You Fell, I Laughed

I've got another two weeks before this semester is done. I keep reminding myself the reason that I'm doing all this:


In other news, I am an asshole. Today, while stopped at a red light, I watched the biggest, nerdiest undergrad (wearing jeans shorts and white socks) attempt to run through the crosswalk in front of me. I say attempt because he didn't make it. He bit it, hard. We're talking rolling head over heals in the street, losing his backpack, and clutching his knee while rolling on the pavement hard. All this chaos unfolded right in front of my car. And did I get out and help this poor kid? No, I buckled over laughing so hard I thought I was going to accidentally take my foot off the brake and run over the gimp. After what seemed like minutes of literal writhing in the street, he limped off to find his bag and drug it to the sidewalk. I drove away, but I took a little piece of his dignity with me.

With All This Virginia Tech Hype

We've seemingly forgotten what's truly important:

1. Sanjaya got voted off American Idol.
2. Attorney General Gonzalez is still a partisan prick.
3. Britney, how much hair has she re-grown?
4. Bush is still pushing that whole Iraq war thing.
5. Polar bear cub Knut is still cute, still alive.

You were all thinking the same thing you heartless bastards.

A Post-Virginia Tech World

Yesterday I came home to discover 12 new emails from my university outlining the new-fangled security measures that we as students and teachers will be forced to endure throughout the rest of the academic year (and possibly beyond). Phone-trees were established and updated, a resolution to remain safe was passed by the academic senate, email boxes were clogged with junk to ensure a cyber-terrorist couldn't get to us electronically, our president David Boren expressed his deep sorrow to anyone who cared to listen, and finally all campus buildings were locked, to be opened by guards only after showing identification and appearing Caucasian and free of weapons. All in all, it was a long day.

However, today proved that living in this post-Virginia Tech era would not be as simple as an email-blast. During my first class of the morning, campus police rushed into the lecture hall, decked out in SWAT gear, and informed us that there was a security breach on campus and that we would be required to stay in "lock down" until the "situation" was “resolved.” I asked if there would be prison sex like on Oz and if we could put the girls in a different room to really get an authentic experience. The police, although secretly amused, did not respond. Some girl in the front started to cry, so I continued to lecture, ironically about virtue ethics, i.e. the right thing to do is the thing that the virtuous person would do.

At some point I ran out of examples and got bored talking, so I asked the coppers if there had been any progress (we're still sitting in class 20 minutes after it ended). An officer responded with, "Sir, the safety of you and your class is our first concern here."

I retorted, "Well then you should let me out then! I could show you some of these students' test scores... I think they may have brain damage and it could be contagious. Prolonged exposure in close contact is not safe."

The officer began talking into his walkie-talkie and turned his back to me. Some of the students were staring at me now. I pretended to read the newspaper and drink the tea that I'd actually finished an hour ago. Team SWAT all of sudden began filing out of the room and gave us the all clear to go as well. When asked what happened they simple said the situation was "resolved.” "Resolved like they blew up the building resolved? Or resolved like they got the mustard stain out of Boren's tie resolved?" I asked. No answer.

Later, back in the safe confines of my departmental office, I learned why we were locked down. A student reported seeing a man holding what looked like a rifle walking quickly into a classroom. A sketch artist created this rendition of the eyewitness account:

The object was later confirmed to be an umbrella. The student said she had a hard time seeing it clearly because of all the rain.

A Little Recursion for Logic

I Heart My Passport

Due to an unforeseen lack of mental resources this week (year?), I've resorted to pictures. This post is more of the same. Perhaps worse.

I love traveling and regard my passport like a wallet full of pictures of my kids. But even more special because I see my kids everyday, and sometimes frankly they're just a pain. The following are snapshots of my passport:



(notice the visa from the former Yugoslavia!)

Drinking in West Hollywood

You know 32 different ways to order a Mojito.
You were drinking green apple martinis in the nineties, beyotch.
You drink vodka tonics for the lack of calories only to stop for pizza on your way home.
You did saki-bombs, not beer-bongs, in college.
Your personal Cheers is the Abbey, and everyone really does know your name (or has slept with you and since forgotten your name, if names were ever exchanged, but still people look at you like "how do I know him?").
You’ve actually seen Lindsey Lohan drunk in person, not just on Perez Hilton.
You’ve actually been to an AA meeting with Lindsey Lohan (while she was drunk, and you were probably still a little hung-over yourself).
Fiesta Cantina forties.

