
す
Lower left are two 鰻握り, eel nigiri. Upper middle are three 鮭巻き, salmon rolls. Lower middle is 鱈場蟹握り, king crab nigiri. And on the right side, from far to near, are とろ, toro, 鯖, mackerel, and 鱸, striped bass. The 麦酒 is 麒麟一番, naturally.I tried the king crab because the odd associate of mine from Alaska recommended it quite wholeheartedly. Of course, that recommendation came with a warning that it has to be absolutely fresh to be any good. I hoped that Oregon was close enough to Alaska, and a good sushi place obsessive enough about the freshness of its product, that it might hit the mark. And I have to say, I was disappointed. It was crab meat. Nothing special. I mean, it wasn't bad. It wasn't, say, "imitation krab meat." But it's not something I'll order again.
The toro was also a letdown. I'm starting to think toro is mostly hype. I've had it a few different places now (Sushi Domo, Sada, and now Izumi) and it never lives up to my expectations. All the folks who say it's a delicacy must either have refinement to their palate that I'm missing, which is certainly possible, or else they're admiring the Emperor's new clothes.
The striped bass was nothing special. The mackerel and eel were both quite good, but they usually are. So far, nothing to rave about.
But oh. The mainstay of the meal. Oh my. Oh my my my my my.
Years and years ago I visited a place in Addison, Texas called Mr. Sushi. The sushi fans I knew in Texas always lowered their voices when they mentioned it. Once I finally scraped together enough scratch to afford a visit, I found out right away what they were whispering about. I popped tuna into my mouth and made a discovery.
I don't know if you can pinpoint a memory of first stumbling upon something new and wonderful. Maybe it's the first time you touched silk, or maybe it's the first time you smelled the perfume or cologne that hooked you. But it's an electric sensation, a combination of pleasure and utter surprise, a revelation, a sense of "This is all the more wonderful because I never dreamed this existed." That evening at Mr. Sushi, I finally understood all the yammering about appreciating sushi for its texture. It's a hard thing to describe. You've either experienced it, in which case you already know what I mean, or you haven't, and this won't help. But the tuna that night was firm, solid, had integrity, and then suddenly vanished when I bit down. I don't mean it was like cotton candy, insubstantial and unsatisfying; no, the farthest thing in the world from that. Biting down on it made it surrender, in a funny kind of way. It wouldn't dream of being stringy or tough or rubbery, because that would be rude, and this was an impeccably well-mannered mouthful of food. I slowed down to savor it, which I rarely do, and when it was gone, I wished for more. And dreamed of more for several nights following.
I went back to Mr. Sushi a number of times, hoping for a repeat performance. I usually enjoyed myself, but it was never quite as intense again. But tonight, at Izumi, the salmon was fully that good. As before, I was in awe of the food's texture, and even as I finished a mouthful and was convinced that I had a handle on how good it was, I always gave in to utter astonishment at how good the next one turned out to be.
Probably there's a point to this: the delicacies ranged from fair to mediocre, while the staple was spectacular. Probably there's an aesthetic principle at work. But why spoil a good meal by extracting too much lesson from it? Why chloroform a butterfly that's so beautiful, it takes your breath away?
ご
馳
走
様
で
し
た
馳
走
様
で
し
た
Parody
I'm not sure where this came from. The person from whom I copied it said they found it in a Facebook group. My suspicion is that wasn't its origin, but who knows?
Regarding gay marriage, I don't think marriage should fall under government control at all, for either heterosexual or homosexual couples. The same legal force that (correctly) keeps prayer out of schools needs to keep badges out of weddings. But I'm also very, very pro-good argument and anti-bad argument, and, unfortunately, most of my Christian sisters and brothers are absolutely addicted to bad arguments. And what's listed below is a very impressive and entertaining demolition of some very bad arguments.
Enjoy.
Top 17 Reasons Why Gay Marriage is Wrong
Regarding gay marriage, I don't think marriage should fall under government control at all, for either heterosexual or homosexual couples. The same legal force that (correctly) keeps prayer out of schools needs to keep badges out of weddings. But I'm also very, very pro-good argument and anti-bad argument, and, unfortunately, most of my Christian sisters and brothers are absolutely addicted to bad arguments. And what's listed below is a very impressive and entertaining demolition of some very bad arguments.
Enjoy.
- Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans.
- Gay culture is a new fad created by the liberal media to undermine long-standing traditions. We know this is true because gay sex did not exist in ancient Greece and Rome.
- There are plenty of straight families looking to adopt, and every unwanted child already has a loving family. This is why foster care does not exist.
- Conservatives know best how to create strong families. That is why it is not true that Texas and Mississippi have the highest teen birthrates, and Massachusetts, Vermont, and New Hampshire have the lowest. This is a myth spread by the liberal media.
- Marriage is a religious institution, defined by churches. This is why atheists do not marry. Christians also never get a divorce.
- Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why our society has no single parents.
- Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.
- Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.
- Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.
- Gay marriage should be decided by the people and their elected representatives, not the courts. The framers checked the courts, which represent mainstream public opinion, with legislatures created to protect the rights of minorities from the tyranny of the majority. Interference by courts in this matter is inappropriate, just as it has been every time the courts have tried to hold back legislatures pushing for civil rights.
- Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed; the sanctity of Britany Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.
- Civil unions, providing most of the same benefits as marriage with a different name are better, because "separate but equal" institutions are a good way to satisfy the demands of uppity minority groups.
- Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.
- Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.
- Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.
- Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.
- METEORS and VOLCANOES.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Potty-training
No, no pictures this time. Pictures of potty training wouldn't be pretty.
It really, really stinks to be a baby. It stinks to be unable to move unless someone moves you, to be unable to see properly unless someone props you up and turns you in the right direction. A good portion of babies' crying is nothing but frustration at how helpless they are, until, little by little, they master their equipment, and become capable of moving themselves. Then all that pent-up desire and curiosity comes gushing out like a fire-hose, and that's what we call the terrible twos. Speaking of gushing out like a fire-hose, that's right around the time for potty-training. True, for some kids, all of that plays out prior to their second birthday, but I worked in a church nursery with two-year-olds the entire time I was in high school, and nearly all of them had at best a sketchy mastery of potty usage.
So, I got to thinking about potty-training this morning. A few things occurred to me.
College students are a lot like toddlers. They're mastering their equipment, so when they try to carry out normal adult tasks, many times their efforts are slow, incomplete, sloppy, or not very well thought out. But at the same time, they're operating off this huge, pent-up gush of frustration and desire for autonomy that goes back years and years, all the way to, well, toddlerhood. Now that autonomy has (mostly) arrived, they're giddy with it, which means that sacrificing even a little bit of it for a clean and orderly outcome can seem like too much. Plus, the work itself may seem intimidating or scary, and procrastination works as a turning away, a refuge. Not a safe or permanent one, but one that's easy to hand.
All the while, we who work with them wait impatiently for the discovery that procrastination is not what people who want to succeed, or even just want a low-stress life, should practice. While they labored under the supervision of parents and high school teachers, the tempo was set for them: daily homework, daily parental insistence that they complete it before turning their attention to anything enjoyable. Effectively, the parents and teachers changed their diapers. Then, they arrived at college, and it was time to get potty-trained in a hurry.
And I know that I'd get better results if I could follow the advice I set down above for potty-training: if I could model the behavior, explain its benefits, and then wait for them to grasp on their own how much better their lives could be if they applied responsible, well-paced effort to their assignments. The problem is, the calendar is the boss of all of us. Pediatricians can tell young parents, "Don't worry; the child will pick up potty training on her/his own at the right time. They're not going to have to take their potty to college with them." Sound advice. But when I've only got fifteen weeks to deliver content and measure their mastery of it, there simply isn't the luxury of surplus time for them to mull over the merits of planning far ahead and distributing large tasks over many work sessions. Instead, I have to rig the classes to reward those who do, and leave those who don't defenseless against the consequences they heap up, and then dig in my heels and be ruthless about carrying out what I've constructed.
But it's the perennial struggle. If I, or anyone else, ever finds a way to help college kids tackle their work and do it in manageable bites, instead of bragging to one another about how cute and charming and awesome it is that they wait and pull all-nighters to get uncomplicated projects done, then the biggest portion of their stress will fade, and their biggest waste of effort and energy will be channeled into something more productive.
And, of course, I'm over-romanticizing. If I didn't have this problem to bash my head against, it'd be something else. That's simply the way the world works.
