Spain: One day in Rota

While I didn’t write a formal blog post for my Summer 2016 European adventures, I thought it’d be fun to share some memories I initially stored on Facebook.

Such a nice day: Sleeping in, finding some fresh shrimp for lunch, picking up some swimwear and snagging a spot on the beach, crashing the waves and thinking “there’s no way I could get sunburned today,” getting thoroughly sunburned, taking a nap, finding a place for some swell paella, spotting a colony of stray cats, “losing” our leftover paella to our new best feline friends, revisiting our first apartment from 26 years ago, slurping up some gelato - and realizing (1) how much this town has changed, (2) how much it is exactly the same, and (3) how little of it we explored back when we lived here!

Ariadne and the Robot

Recently my pal Anne Marie returned from Japan, bearing the gift of a "Piperoid" paper pipe toy. For a few days my gift lay near my easy chair, unopened. Then one afternoon I took about an hour to cut, fold, and assemble his tiny colorful tubes, following directions to form a clever little robot. Ariadne, our feline prima donna, watched from a distance, her eyes narrowed into angry squints. Ari generally doesn't like visitors, and she's especially unimpressed with a robot interloper to her domain. Can they ever get along?

Apparently not. For the past few evenings, Jenny and I have awoken to find Ariadne whining and complaining and stretching out her little paw, pointing at the robot in a sort of "J'accuse" motion. Tipped water bowls, trashed chew toys, pilfered cat nip: always his fault, she complains. And sure enough whenever there's a commotion in our home, I'll always see the robot standing near the kitty. His nonchalant expression suggests that Ari is trying to frame our new houseguest.

But pictures don't lie.

Rory's Return

Here's a repost from a FB update I shared earlier this week.

This is Rory, one of our two foster kitties. He's the most skittish cat we've cared for. He jumps at almost any noise, he shies away from being pet, and his wide eyes seem to perpetually convey panic. At night, though, he calms down a bit. He even likes to sleep in our bed. That's when Rory wants to cuddle.

A couple days ago our little guy bolted from the garage. We'd left it open a little too long and he was gone. It took no time for me to fear the worst. He's a big cat, but I worried that he's too gentle and too scared to take proper care of himself. Perhaps he'd gotten lost. I found it difficult to sleep, wondering about Rory's fate.

Then last night we heard him meowing from under our backyard deck. Though he was hungry, Rory kept his distance from our outstretched hands. He was sticking close to the house at least. Still, he seemed determined to avoid us.

That's when Jenny proposed that we leave the garage door open again, just a crack. 'There's no way he'll return to us that way,' I thought. But what else could we do? We don't have a pet-safe trap, and he won't be lured by food. So we opened the door and tried to sleep. I listening for his plaintive meows and wondered what would happen.

This morning we awoke to find Rory back in our bed!

Apparently he's decided that he can trust us, at least enough to crawl out from under the deck, hop the fence, wind his way around the house, come in through the garage, and climb the stairs to our room. And there he was, purring his little heart out on our comforter. Now he's lounging in the afternoon sun, relieved to be somewhere safe.

The Party's Over (Thank God)

The 2012 election was an endless dinner party whose guests showed up drunk, puked on the pets, and set the rug on fire. Now it's morning in America, and the house is trashed. There's a big screen TV on the lawn, there's a copy of Atlas Shrugged in the toilet, and there's pudding in the blender [Who the hell put pudding in the blender?]. I'm trying to coax the cats back into the living room. I'm saying, "It's over, kitties. Those awful people are gone." The felines know better though; the guests are still here. Some are sleeping, snoring, drooling. Yet a few are pre-gaming for the next big bash, God love 'em. They are, after all, us.

