A New Raid On The Inarticulate

A Eulogy For My Grandfather

2009-10-02T15:35:00.005-05:00

Although not an official eulogy, I wrote this for my grandfather' funeral, which took place last evening. It's the first thing I've written in a little while that isn't driven by academia, and I think it's worth posting.

Last quarter at DePaul, I was fortunate enough to read Gilead, a 2004 Pulitzer-prize winning novel written by Marilynn Robinson that I wouldn’t have encountered otherwise—at least not by this time. It’s an epistolary novel told from the perspective of John Ames, an approaching-80 rural Iowa pastor facing a terminal heart issue. He is transcribing his thoughts on theology, philosophy, and life with the hopes his then seven-year-old son will read it once he reaches early adulthood.

During this March as I was reading John Ames dwell upon his impending death, I was acutely aware of my grandfather’s struggle with cancer. John Ames writes to his son that “Adulthood is a wonderful thing, and brief. You must be sure to enjoy it while it lasts.” My grandfather never shared these words with me, but he didn’t need to. He lived them.

I rarely remember seeing my grandfather not donning a wide grin and speaking kindly to everyone around him. (Then again, I didn’t see him drive all that often.) As a young, inquisitive boy, I relished the times he would loosen his dentures and let them protrude from his palate, giving the illusion of a jaw he could unhinge. My brother and I would plead for this little parlor trick every time we saw him at his house on Edina. He always obliged.

As my brother and I grew older, our grandfather watched and approved graciously as we continued our educations, became car owners (and watched Jared earn the title of most-vehicles-simultaneously-owned-by-a- Butts, or maybe anyone in Lake County), pursued our passions, started our careers, and came into our early adulthood. He applauded as we faced and conquered our challenges; he offered sage advice as problems arose.

And I can’t help but wonder if, while facing his own mortality and maintaining a positive demeanor, he shared some of the thoughts that John Ames passed on to his young son. Thoughts that are a message for us. John Ames tells his child:

I have been thinking about existence lately. In fact, I have been so full of admiration for existence that I have hardly been able to enjoy it properly. As I was walking up to the church this morning, I passed that row of big oaks by the war memorial—if you remember them—and I thought of another morning, fall a year or two ago, when they were dropping their acorns thick as hail almost. There was all sorts of thrashing in the leaves and there were acorns hitting the pavement so hard they’d fly past my head. It was a very clear night, or morning, very still, and then there was such energy in the things transpiring among those trees, like a storm, like travail. I stood there a little out of range, and I thought It is all still new to me.

I feel sometimes as if I were a child who opens its eyes on the world once and sees amazing things it will never know any names for then has to close its eyes again. I know this is all some apparition compared to what awaits us, but it is only lovelier for that. There is a human beauty in it. And I can’t believe that, when we have all been changed and put on incorruptibility, we will forget our fantastic condition of mortality and impermanence, the great bright dream of procreating and perishing that meant the whole world to us.

Children think they will grow into it and understand it, and I know very well that I will not, and would not if I had a dozen lives. That’s clearer to me every day. Each morning I’m like Adam waking up in Eden, amazed at the cleverness of my hands and at the brilliance pouring into my mind through my eyes—old hands, old eyes, old mind, a very diminished Adam altogether, and still it is just remarkable.

I firmly believe that my grandfather focused on the beauty and wonder of life as he faced its end. And I’m beyond grateful that we shared one last Christmas with him at my father’s house. And that my younger cousins could have a Christmas with him. I—and I think I can speak on behalf of my brother and my cousins Danny and Cori—didn’t realize the importance of our childhood Christmases with our grandparents as they happened. Christina, James, Julian, and Kimberly, you were fortunate to spend a Christmas with your grandfather in the place he started his family while he was cheerful and lucid—it’s a fine memory that I hope you’ll cherish and recall when you think of him.

A few months later, his cancer exacerbated. Sometimes in life we’re only put in the position to react, not act. Not all circumstances are conquerable; some we can barely mitigate, yet I saw my grandfather maintain his grace. He was courageous, in the way that Hemingway defined courage as grace under pressure. But the effect of his cancer became evident, and, for the first time, a line of T.S. Eliot poetry resonated deeply: “His wings were no longer wings to fly / But merely vans to beat the air.”