It really, really stinks to be a baby. It stinks to be unable to move unless someone moves you, to be unable to see properly unless someone props you up and turns you in the right direction. A good portion of babies' crying is nothing but frustration at how helpless they are, until, little by little, they master their equipment, and become capable of moving themselves. Then all that pent-up desire and curiosity comes gushing out like a fire-hose, and that's what we call the terrible twos. Speaking of gushing out like a fire-hose, that's right around the time for potty-training. True, for some kids, all of that plays out prior to their second birthday, but I worked in a church nursery with two-year-olds the entire time I was in high school, and nearly all of them had at best a sketchy mastery of potty usage.
So, I got to thinking about potty-training this morning. A few things occurred to me.
- For the parents, it obviously can be a frustrating time: lots more messes that are gross, a fair measure of embarrassment, and the maddening reality that the kid may not be in any hurry to complete the changeover.
- For some kids, the prospect of potty-training is downright scary. Some find that big ol' appliance in the bathroom just a little intimidating. Some are troubled by the flush.
- For some kids, it's clear what to do and how to do it, but it's just too much hassle. Because they're still very new at getting from place to place and manipulating their toys in the proper fashion to have fun, it's a major investment of time to hike off to the bathroom and go through the proper motions for a mess-free defecation, and sometimes they just don't want to sacrifice.
- And really, all that's available to the parents is helping the child understand how it works, and then encouraging and reminding, all the while applying a light touch. Getting worked up or heavy-handed has two problems: it's equally likely to backfire as to succeed, and even if it does succeed, it leaves unwanted trauma in its wake.
College students are a lot like toddlers. They're mastering their equipment, so when they try to carry out normal adult tasks, many times their efforts are slow, incomplete, sloppy, or not very well thought out. But at the same time, they're operating off this huge, pent-up gush of frustration and desire for autonomy that goes back years and years, all the way to, well, toddlerhood. Now that autonomy has (mostly) arrived, they're giddy with it, which means that sacrificing even a little bit of it for a clean and orderly outcome can seem like too much. Plus, the work itself may seem intimidating or scary, and procrastination works as a turning away, a refuge. Not a safe or permanent one, but one that's easy to hand.
All the while, we who work with them wait impatiently for the discovery that procrastination is not what people who want to succeed, or even just want a low-stress life, should practice. While they labored under the supervision of parents and high school teachers, the tempo was set for them: daily homework, daily parental insistence that they complete it before turning their attention to anything enjoyable. Effectively, the parents and teachers changed their diapers. Then, they arrived at college, and it was time to get potty-trained in a hurry.
And I know that I'd get better results if I could follow the advice I set down above for potty-training: if I could model the behavior, explain its benefits, and then wait for them to grasp on their own how much better their lives could be if they applied responsible, well-paced effort to their assignments. The problem is, the calendar is the boss of all of us. Pediatricians can tell young parents, "Don't worry; the child will pick up potty training on her/his own at the right time. They're not going to have to take their potty to college with them." Sound advice. But when I've only got fifteen weeks to deliver content and measure their mastery of it, there simply isn't the luxury of surplus time for them to mull over the merits of planning far ahead and distributing large tasks over many work sessions. Instead, I have to rig the classes to reward those who do, and leave those who don't defenseless against the consequences they heap up, and then dig in my heels and be ruthless about carrying out what I've constructed.
But it's the perennial struggle. If I, or anyone else, ever finds a way to help college kids tackle their work and do it in manageable bites, instead of bragging to one another about how cute and charming and awesome it is that they wait and pull all-nighters to get uncomplicated projects done, then the biggest portion of their stress will fade, and their biggest waste of effort and energy will be channeled into something more productive.
And, of course, I'm over-romanticizing. If I didn't have this problem to bash my head against, it'd be something else. That's simply the way the world works.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Pobrecito
Today we had a one-day tournament on the NCU campus. We named it for the little guy in the first three pictures. I won't post his name here, because posting pictures of a child together with a name on an open blog isn't the world's wisest move. But the rest of the pictures are of the (other) kids competing. A good time was had by all.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Periodistas
Last Wednesday, I saw the Newsboys in concert just a few blocks from my office. Here are some mementos. In proper Memento fashion, I've got them posted backwards, with the headliner on top, and the opening acts (Decemberadio, Vota, Bread of Stone) in reverse order of appearance below.