We voted (some of us, at least) on November 6th, but we also expressed our every thought on this grand debate, extolling our opinions all over Facebook, Twitter, and, for all I know, Instagram. We posted and we tweeted and we exclaimed, loudly, that these two candidates somehow reflect the Manichean cosmos of America, blithely ignoring our quiet doubts that the candidates never really debated, not in a meaningful way. Somehow we know that this election cycle was a war between pundits and handlers and flaks who battle only for their own aggrandizement. Party politics as reality television. Here Comes Honey Boo Boo in '16.

Yes, Barack Obama and Mitt Romney offered distinct agendas. And I preferred one to the other. I still do. Yet I know - and you know it too - that the parties who sustain them represent nothing more than a singular culture industry, a machine that produces little more than sound and fury, bread and circuses. At times it felt like we were watching a Coke-vs.-Pepsi Taste Test and actually caring about which sugar water quenches our thirst. It's a game of dissemination, not dialogue, and we're rotting with every corn syrup swig.

A few folks eschewed the vitriolic attacks and bumper sticker discourse that marked this sad, silly season. Jenny, to great credit, attempted a sane and responsible conversation over the past few months, even as some of her Facebook friends became increasingly unhinged. She explored the issues, read broadly, and struggled to make the right call. She tried to vote for both faith and facts. All too frequently, though, many of us abandoned our better angels. I certainly did.

More than once I said to some pals how much I hated Mitt Romney. Hated him. Not just for his policies (whatever they were that particular week) but for his pandering, his cynicism, and that sanctimonious half-smile that invariably preceded a lie. I hated him for the day, years ago, when he supposedly led a pack of prep school bullies to beat up a kid and cut his hair. I hated him for that dismissal of 47 percent of Americans as too lazy and too weak to be born a millionaire. And I hated his cowardly genuflection to the likes of Rush Limbaugh and Donald Trump. I admit it, I sometimes enjoyed how much I hated Mitt Romney, the clarity of it all.

And now the party's over and we're stuck with the mess. Mitt Romney will probably find a way to make a few more millions. But he'll still hang around too, if only because those Americans who voted for him aren't going anywhere. His partisans are no less sure of their votes now than before election night, and I can't blame them. We could take a walk of shame, but we'd wind up together, right (and left) where we started. It's our house, after all. Honestly I'm not sure how to start cleaning up the mess we've made. The cats are still freaked out, a stench is beginning to rise, and that gunk in the blender? I'm not sure it's pudding. At least I can take some solace in a few wise words I heard on Tuesday night:

"This is a time of great challenges for America, and I pray that the president will be successful in guiding our nation… The nation, as you know, is at a critical point. At a time like this, we can’t risk partisan bickering and political posturing. Our leaders have to reach across the aisle to do the people’s work… This election is over, but our principles endure."

Those are good words, decent words. They remind us of our obligation to be a little kinder to each other, a bit more tolerant of our different beliefs, and a lot more humble. We Americans are a contentious bunch. Always have been, always had to be. We've faced imperial constraint, civil war, economic collapse, and totalitarian advance - and somehow we've stuck together. Better yet, somehow we've managed to expand the sphere of public life, slowly, to include more and more of us. We've been better than this past four years, and we can be better again.

"This election is over, but our principles endure."

Well spoken, Governor Romney.

August 13 - Paris (written by Andy)

Our last day. We'd been planning this trip for years. Saving for it that long too. Seriously, we've had fights that seemed vicious enough to inspire divorce peter out after one of us would mention the Europe trip. How could we split when we had this trip in our future! We'd spent the last year in serious prep-mode, arranging and rearranging details in the hopes of producing this thing. We envisioned that decades from now we'd recall our European Grand Tour and share memories… climbing the acropolis, sailing among Greek islands, strolling along the Seine. We'd done it, and it was all wonderful. And now it was almost over.

So we launched ourselves into the day, taking the metro to Notre Dame Cathedral and anticipating a nightmare to get in. Actually, though lines began forming early in the morning, we had no problem finding our way inside. As usual, folks ignored the no photography signs and lit the place up with flashes (I had to take a couple shots too; sue me). Strangely enough, a wedding rehearsal was underway, which meant that our tour was augmented by celebratory music and priestly intonations. I hope the bride and groom enjoyed the extra attention.