Fortunately his suffering wasn’t elongated, and he died before enduring too much. He had his wife by his side as he went gently into that good night. All of his children and the majority of his grandchildren were able to say goodbye, each in his or her own way, before he left. And, although I don’t intend to raise one child above any of the others, he and my grandmother had my father’s house, medical knowledge, and unlimited charity to aid them through everything. I’m confident Grandpa was indescribably proud to have you as a son, Dad, just as I am indescribably proud to be your son.

As usual, I’ve gone on for a long time. And I’ve said everything I wanted to say. But how could I possibly close without quoting someone else, you ask? I can’t. I’d like to share a small passage from T.S. Eliot’s “Little Gidding.”

We die with the dying:

See, they depart, and we go with them.

We are born with the dead:

See, they return, and bring us with them.

I’m glad you’ll bring me with you. Goodbye, Grandpa.

The Dabbler's Dilemma

2009-07-23T20:00:00.002-05:00

My dearth of posts can be attributed to a simple problem: I don't know what to write about.

If this blog were devoted to a cause, idea, or trend--no matter how somber or silly--I'd have a framework to write within. But devoting this blog to anything specific presents its own problem: I'm not an expert in anything.

I dabble. A little literature. A little politics. A little weight management. (A soupcon of life updates.) Unlike some of other bloggers, my dabbler's dilemma impedes my blogging abilities. I feel aimless, not liberated.

Perhaps it's time to kill off The Raid and create a blog devoted to something. Probably weight loss. I'm not an expert, but I have a good track record.

I can't be the only one with the dabbler's dilemma, can I?

Summer Reading

2009-05-06T22:00:00.007-05:00

My summer runs from June 8 - September 10, roughly. That's when I take a well-deserved break from grad school. And that's also when I can fill a number of evenings and some weekends with non-required reading. "Non-required reading," though, is a bit of a misnomer (and pejorative) for me. Why? Well ...

I've always enjoyed "the books we have to read" for class. It's not a requirement; it's an opportunity. (Granted, some of them have felt akin to requirement, not opportunity.)
For future writing and literary studies, some of these selections may be required.

But I digress. So, here's the list of the books I plan to read over the summer. Who knows how many I'll get through.

The Middle of the Night - Dan Stolar. I've taken two classes with Dan Stolar at DePaul and really appreciate his thoughts on fiction--the new stuff, the classic stuff, the peer stuff, and my stuff. So, why not see what he has to offer?
The Torrents of Spring - Ernest Hemingway. After finishing this "first" novel, I'll only have one unread novel left in his corpus: Across the River and Into the Trees.
Stories from The Fifth Column and the First Forty-Nine Stories and Uncollected Published Stories - Ernest Hemingway. And then I'll have read every Hemingway short story published in Papa's lifetime.
The Gunslinger - Stephen King. A recommendation from former professor and good friend Michael Kapper.
Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert. Many call it the first modern novel. It was, at the very least, an integral part of a hilarious Woody Allen short story.
Oblivion - David Foster Wallace. After reading "Consider the Lobster" and a short story of his in class, I'm interested to read a full collection of Wallace's short stories. I don't think I'm quite ready for Infinite Jest yet.
Jesus' Son - Denis Johnson. Johnson's another contemporary fiction writer I hear so much about and have zilch exposure to.
Moby Dick - Herman Mellville. Yup, I've never read Moby Dick.
Jane Eyre - Charolette Bronte. And I've never read any Bronte.
The Second Treatise of Government and A Letter Concerning Toleration - John Locke. I try to fit in some non-fiction and philosophy every year aside from what I read--or haven't been reading as of late--in The Atlantic. I'll let Locke count as both, well aware I'll take some flak for it.
Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman. I've read "Song of Myself," but it's been too long.
O Pioneers! - Willa Cather. You really didn't think I'd limit myself to one Modernist, did you?
The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor. "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and "Good Country People" just aren't enough.