From Such Great Heights

If you haven’t noticed, I haven’t written anything in the last week (in fact, even if you did notice I still havent written shit). This is due to grading exams and wanting to throw myself off a bridge water-tower. We don’t really have the type of bridges from which you could successfully kill yourself in Oklahoma. But water-towers are plentiful and tall in the plains. I’m finished grading now and will eventually regain the will to write. Maybe. Sometime.

Approval Matrix

The following is a Norman version of the Approval Matrix lifted directly from New York Magazine and inspired (stolen) from Bee-Spot:

Dear John Deere

My neighbor, who I call deer hunter (I forget his real name) does not mow his lawn. It's ragged and overgrown and thatched with pine needles. His backyard, I have learned, is paved. It is where he stores his industrial John Deere riding lawn mower with halogen headlights. His wife is blind.

Eating in LA - Part I

You make soy and tofu regular parts of your diet.
You only shop at Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, and Bristol Farms.
You’re so over Sprinkles, it’s all about Pinkberry now.
You’ve waited in line over an hour to buy cupcakes (Sprinkles).
You’ve waited in line over an hour to buy frozen yogurt (Pinkberry).
You have an opinion about Dough Boys, either way.
You know the difference between nigiri, maki, and temaki.
Your Sunday brunch starts at 2 pm at Hugo’s, the Griddle, or Toast.
You’ve eaten quiche at Urth Café, but don’t know why.

And These Are My Hummel Figurines

Recently, my friend Betsy attended a dinner hosted by her Ph.D. advisor for all of his doctoral students. Her professor, a Czech Jew who survived Dachau during WWII, created the following awkardness before the meal:

Professor: [giving an impromptu tour of his home] ...and this is my personal library. That entire bookcase is filled with foreign language translations of my books.
Students: [oooh, aahhhh]
Professor: And over here is a collection of my brother's sculptures.
Betsy: These are remarkable. Is he a famous Czech sculptor?
Professor: No, he did these when he was eight...
Students: [mild, respectful laughter]
Professor: These sculptures survived the war. He, however, did not.
Students: [awkward silence, dry cough, sniffle...]
Betsy's imagined response: Oh, did you watch him die in your arms at the concentration camp? (Because really, what the hell are you supposed to say to that?)
Professor: And on this shelf is my collect of Hummel figurines...

My Favorite Norwegian: Sondre Lerche

Set against the sea of fedora hats that marks any indy concert in Los Angeles, Sondre Lerche rocked the El Rey theatre last night with help from the Faces Down band. It was Lerche’s third performance in LA and his first return to the city since recording his latest album Phantom Punch here last year. In contrast to his last album, Sondre’s Phantom Punch is a frenetic mix of rock and melody—a one-eighty from the jazzy stylings of the Duper Sessions. The entire concert took on the flavor of a Modest Mouse show, though complete with Sondre’s keen sense of humor and wit. Unfortunately, the Los Angeles crowd seemed less familiar with the band’s latest album and remained slightly subdued as a result. But when Sondre unleashed his hits from Faces Down and Two Way Monologue, the crowd’s excitement was tangible. Highlights included: Modern Nature performed as a duet with the audience, Sondre’s pep-talk before Phantom Punch, a classic performance of Track You Down, and my personal favorite, a rare treat, All Luck Ran Out. If you haven’t fallen in love with the Phantom Punch album yet, see this show—you will.

Play List:

airport taxi reception PP
say it all PP
phantom punch PP
tragic mirror PP
face the blood PP
well well well PP
happy birthday girl PP
dead passengers FD
sleep on needles FD
modern nature FD
all luck ran out FD
two way monologue TWM
track you down TWM
the curse of being in love DS

OU Gymnastics

Saturday evening Bee-Spot author Blythe and *The Life and Times author Shain attended the No. 5 Oklahoma vs. No. 9 Iowa gymnastics dual meet at the OU Field House. The following are each author’s respective versions of that night.