Walking back across the Seine I searched out pieces of spray art, glad to finally find some of the stuff in Paris. We had no formal plans until our evening's encounter with the Moulin Rouge, allowing us to follow instinct from place to place. Gradually I noticed that the concentrations of graffiti and other street art had begun to thicken. Before long I realized that we were near Centre Pompidou and its world-renowned collection of modern and contemporary art. Ever the kind soul, Jenny consented to adding a stop and we used our Paris Pass to score free tickets. Riding the escalators up the facade of that crazily postmodern edifice that resembled a factory turned inside out by a malfunctioning transporter, we noticed clanking, crunching sounds augmented by droning chants. Later we'd learn that the auditory assault was a piece by Mickey Hart called "Soundwalk."

The displays were predictably mind-bending, conveying a sense that anything can be art -- even the guards who sat forlornly in their street clothes. A tangled mess of metal strewn about a floor: Art? Definitely. A cluster of people staring at a canvas of Yves Klein's IKB: Art? Surely. An empty wall, devoid of installation or explanation: Art? Maybe. Jenny was less thrilled with stuff that seemed defined more by various "artist's statements" and critical responses than recognizable aesthetic pleasure. I was pretty impressed, though. Lots of Kandinsky and a respectable array of Picasso, along with the requisite Andy Warhol. Even one of Duchamp's urinals. We even spotted a photograph of the UK Pavilion from the 2010 World's Fair. Even after seeing this thing personally I only now recognized a human face in the interior design. Amazing.

Jenny was done with museums, though, so I promised that we'd focus the afternoon on anything she wanted to do. She opted for Montmartre, so we caught the nearest metro heading that direction. On the other side of our ride, drop big fat raindrops began to fall, just as I remembered our decision to leave the umbrellas behind. We ducked into a souvenir shop and bought a cheap one. Minutes later, the rain cleared and we knew, we knew that we'd get no more precipitation that day. We climbed the steep hill toward the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur and searched for an ideal view to take in our last panorama of Paris. We toured the church long enough to count the excursion as vaguely "cultural" before diving into the tacky theme park extravagance of Montmartre. Creperies, painters, and busloads of tourists. Oh, and a mime. At last we saw a mime in Paris. We watched; we couldn't not watch him. And when he started texting on his mobile phone during a break, we had to giggle.

We had a couple hours before our planned arrival at the Moulin Rouge that evening, so we oozed along with the crowds for a while and then sat off alone to the (relatively) nearby Sacre-Coeur Cemetery. Once more, we had no specific plans. But we recognized a couple names on the handy map available at the office and searched out their plots. Actually Émile Zola had recently been moved to the Panthéon, where France commemorates its cultural heroes, but François Truffaut was still there, with a flower pot of metro tickets. I loved Truffaut first in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, years before I ever saw The 400 Blows. [I still haven't see The Last Metro.]

We followed a random course among the monuments, playing hide and seek with a black cat that had crossed our path, and then we headed back to the hotel. Just one last item on the itinerary to go. This one was, I suppose, mostly for Jenny. Yet I was the one who insisted that we pay the crazy-expensive price for tickets. The Moulin Rouge is pretty much the most famous cabaret in the world, though it offers almost nothing to remind you of Toulouse-Lautrec or that movie that Jenny loves so much. Instead you get dudes in tuxes offering obsequious welcomes, get-to-know-your-neighbor tight seating, and vigilant checks against anyone who'd dare to use a camera inside.

You also get one hell of a show after dinner. I couldn't begin to tell you what actually happened in the performance. But I remember lots of glimpses. There was a nearly naked babe thrashing about in a water tank filled with snakes. There were topless cancan dancers. There was a talking dog (really). It was obnoxiously entertaining. Relentlessly tacky. Exhaustingly fun. And when a tiny wisp of feather floating down from one of the dancer's outfits, I caught it for Jenny. I knew she'd want it.


