I’ve learned over the last weeks to be more proactive with work; a weekend of being mentally fried does not make for good progress on the grading front, thus the 2″ stack of papers I have sitting in my inbox right now. I’m not sure when that’s going to get done, but it needs to be soon. Weekends in March aren’t going to be doing me any favors, I refuse to let anyone besides myself grade, and I sure as hell not going to ask any of my students to slow down. Some of those kids have been told all about how stupid they are for so long, it’s major work to pry their minds open a little bit. Right now I have a 14 year old who, if she can manage to not get thrown in jail for beating people up when she is discharged and manages to get good teachers in high school and college, could have a run at winning a Pulitzer. She’s finishing an essay on the roots of American Democracy to graduate middle school right now, and every page or so manages to turn a phrase that is pure brilliance. Another, a 17 year old ex (I hope) thug from the hispanic ghettos of Phoenix who I’m introducing to the wonders of Barbara Boxer.

Occasionally I look up from a frenetic day of grading and answering the same questions over and over, and realize that I love my job.

And in spite of it all, I managed to get in a good ride. Only had 45 minutes, but sorta warmed up and cranked through four 1.5 kilometer intervals up a moderate pitched rock-filled climb. Not smoked by any means (that’s tomorrow), but happily tired. Not just with the ride, but with rising optimism and seizing the moment. Another thing I take for granted, the choice of rides. Two years ago I was in Iowa. Ha.

More anniversaries arrive: four years ago I went on my first trip deep into Southern Utah, an 11 day unsupported backpack into the Escalante. On a rest day in Scorpion Gulch we saw endless contrails in the sky, and joked about being at war. When we stopped in Grand Junction for gas and Carl bothered to look at a paper, we were. The daily Iraq stats every half-hour on NPR are numbing and vacant, until I think of how well I’ve gotten to know the great red rocks in four years.

So, I’m sad to live where I do, and happy: looking forward to another bite of red dirt in a little over a week. It brings the inevitable question: why live elsewhere? Hmmm….

-Beer
-Mormons
-Where exactly, besides “south of 70, north of the Colorado”?

-St. George, for me, just sucks, and is waaaay too hot.
-Moab is Moab, gotta work on that whole job thing. And the real estate ain’t doing us any favors right now.
-Cedar City? Our friends live there now, you got the most astounding sweep of terrain in North America right to the east and southeast, but a more durable mormon vibe. Worth looking into.
-The rest are all small, truly for the driven. Steve Allen lived in HANKSVILLE fer fek sake!

Might the correct answer be “Flagstaff” or “Durango”? An easy out…. Gotta revisit this one with the boss down the road.

Blame the Patriarchy is letting me down as of late. Today’s NPR bashing touches a sore spot for me, as I view Melissa Block and Scott Simon as pillars of western civilization. Even though, I don’t really see much of an actual thesis beyond the “underwear and a bible” bit. The internet removes the face-to-face that makes discussion really productive, and makes it too easy to rant and be an unaccountable asshole. Witness poor Mr. Nice and assaults on his character in the name of public service on MTBR lately.

Speaking of, can’t wait to see the new steed in person, my friend.

And another tribute is in turn called out for Julie at this point. My Uncle Jim, Michigan redneck charmer and raconteur, purveyeur of blue mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving and lots of offensive jokes when I was a little kid, said it best: “Mechanical things should work properly, right bloody now!” The bloody my maternal grandfather brought back from North Africa and WW II, and wisdom was earned the hard way. Jim works for an airplane supply and repair buisness, rebuilds antique firearms and tractors for fun, and used to own a working radial engine (for a model plane) the size of a really big grapefruit. The quotation was put forth over some story involving a misbehaving desiel truck and it’s collision with the barn after Jim decided he was done messing with it’s whims. The truck and barn where fine, and my uncle went and got a snack. So, my lovely Karate Monkey has never failed to work right bloody now, regardless of what now has been. And when you heave it on the roof in the afternoon sun, that brown is mighty purdy.

Good things to end the evening on:

M is not only my wonderful iPod provider, she is also the iPod support (for tech clueless, doesn’t read instructions well, fuckup me). So, I can Sketches of Spain. Which reminds me what brilliance really is.

Arther Schlesinger Jr died last night, he of the Kennedy administration, who won the Pulitzer at 27 for a history book on the ramifications and import of the presidency of Andrew Jackson. Two lifetime accomplishments before being legally able to run for president. I’m 26, but when I think about last month I feel pretty damn good about what I’m doing.