Mr. Shain’s Version:

Senior and defending National Champion Brian Carr prepares to begin his Floor Exercise after OU has already posted three solid scores on this event. OU leads Iowa by two full points.

Bee-Spot: This is really exciting Shain, all eyes are on Brian during this competition. He’s really the heart of this OU team. You can just feel the tension in the air can’t you?

Mr. Shain: You’re absolutely right Blythe; this boy’s on his way to a Wheaties box!

Bee-Spot: Brian’s opening pass is huge—a double twisting double layout! And he sticks it! NICE. That landing is so difficult because of the speed of those rotations, but he’s not giving anything away with extra steps tonight. OU’s really improving their floor routines this season.

Mr. Shain: Absolutely Blythe! Oh wow, he’s working the floor! Brian knows exactly what he’s up against tonight—he’s got to go clean on this routine. Punch front one and three-quarters, flawless. Wow… whip two and half to prone! What does that fulfill in terms of the requirements?

Bee-Spot: I have no idea Shain. But I’m sure it’ll be hard to beat! His third pass… half-in, one-three quarter roll out… he did have a little trouble with this is warm-ups earlier. But not tonight! Solid!

Mr. Shain: Oh he nailed it! Brian’s getting bonus for his connections between these acrobatic skills now. Legs fully extended, straight, tight, beautiful. He really stands above the rest in terms of his flair Blythe.

Bee-Spot: Yes, that is tight isn’t it. And look at that Y-scale, Shain, see how far apart his legs are, he’s earning virtuosity for that. Ok, Brian’s final pass is a double Arabian in a piked position—this is one of the toughest elements being performed tonight.

Mr. Shain: And he nails the landing! There’s no way anyone from Iowa can touch his package tonight Blythe! I think he just locked it up for OU!

Bee-Spot: He certainly locked it up for me Shain!

=========================================================

Bee-Spot’s Version:

Bee-Spot: Why am I here again?

Mr. Shain: blah blah blah pass I used to be a gymnast therefore I'm better than you blah blah blah.

Bee-Spot: Can we drink yet?

Mr. Shain: blah blah rings horse blah blah blah.

Bee-Spot: OU loses points. Their outfits are entirely too sparkly.

Mr. Shain: I love gymnastics!

Bee-Spot: Do you think the ladies teams get funding for bikini waxes? Do you think I should get a brazilian?

Mr. Shain: Why? It's not like you're sleeping with anyone. Or ever will. Jumping! Spinning!

Bee-Spot: I like the shorts the boys wear when vaulting. Hot. Oh God, these boys are three [actually up to six] years younger than me. I'm so old. That one's got his shirt off! Muscles.

Mr. Shain: Yeah, you are. And ugly. Dismount!

Bee-Spot: The Iowa coaches look like they're going clubbing after this. She's got rhinestones on her shirt. This is a gymnastics meet, for Christ sake. Those are the ugliest heels I've ever seen. Does Marc Jacobs design for Wal-Mart yet?

Mr. Shain: Are you talking, because I'm better than you.

Bee-Spot: I need a pedicure.

Mr. Shain: Shut up. That was a tough vault.

Bee-Spot: She just fell! Ha!

Mr. Shain: Point-five deduction.

Bee-Spot: For the stupid ribbon in her hair. These women are in college. Ribbons? Bows? This is a fucking sport not a fashion show.

Mr. Shain: Running! Cartwheels!

Bee-Spot: We are not sticking around for the autograph session. In fact, we're leaving right now.

The Barefoot Contessa & Me

This weekend I read a NYT’s article about a Food Channel favorite, Ina Garten. To be quite honest, her wildly successful show, The Barefoot Contessa, irks me. It portrays the food stylings of a middle-aged Hamptonite who throws tea parties and prepares elaborate brunches for her island lady-friends. And there’s the perennial “special Friday dinner” which she prepares for her husband Jeffery when he returns home for the weekend (he works in New Haven if you can imagine!). I always watch hoping the camera will pan down to her feet to confirm her barefootedness and reveal that she’s actually chained to her kitchen. However, this Time’s article pointed out that Garten started her career not with baking scones, but as policy analyst for the Office of Management and Budget during the Carter administration. It turns out that the woman can actually read more than a cookbook. And it made me think, if you can go from white collar State Department analyst to Hampton homemaking guru in a lifetime, where the hell will I end up at fifty? A philosopher-king of some small African fiefdom or bowling alley shoe attendant? It could go either way I guess.