We stumbled out of the theater (well, I stumbled, actually, after drinking the full bottle of champagne that came with our meals - and finishing the bottle inexplicably left by one of our neighbors) and entered the metro for one last ride. Three weeks of airplanes, trains, boats, cars, and an ATV had led to this: a final trip to our hotel where we would pack our bags and head home. We had an insanely early airport shuttle scheduled the next morning, yet we insisted on watching the Eiffel Tower from our room at 1 a.m. On schedule, those glittering lights fluttered with kinetic exuberance. I sought some sort of descriptive language but could only think of fireflies in an invisible jar. Five minutes or so clicked by as we celebrated that last moment together, embracing each other and Paris too. The time passed and then, as we knew it would, the Tower blinked off for the night.

Day 21 | Return to Start

Looking Forward

Rain is falling and the cats are roughhousing - and I am emerging from an epic cold. We're talking a real life-stopper that kicked up last Wednesday. All-night hacking (and not the cool cyberpunk kind). Reacquainting myself with the various bouquets of cough syrup. And so many bloody kleenexes that Charlie Sheen himself would recommend an intervention. So, no blogging of late. Sorry.

I plan to see the doc tomorrow, just in case. But I must teach today (Yes, I'm bathing in Purell - and keeping my distance). I think I may be climbing out of this mess. Thank goodness, because the next few days, weeks, and months promise to be hectic.  Next week I'm doing a departmental presentation that will preview themes for a new article (and ultimately a book) on world's fairs. I'm flying to D.C. over spring break for a week of research and road-tripping. And a couple days after my return I'll head back east, this time to Berry College where I have been invited to present a talk. Along the way I'm launching my second new class this academic year and prepping to teach in the SJSU Humanities Honors Program (a half-time buy-out, starting this fall). Oh, and there's that video package for the Salzburg Program and the documentary for the College of Engineering Global Technology Initiative, both of which involve returning to Austria and China this summer. Busy days.

I see some respite ahead in the form of a sabbatical. My application has been tentatively approved, though no promises can be made until a number of budgetary issues are resolved at the state level. So I'm on the cusp of having the time to write a new book. Maybe. Wow, maybe I should just hide under the covers for the day. I can't complain, but I sure wish I felt a little less like I'd been hit by a truck.

Bangkok: Day 10

Grand prang of Wat Arun

Throughout our stay, Wat Arun had been our nightlight. Resting across the Chao Phraya River, the "Temple of the Dawn" glows with natural and artificial illumination, always tantalizingly close. The wat's towering central prang had beckoned us to climb those steps. This morning we would answer the call - eventually. After so much travel, Jenny and I were starting to drag. So we relaxed a while, enjoying a mellow breakfast (for some reason I found that tuna sandwiches and apple juice made the best combination at this place) and gathering our energy for another hot day in Bangkok. Then it was off to the dock to await the ferry that'd take us across the river.


We learned that the surfaces of many wats around here are covered with broken porcelain that previously had served as ballast for Chinese ships. Up close the details of this eighteenth century site of Buddhist learning and spirituality are almost overwhelmingly intricate. Three-headed elephants, demons, bird-women, and other mythical figures are guarded by Chinese soldiers. Everywhere, worlds beyond our own: the four stages of Buddha's life, the seven realms of happiness, the cosmological center of the world… so much symbolism, it would take a lifetime to understand it all. Many lifetimes, I guess. I settled for a climb up that 266 foot-tall prang, a chance to gaze upon Bangkok in peaceful exhaustion.