Maybe you can read about my progress on jessebutts.com, a secondary summer project.

Run Like the Wind...y City

2009-03-29T20:04:00.004-05:00

Not bad for my first race, eh? (Working for 10 -minute miles next year.)

Goodbye, "Job Search" Label

2009-02-07T22:41:00.002-06:00

Happy to report that I've found contract writing work for a small communications company on the North Side of the city. If they like me and my work (and have enough work to go around), there's the possibility of more work--and, dare I write, full-time employment--beyond the end of March.

Goodbye, Illinois Department of Employment Security dole. Hello, earned income.

Novel Concept

2009-01-21T17:47:00.001-06:00

My final project for Narrative Strategies is submitting a polished draft of the first chapter/part/installment of a novel. Probably 10 or 20 pages. Now, you're probably thinking Jesse, you don't dress nearly artsy enough to write a novel. That's true, but the professor wouldn't accept it as an excuse.

So, I've pondered what the hell to write about. And thus far I can only think of the setting: employees at an amusement park. No idea about character, plot, etc. I tried to watch a story set in an amusement park, but it fell flat and I thought, at the time, it wasn't worth resurrecting.

Now, what could happen at an amusement park ...

25 Things

2009-01-20T02:16:00.000-06:00

From Facebook to Blogger, here are 25 random "facts" about me:

1. As a child, I hated having an androgynous name. When I complained about it, my mother informed me there are a lot of men named Jesse. (There really aren't.) The clincher: I was named after my Aunt Jesse.

2. A lot of people are anxious about growing older. I look forward to it--with, of course, minimal reservations--because I feel younger and more energetic than I ever did when I was young. And hell, I started losing my hair at sixteen anyway.

3. I actually don't know that many words, and that becomes more apparent every time I pick up a new novel for class or the latest edition of The Atlantic. If I encounter a word I don't know, I look it up. That's how you build a vocabulary; it's not innate knowledge.

4. Yes, I have some loose skin, and I'll probably get more. I would only consider surgery if it were fully covered by my insurance. It doesn't bother me that much.

5. I'm honestly surprised when people can't tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi. They're so distinctive.

6. While J. Alfred Prufrock measured out his life in coffee spoons, I've delineated mine in Excel spreadsheets.

7. I think I would have been more at home in a school more like Kenyon or Dennison. Who knows if I would have gotten in, though.

8. I can't imagine living in the suburbs again (barring Evanston or Oak Park).

9. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s "The Strength to Love" is one of the most convincing Christian texts I've ever read.

10. I imagine my difficulties with growing up in a fundamentalist church and home will resurface in much of my fiction and other writing.

11. I love that Caroline is very critical and can explain her standards. And can explain why a movie, book, or piece of art in question doesn't live up to them. There's more than that I love about her, of course, but it's definitely up there.

12. I'm ready for the inauguration to be over so the honeymoon will end and the presidency will get into full swing.

13. In the year-plus I've lived in my apartment, I've never had food delivered.

14. I didn't enjoy my childhood. Too fat and too many rules.

15. If I had to do it again, I would publish a picture of two men kissing on the front page of The Chimes. Call me hubristic, but what people labeled as controversial or sensational in 2005, they'll call bold and visionary in 2055.

16. I'm annoyed when people give smart-ass answers to idiomatic questions. (Like "Do you have the time?" "Yes.") Come on, exercise some cultural literacy.

17. I'll probably always be remembered as the guy who lost 200+ lbs. I'd much rather be remembered as a great novelist, short story writer, or something along those lines, but we can't pick what people will choose to remember. And I'm beginning to think it's not that bad of a thing to be remembered for.

18. A few books really have changed my life, or at least the way I think about my life. They include A Farewell to Arms, The Sun Also Rises, The Four Quartets, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

19. Dr. Griffith once awarded me the smartass-English-major-of-

the-year award. God, I wish I could put that on a resume. (I wrote the best quip to his error on a grammar test. That quip: "It's OK. You went to state school.")

20. I don't know what I'll do with my master's in writing and publishing. Write? Publish? I just know I wanted to learn more and am enjoying it immensely.