These Things I Learned

Today, amidst snow and the functionally illiterate, I returned to Seminole Oklahoma after an 8-year absence to judge high school debate. Debate is the technical term, but it is altogether misleading. The word cluster-fuck seems more illuminating.

Now some of you, not from Oklahoma, may be asking, "but what is Seminole?" Although not a Native American linguist, I contend that "Seminole" simply denotes the maximal set of organizational skills that can be acquired via the union of two first-cousins plus a leaded water supply and a suspicious proximity to high-voltage power lines; i.e. I advance the theory that the meaning, or bedeutung as Frege wrote, of "Seminole" is merely the empty set, similar to "Santa Claus," "the present king of France," or the class of prime numbers less than 2. There's just nothing there. Yet, I digress.

Today, while young men and women fight and die in Iraq to defend our American freedom and protect our sacred institutions such as public education, I witnessed spectacular atrocities right in my own backyard. A squat, compact, sophomore boy, when confronted in a speech contest with a question regarding US and Iranian relations with Iraq, dazzled his audience with an exactly 17-second long oration in which he declared that "we ain't got nothing to do with them folk over there" and left it up to us to fill in the rest of the puzzle. Foreign policy W-style I thought.

During a different, yet equally horrifying event at the tournament, four students were asked to prepare sermons ranging from the American deficit to the SAT. A sharp fellow from a small, western town, which contains neither a library nor a hospital, but has found room to accommodate two competing liquor stores and a "Bait-'n'-Ammo" shop, informed the eager crowd that had gathered to hear his word, that the recently elected Congress would not "hurt the deficit." Two minutes into his speech it became evident he had confused the word "deficit" with "Laura Bush," and despite some initial reservations, he was now convinced that Madame Speaker Pelosi would not try to kill First Lady Bush in a supposed hunting accident. After impressing me by completing a 3-minute speech without reference to "rag heads" or "camel jockeys" the contestant was summarily disqualified for cheating. In fact, 3 out of the 4 contestants were caught cheating. Another cheater was a soon-to-be-junior-college-drop-out whose best friend was a genius and only received a 13 on the ACT, but herself did even worse (though she quickly qualified that of she was not a genius). And the third cheater: a bright, cheerful, blond girl who tried to multiply 13 by 200 during her speech but, after several seconds of silence, was unable; embarrassed, but not ashamed, she boldly declared, "Heh, well I don't know. I suck at math!" Feminists around the globe suddenly became nauseous.

It is perhaps worth noting, for the readers own moral enlightenment, that the sole orator whose integrity remained intact, thus allowing him to win the tournament, gave the following argument to explain the rise in capital murder cases in the US:
1. Wages are increasing, but not as fast as consumer spending.
2. Increasing interest rates are forcing both parents into the workplace fulltime.
3. Due to the family's purchase of a new car, childcare is out of reach.
4. More children are home alone.
5. Parents have guns at home.
6. Children, alone, play with guns, and inevitably shoot each other.
7. Therefore, the rise in capital cases is due to murderous children with guns.

This argument went unrequited. It really makes you think.

Now home, retired by the fire in my dressing robes and reflecting on the day, I can engage in the sort of radical skepticism Renee Descartes immortalized. Though I doubt not my own existence or the potential of real knowledge, I doubt the future of American education.

The profoundly retarded walk among us; and sometimes if you live Seminole, they are also your math teachers.

Local News

Boy stays in home with dad's body for 2 days

OKLAHOMA CITY, Oklahoma (AP) -- A 6-year-old boy stayed in an apartment with the body of his father for two days after the man died on their sofa, obeying instructions to never leave without permission, firefighters said.

The boy, whose name was not released, didn't want to leave even after firefighters arrived, fearing punishment if he left, fire department Maj. Noble Lee said.