Andy makes a friend in Bangkok

Jenny and I also found time to pet the local cats. Like all temple kitties, the cats of Wat Arun had mastered the art of finding cool places on a hot day. As usual, we were gently accosted by various artisans and stall vendors hawking their wares: reclining Buddhas, elephant carvings, t-shirts, and the like. I kept a regular search out for cold soda (ignoring Jenny's reminders about the diuretic nature of caffeine) and looked back fondly to our times in China when we carried fans everywhere. Returning across the river we briefly strolled the grounds of the Royal Palace but opted not to take pricy tours. Instead we dropped onto our bed at Arun residence, soaked in sweat.

108 bronze bowls of Wat Pho

Later we made our way back to Wat Pho, this time to participate in the ritual of the 108 bowls (representing - because everything represents something in these places - the 108 auspicious characteristics of the Buddha). Jenny worried that the prayer and idolatry of this place might not mix properly with her own faith but I, less certain of these things, felt more confident in my choice to drop a coin into 108 bronze bowls. With each clink I would silently utter the same wordless hope, digging the droning repetition, the trancelike state of the trudge. Click, clink, clink. At the end I had a few extra coins. I dropped most into a container but kept one; it rattles around in my wallet even today. It's a small thing, easily lost. I really should hide it somewhere safe. But the ephemerality of this thing, the perpetual anxiety of its rustling and near imminent loss, seems right to me.

Graceful gestures of Thai dance

Departing the Temple of the Reclining Buddha we saw a group of young women mount a stage nearby to perform traditional Thai dance in celebration of the Queen's Birthday (also Mother's Day, interestingly enough). Their full-length costumes that glittered with gold, their graceful hand motions conveying fathomless meaning, arrested us. Thereafter we entered another enclosure, enjoying the floor's relative coolness under our sticky legs, quieting ourselves to contemplate another of Wat Pho's Buddhas.

Wat Pho detail

We watched as folks searched out their fortunes in a ritual traditionally known as kau cim. With this practice, you shake a bamboo container cylinder filled with about 100 numbered sticks until one pops out. That stick corresponds to a scrolled message that is presented by an interpreter. While neither Jenny nor I were entirely sure how to apply our fortunes, we at least learned anew the value of a smile in Thai culture.

Wandering the streets of Bangkok

In early afternoon we hailed a tuk-tuk for Bangkok's Banglamphu neighborhood, joining a ridiculously large compliment of westerners. Each cafe was occupied by Americans, Europeans, and Australians, all chatting about parties, organizing excursions, watching TV, and nursing beers. This place, especially Khao San Road, still earns its reputation as a backpackers' paradise (or ghetto). Susan Orlean's New Yorker essay The Place to Disappear paints an affectingly dated but nonetheless vivid summary:

It was as if the strangeness of where they were and what they were doing were absolutely ordinary . . . as if it were quite unexceptional to be three Scottish girls drinking Australian beer in Thailand on their way to Laos, and as if the world were the size of a peanut-something as compact as that, something that easy to pick up, shell, consume, as long as you were young and sturdy and brave.

Truthfully Jenny would have preferred that we return to the Pratunam Market; the shopping there was better. Oh well. We walked. We looked at shirts. We stopped for ice cream. We walked some more. Then we hitched a ride on yet another tuk-tuk and headed back to our hotel.

Tuk-tuk view of a world where Sylvester Stallone's Cobra is still cool

Nightfall brought fireworks for the Queen's birthday. We were both so exhausted that we considered staying in. But Jenny had been rousing up her courage to try some street food and she talked me into one final excursion. We hiked for blocks through nearly deserted streets; I'd never seen Bangkok so empty. Everyone, it seemed, had gravitated to the palace. Our goal was Chinatown where I imagined that we'd find acres of neon signs. We found a few, but mostly we searched for an ideal concentration of spicy, fresh food.

Chinatown, Bangkok

After walking up and down the main drag we finally found our destination - a curbside grill that cast burning sparks into the night. Pointing at our selections, we sad illiterates, Jenny and I scrounged up a meal: some sort of rice and shrimp deal that came with a bonus option of attached eyestalks. Elsewhere we ordered up a plate of Pad Thai (accompanied by a beer I found at a nearby 7-11).

Bangkok neon

A riot of tastes and smells convinced us that we'd made the right call. Ever the animal-lover, Jenny saved enough of her portion to feed a cat she heard meowing down the street. And then it was time to grab one last tuk-tuk ride to Arun Residence. Tomorrow we will head north for the jungle. Our next designation: Chiang Mai.


Day 9 | Day 11

Friday Fun Post - The Internet is Made of Cats

Listen once, then try to get the chorus out of your head!



Difficulty seeing this link? Point your browser here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zi8VTeDHjcM&feature=player_embedded

Scratch the Cat?

While playing with my iPhone this weekend, I started thinking about those "virtual pets" that were popular a few years ago. It would be fun to have an animated kitty on my phone, I figured. I possess my new toy with the passion of a fetish object; it seemed appropriate to add even more life to this thing.

So I looked at a few options and decided to join a web-based "pet" site that allows you to create, feed, groom, and play with an animal of your choice. Within minutes, I was staring at the pixelated face of an 8 week-old kitten who stared back at me through the screen. I fed her, I gave her water, I stroked her fur. I named her Apollonia.

My choice of name follows a family tradition in which we give all female cats living with us an appellation that starts with an A, preferably something reminiscent of Greek or Roman mythology or history. Apparently, among other things, Apollonia refers to a Greek martyr for Christianity. Yes, I felt a bit Godlike. I had given life to a virtual cat.

And then after returning to work, I forgot her.

The next day, I received an urgent email. Apollonia was hungry.

I visited her website - ready to press the button necessary to free me from seeing a graphically dead kitty, a corpse swarming with virtual flies.

I found the website, readied my clicking finger, tutted at my forgetfulness, and...

The graphics wouldn't load. I tried accessing the page through wifi and then through AT&T's notoriously spotty network. I restarted my computer and tried again. No luck, no cat, just an empty box. Once my creature gazed upwardly from that enclosure, her life given by me. Now she was nowhere to be found, lost amid the spectral desert of zeros and ones. Like any busy god, I was frustrated. Unlike God (I hope), I was pissed.

Screw this, I figured. I don't have time to stress about a virtual pet who won't even load when I come to visit. I've got two real cats in Scotts Valley who, every single day, "download" their fur all over our non-virtual carpet and furniture. Tufts of wispy detritus are constant reminders to groom our sweet kitties. We feed them, we play with them, we love them. We are hardly gods to them (more like "staff," as any cat lover will affirm). So be it. With these two waiting at home, I need no pixel kitties.

I then began to wonder, how do you "uncreate" a computer cat?

Searching the site, the part that was working despite the hassles of reaching it online, I found plenty of ways to buy "accessories" for a virtual pet, and lots of reminders that Purina cat chow is popular with real cats too. But "uncreating" a cat?

Oh, God. I knew what I was trying to do.

Guilt-laden, but unwilling to confront the implications that I was abandoning a helpless animal, a creature scratching at my computer screen for attention, I returned to my email, where I read my first reminder to feed Apollonia. I clicked the "no reminders" button. Then I closed my laptop. This was a permanent decision.

I would not feel guilty, I told myself. Maybe I'd get a virtual pet rock instead.

So today I decided to write a note about the ethics of keeping virtual animals, musing about the implications of these simulacra, how we can assign and un-assign meanings to them so easily. I'd explore an interesting query without too much personal investment. A harmless question:

What does it mean to kill a virtual animal? Does the act desensitize us to the prospect of killing for real?

I figured I'd write something thought-provoking, a note that demonstrated suitable reflection on my own ironic position, but ultimately something designed to help me prepare a lecture about online ethics one day. An abstract future for an abstract topic.