"He wasn't as distraught as one might think," Lee said. "I don't think he understands the gravity of the past few days. He wasn't as upset at the situation as he was about being outside the residence without permission."

His father, Kevin Dale Judd, 52, appears to have died of natural causes, authorities said. The body was found late Monday after neighbors and a maintenance man reported a foul odor, Lee said.

According to a police report, the boy told police his father had been feeling ill and laid down. The boy left the room to watch television, and when he returned his father was slumped over.

The boy did not know to call 911 in case of an emergency, said Department of Human Services spokesman George Earl Johnson Jr. He apparently had not eaten in two days but refused food and water offered by firefighters and paramedics, Lee said.

Johnson said the boy will remain in DHS custody until relatives are found to care for him.

Copyright 2007 The Associated Press. All rights reserved.This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.

These Things I Know, or Knew, Maybe

It is a popular topic for philosophers, the question “what is knowledge?” Up until the latter half of the twentieth century, three words succinctly answered this question: justified true belief. Like E=mc2 before it, K=jtb had a seductive simplicity which seemed to satisfy the sophist’s epistemic lust. Here’s why it seems to work:

Belief: In order to know that you have two children, for example, you must believe you have two children. You can’t know much without believing in it first. True: Your belief must be true in order to count as knowledge. I cannot know that the capital of California is Los Angeles because the object of my belief is false. Our beliefs must match up with the way the world really is for us to know our belief. Justified: Your true belief that this week’s lottery numbers are 8, 32, 16, 7, 29, & 2 must be justified in order for you to know the lottery numbers. For example, suppose on Monday I bought a lotto ticket with the numbers listed above and claimed to know these would be the winning numbers. Who would believe me? Very few… very, very, few (only a dozen people are even aware of this blog’s existence). But suppose Friday rolled around and the very same numbers I predicted five days earlier are drawn. Would anyone agree that I knew the winning numbers? Not normally… most you would assume it was simply luck, even if I truly believed those numbers would win. Without justification, my beliefs remain only beliefs, ungrounded. After I’ve won the lottery, and someone asks me, “What were this week’s numbers?” then I do KNOW the winning numbers—my belief is true, it matches the numbered ping pong balls that popped up during the drawing, and it is now justified by the newspaper that published the results, the live news broadcast, the lottery board writing me a check for $237,000,000, and the like. Now I know.

I knew until 1963, when a small-time assistant professor, Dr. Gettier, at Wayne State University somewhere in BFE destroyed knowledge in a two-page paper that was his first and only published work. Gettier destroyed our sexy definition of knowledge with a mere counterexample.

Suppose Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones work at Whole Foods (not Gettier’s choice but I’ve updated the story for my audience). Mr. Smith knows, i.e. has a justified true belief, that Mr. Jones will get the promotion to produce manager (suppose his boss Ms. White told him and Jones’s name is frosted across a congratulatory cake in the bakery, etc.). Mr. Smith also knows Mr. Jones has ten coins in his pocket—he’s counted them himself (they’re quite close). With this information, Mr. Smith deduces that the new producer manger will have ten coins in his pocket. However, when the big announcement comes from Whole Foods management, it is Mr. Smith who gets the job, not Mr. Jones. Oh, and guess what… Mr. Smith also has ten coins in his pocket. Breakdown:

Mr. Smith has a justified true belief about the new producer manager. His belief: The new manager will have ten coins in his pocket. His justification: Ms. White told him Mr. Jones would be the new manager and Mr. Smith knows Mr. Jones has ten coins in his pocket. The truth: The new manager has ten coins in his pocket. Ergo, Mr. Smith has a justified true belief, but does not appear to have knowledge because it is SMITH not JONES who is the new manager. FUCK.

Kierkegaard on the Self

A human being is spirit. But what is spirit? Spirit is the self. But what is the self? The self is a relation that relates itself to itself or is the relation's relating itself to itself in the relation; the self is not the relation but is the relation's relating itself to itself. A human being is a synthesis of the infinite and the finite, of the temporal and the eternal, of freedom and necessity, in short, a synthesis. A synthesis is a relation between two. Considered in this way a human being is still not a self. In the relation between two, the relation is the third as a negative unity, and the two relate to the relation and in the relation to the relation; thus under the qualification of the psychical the relation between the psychical and the physical is a relation. If, however, the relation relates itself to itself, this relation is the positive third, and this is the self. --Kierkegaard

General Relativity Is Hard

So I've been sick, and tired, and busy. I have nothing to say except that my physics course is kicking my ass. Here is a recent email from my professor:

GR 6333 students

Hint for evaluation the Riemann tensor.