Just one problem: I needed to go back to the site and grab a quick pic of Apollonia, preferably still scratching at my screen, to illustrate the post. I was in full utility-mode. Get in, get the pic, get out. I needed an image depicting our strange and fascinating online era, nothing more. So I returned to the virtual pet site and looked...

I couldn't find her.

Was Apollonia dead already?

I began to click frantically. Where is she? Has she starved, her cries so long ignored by my email filter? I clicked and clicked.

And then I found her.

Apollonia was panting, mewing frantically; she was hungry.

I clicked the virtual "food" icon.

A big bag of Purina cat chow appeared and poured itself into her bowl. Apollonia ate heartily, kicking the bowl back when she was done.

She was thirsty too, and she trilled with joy at the sight of a bowl being filled with life-giving water. She gulped it down.

I looked into her half-crazed eyes - an expression that asked, as only a cat can ask, "where the hell were you?

I pet her, trying to soothe her fears at being left alone so long. She purred.

I offered her a toy mouse, a gesture of regret at my cruelty. She played.

I then closed the page, checking one last time to confirm her healthy status, and opened my calendar. There, I added an item to my daily schedule: Feed Apollonia.

The reminder appears every day, weekends, furlough days, holidays: Feed her, repeating at the same time each afternoon. Until September 15th.

After that, we'll see...

November 28, 2009 update

Well, slow graphics and buggy interface inspired me, at last, to send Apollonia to a "farm - upstate." No worries. She's playing with lots of virtual mice and has, I suspect, many friends.

Waffle House: 10 of 10

The following is from a ten-part serialized essay on Waffle House, initially written in December 2008. A sort of mashup between scholarly musings and personal reflection, this piece may satisfy no one in particular. But I'm happy to share it nonetheless (presuming you don't edit or repackage this piece without my permission). Also, a reminder: these words do not reflect the opinions of Waffle House, San José State University, or any other entity.

I lied a bit, too...

Most importantly, I lied about where I wrote this piece. I did not write this essay in Waffle House; I wrote it at home. Yes, I did drive to Phoenix; yes, through the snow of the Mojave Desert; yes, barely avoiding a robbery late at night; and yes, the sound of Patsy Cline's "Crazy" transformed an early morning hour into something meaningful, at least to me. These things happened, but I wrote all of these words at home.

Just now I'm sitting in bed with my cat curled up on my lap, she who detests the cold and finds me more than suitable as a means to escaping the winter that creeps through our poorly weather-stripped doors. Outside, I can hear the sounds of children playing on the streets of our cul-de-sac as the sky darkens at dusk. I write this is an enclave called Scotts Valley, a one-hour bus ride from the halls where I work. I live in a community composed of people who are pretty much like me, middle class strivers seeking a safe investment and quiet streets. I write this as the cat groans and sighs in the pleasure of our darkening room, she and I warm and comfortable.

I tried to write this essay entirely on site, in "the field" as the silverbacks (and wannabe silverbacks among us) might say, but I never could get beyond hastily typed notes. I remember typing them and reviewing them again and again. Is that what I heard? Is that what I said? But I quickly forsook any effort to writing "the truth" of my experiences while I was there. Sipping a cup of coffee, typing out notes on my laptop, I was usually surrounded by folks who reasonably assumed me to be a journalist or an author come to make them famous. Consequently, my fellow patrons paid more attention to me that they would have otherwise. The act of writing in Waffle House undoubtedly skewed what I saw. I mean, really: other than college students cramming for exams or banging out a course paper, who comes to write in a Waffle House? And I stopped looking like a college student a long time ago. So I came home, guiltily, carrying a computer filled with digital scribbles and predictable photos.

I thought briefly about writing at my neighborhood Starbucks, a phrase just about as meaningless as one's "Neighborhood Applebees" (where I'm not sure that they serve anything that can technically be called "food," certainly not "apples," any more than they serve "neighborliness"). Sure, there was plenty of noise, a Waffle House hallmark, and Starbucks possesses the same sort of enclavic sensibility, perhaps even more so with its "black card," a clever device to transform Starbucks into something more akin to an airport terminal's private lounge. But one can hardly confuse Starbucks with Waffle House; the theoretical similarities and stylistic differences are just too distracting. It's better to come home as one would come to Waffle House, to a place where they call you "hon."

My home in Scotts Valley culminates a personal and professional search for enclave that brought me westward from Florida to California. It's a place where garage doors are larger than the porches, where we celebrate our community through holiday performances but generally leave each other alone (with some notable exceptions). It is a sign of the times in our age of anxiety. It is perfect for me. I fled a childhood filled with fear for the safest port in the storm, a hitch with the Navy. I then bounded into the cloistered confines of college years, learning to please those who judged me, selecting my battles with precision.

I made mistakes, so many mistakes, especially when admitting my weaknesses to friends better labeled acquaintances, and I found myself behind the closed door of my own tenured office space. I discovered the unhappy truth of so many academic lives: We who enter the Ivory Tower, searching for a fortress for ideas and a mote of separation from the dreaded "real world," generally manage to bring our own fears with us, locking them tight within our interiors.

Home, therefore, is the final freedom, the ultimate closed door. I have found shelter after all these years as the storms rage outside. I am safe in my protected intellectual space, a world in which I can drive hundreds of miles to sit in a cheap fast food diner and expect people to say, "Well, that makes sense." I admit this only from the safety of job security and the confidence that no one would every really publish an essay like this. I shuffle paragraphs, rehash quotations, double check song titles, and abandon any pretense at depth. Moments break and congeal, transformed into a story, an auto-ethnography of fragmentary shards read at highway speeds. Only in this way do I try to explain the bittersweet domesticity of Waffle House, my home away from --

Well, you know.

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Thanks to Tyrone Adams for inspiring this essay. While the book we envisioned did not (as yet) come to pass, I am grateful for your seductively written call to write something heartfelt about Waffle House. Anything that works in my essay owes much to your recommendation to tackle this topic. All errors that remain, of course, are my own.

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Friday Fun Post: Fake Japanese Cats

Difficulty seeing this video? Point your browser here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9JCW-YtaqQ".

Friday Fun Post: Cute Things Falling Asleep

In the grand tradition of entirely unambiguous titles (I'm flashing back to the classic Snakes on a plane), here's Cute Things Falling Asleep.

Friday Fun Post - Garfield Minus Garfield

This may be old news to some of you, but if you haven't yet checked out Garfield Minus Garfield yet, you should.

I'll admit that I haven't enjoyed Garfield for years. I thought it was boring, predictable, and worse: just not funny.

Turns out that the problem with the strip is...

Garfield.

Remove the cat and the strip means something else entirely.


See what I mean?

Best of all, Garfield creator Jim Davis is being cool about the whole thing. While he could have sent forth a flurry of C&D letters, he recognizes the brilliance of Garfield Minus Garfield.

Or maybe he just feels guilty about all those "I hate Mondays" cop-outs.

Learn more: When the Cat's Away, Neurosis Is on Display

Ninja Cat

Case of the "Mondays"? This video should inspire a smile.

Simon's Cat: TV Dinner

Here's another one of those awesome Simon's Cat videos: "TV Dinner."



Difficulty seeing the video? Visit the site.

Thinking of Hunter S. Thompson...

(Source: Icanhascheezburger.com)

My New Favorite LOLCat

I have no idea who made this image. Do you?

Unsend! Unsend!

Easily my favorite Lolcat pic - downloaded from indiyana's flicker page

An Engineer's Guide to Cats

Pretty cool - until the "cat yodeling" scene. Then this video enters the rarefied realm of must-see.

Take-Your-Cat-To-Work-Day

Pretty much my favorite Rhymes with Orange comic yet: Take-Your-Cat-To-Work-Day (From the March 2, 2008 strip).