The Riemann curvature tensor Rabcd has a maximum of 20 independent components. When all 4 indices are down it has the symmetries of equations (21.29) of Hartle. You can think of Rabcd (all down) as a 6x6 symmetric matrix Mij =Mji with ab being one index i and cd being the second index j. Because of the anti-symmetry on ab and cd each pair can take on 4x3/2=6 independent values, e.g. i = (t,r),(t,theta),(t,phi),(r,theta),(r,phi),(theta,phi). Because Rabcd=Rcdab, Mij is symmetric and can have at most 6x7/2=21 components. (21,29d) removes 1 additional component making a total of 20.

To work this problem I would suggest using equation (21.20) with your connection symbols for Schwarzschild, to evaluate Rabcd (a up and bcd down).

Look at 6 expressions, e.g., one of which is Rabtr, and see which of the values of (a,b) give a non-zero component. Because the metric is diagonal ab =(t,r) is a possibility but you don't need to compute ab=(r,t) because it will not be independent of ab=(t,r).

There are only 6 independent non-vanishing components of Rabcd the Schwarzschild metric and they can be found on page 554 of Hartle.

RK

Skunk

Animal Control is on their way to my house. They’re closed on Mondays, so they couldn’t make it out until today, four days after our battle began—the battle for our backyard.

Sometime in the early evening of Friday, a small, happy-go-lucky skunk decided to move into the wilderness that is my backyard. And while I’m all for the cohabitation of nature and man, my bulldogs are not. It is their backyard, and they guard it like a castle. This was the case when at half-past-ten Bronco, one of my munchkin-doodles, dove through the doggy-door at a dead sprint and began rolling vigorously all over our carpet in the office. Mark and I watched curiously for approximately one second before being completely overcome by the burning, musky scent of skunk, sprayed all over our dog.

If you ever want to know how you’d really respond in a true emergency, have a dog rub skunk spray all over your house. As it turned out, I reacted poorly but quickly. Screaming, tears running down my face, I chased Bronco around the house before quarantining him in my bathroom. As with all emergencies, my first instinct was to get online and google “skunk spray dog.” I now imagine if Mark lost a hand in a backyard wood chipper, I’d run inside and google “detached hand” before realizing I should call 911. Perhaps I could text 911 while googling and post a bulletin on Myspace.

Anyway, at this point Mark and I discover that I have none of the home remedies listed online and realize I’ve got to make a run to Wal-Mart because the Dollar Palace is closed (see yesterday’s post). Now, despite Bronco’s success in spreading his stinkies (this is the word we use so he understands) across the entire house, I’ve actually managed not to touch him at this point and assume I’m safe to go out in public (the fatal assumption). I jump in the Volvo and off I go.

Mere moments after walking into the Wal-Mart health and beauty section, I pass two associates who remark to each other:

Shelby-Linn: “Kaylee-Mae, do you smell sompthin’?”
Kalylee-Mae: “Damn that’s nasty… smells like sompthin’s burnin’ gurl!”

I stop dead in my tracks. “No,” I think, “It can’t be me… I didn’t touch anything. I’m just being paranoid!” Lots of things in Wal-Mart smell like shit, including many of the other customers and Loretta—the 92 year old greeter with the colostomy bag. “I’m fine,” I tell myself one more time before proceeding and encountering yet another associate, Patsy.

Patsy shouting across three aisles to Kaylee-Mae and Shelby-Linn: “Now I smell it over in aisle thurteen! What is it?!”

I’m standing next to Patsy as she belts out this proclamation. She has no idea it’s me. It is me. I’ve now got a team of associates calling a manager to come find out what the smell in health and beauty is. FUCK.

Although I never realized it before, I learned that night that my greatest fear is actually smelling like burnt rubber and musk (in public). People always say “death” or “public speaking” when polled about this sort of thing, but I’d better dollars to doughnuts it would only take one good skunk incident to get these people to change their vote. Shocked, horrified, and now crippled by emotional pain, I ran straight out of the store without buying a single thing. I vowed never to return.

Alas I was forced to call my father, at midnight, and ask him to get the products for me (including feminine douche, which he actually purchased but only after having to explain the entire story to the cashier) and bring them over to the house—the house, which at this point, I’m not sure I can ever leave again. I stayed up until three in the morning scrubbing every surface of my home, only to go to bed completely saturated with the skunk—in my hair, my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my very soul.

It’s been four days now and the house still smells. Bronco still smells. My bathroom still makes my eyes water. And worst of all, the skunk is still in the backyard, digging in for a long summer of fun. I can’t even let the dogs in the backyard because of the smell and possible rematch. I keep telling myself they will catch him; take him away, far away. I can’t smell like that again. I can’t. I won’t.

Sometimes You Don't Feel Fancy

Ms. Jackson was brave enough to put into words what I've always felt. This is quintessential Oklahoma right here...

Where do you avoid when you've got that not-so-fresh feeling?

A Kick in the Teeth

WARNING: Today’s entry is an unusually autobiographic insight into the author’s emotional instability, love, and heartache. Please be aware that the following post is not funny.

For the past three days Oklahoma has emerged from the cold, bitter fog of winter and transformed into an amazing sunny, blissful koromogae. And although you might note that for the past eight years I’ve done nothing but bitch about the warm sunniness of Los Angeles, I am now truly enjoying the change.

However, this shift in weather has also coincided with a figurative kick in the teeth from my dentist. At the beginning of the month, I had the first of two appoints to create a crown for one of my molars which, due to a genetic gift which is my defective enamel and a constant conjunction of teeth grinding, had all but disappeared. Before we began this process, I was told my university insurance would cover 50% of the procedure (a whopping $900). OK, I can work around that. However, yesterday I received a call from my dentist explaining how they were wrong to tell me my insurance would pay for half, in fact insurance would pay for nothing, because I had the procedure TWO WEEKS before the end of my “waiting period” for the insurance to cover “major work.” Thus unexpectedly, I now have a heft bill to pay if I want my tooth back. But this is only the most recent of a string of financial hardships I’ve suffered in the last two months:

1. Car door keyed so deeply, it had to be filled and repainted. $300
2. Lost car key, replacement involved software, remotes, etc. $400
3. Computer collapses, dies unexpectedly. Must be replaced. $1400
4. Other car door is attacked by a pillar in a parking garage. $600
5. Tooth ground to nothing, replaced with porcelain. $900
6. Other molar chipped while eating gyros with Blythe, filled. $200

So long summer trip. So long new tennis shoes. So long savings account. Say hello to the “quick sell” isle of the grocery store.

Proud to be OK!

When your university's newspaper headline reads "Still home to the KKK," how are you supposed to feel? Ashamed by your state? Ashamed by the poor quality journalism? Ashamed by your fellow man? Good thing I enjoy shame.

Godiva Chocolate

While waiting on line at Starbucks for my chai latte, I witnessed a man, but a mere boy, of perhaps 80 or so, walk up to the counter and steal a chocolate bar. He was bold, assertive, but not conniving. He was fearless but not naive. He simply knew. And he took, quickly, while no one was there. And then he was gone. Turned out not far, just on the other side of the wall, sitting, alone, eating his prize with a certain sense of entitlement and ease. The veracity of a toddler hung on his face. He had no guilt. Pride almost. This was certainly not his first crime. Caught before, several times I'm sure. But he'd honed his craft, and no longer did he even need to feign confusion and play the part of the disoriented invalid. He was 8 years old again emboldened by immunity garnered from the shabby chic flannel of the kindly grandpa.

An Actual Email

The following email was sent by Dr. Nancy Mergler, Senior Vice President and Provost of the University of Oklahoma:
Notice the time stamp in the email, 11am. Nancy must start her lunchtime cocktails a little earlier than most. If you'd like to learn more about Dr. Mergler, please visit her website. Or, just give her a call at home (405) 360-0755.