21. I didn't like shopping for clothes much when all I could wear was the hodgepodge shit at Casual Male B&T. Now that I can shop at major chains, I do and somewhat enjoy it. But I'm still very distressed when people are judged by their clothing. I also don't care for the assertion that someone who's artsy or intellectual can't shop at Old Navy.

22. I have a helluva lot of respect and admiration for my brother. He's intelligent, charismatic, and hilarious. And he can do something useful with his hands.

23. I really hate all the food associated with Christmas. People just don't need to buy, prepare, and eat that much food. I understand it's a celebration, but isn't there a line between celebration and gluttony?

24. I love this Christopher Hitchens quote in a review about Edmund Wilson: "Anyone who has ever tried to digest The Da Vinci Code, for example, or the Left Behind series, will know that bad writing, aimed at a subliterate audience, is actually much more difficult to read than anything by Borges or Kundera."

25. I tell people I like to write, but I rarely do. I need to change that.

The Last Christmas Letter

2009-01-05T21:33:00.006-06:00

While perusing the arcana in the Miscellaneous child folder of My Documents, I stumbled upon a few Christmas letters dated from 1999-2001. My mom usually wrote the drafts, with the exception of 2001, and I typed them, formatted them with appropriate Word Christmas borders (poinsettia, in this case), printed them, and helped her stuff them into Christmas cards.

There's a reason we stopped sending Christmas letters after 2001. A 2002 Christmas letter would be too painful--my mom would have had to write that she and my dad were in the midst of their divorce.

As I reread the 2001 Christmas letter, which my dad volunteered to write due to beaucoup free time a hernia operation afforded him, I noticed a number of small predictions and familiarities weren't fulfilled or had changed. My mom no longer works for the same employer (she started with that company in 1974), teaches Sunday school, sings in the worship team, or helps assemble layettes for the Waukegan chapter of Catholic Charities (she doesn't go to that--or any--church anymore). I did end up going to one of the colleges I was considering, but ended up with a double major in English literature and professional writing, not a BM in music technology. My brother has remained more steadfast in interests and careers, but he wound up with an associate's in automotive sciences rather than attending trade school and is starting college again in hopes of transferring to a four-year school and earning a BS in mechanical engineering. And my dad is no longer a deacon at the church (he, too, wavers between doubt and apostasy like my mom but would never vocalize it), a per diem respiratory therapist to pay the property taxes, or trying to "drop some weight and get in shape."

These little things are just that: the little things. Not everything will turn out how we thought it would seven years ago, thank God. It's to be expected. But I can barely relate to that 17-year-old morbidly obese boy who typed up the last Christmas letter while chastising his father's poor writing and lamenting his mother's flair for banal jokes and appending exclamation points and interrobangs to statements that didn't even deserve print. [Case in point: "She continues to teach Sunday school, ages 2-6 (is she crazy, or what!?) and still sings periodically with the worship team."]

But everything big is different now. Sometimes it's unreal, unfathomable that I was raised in--spent 70% of my life in--a conservative Christian home with all immediate family members living under one roof, denizens of the very house my mother was raised in. That I came from a family where pre-marital sex and cohabitation were clearly in violation of God's word and ended up in one where both parents lived (or are living) with a boyfriend or girlfriend. And now there isn't Christmas--there are two Christmases. Two birthday dinners. Two Thanksgivings. Just no anniversary.

I don't yearn for the past. My parents are in better relationships now. I like to tell people that "Stay together for the kids" has its flip side: two unhappy parents and however-many children feeling remorse that their parents remained unhappy and amorously unfulfilled because of them. (OK, you got me--I'd never say this to a seven year old, but I maintain that seven year old may start to think like me by 27.)

The 2001 Christmas letter was the final goodbye you didn't realize you had until hindsight kicks in--akin, but not remotely as painful, to saying something curt to a loved one before a tragic death. Extended family and friends, I'm sure, heard a biased version of our family disillusionment second-hand. Granted, none of us was in a state to come together and write a 2002 Christmas letter that summed up the fall and offered a few words of wisdom about the complexity of marriage and family. That type of closure is only something you can get away with in fiction. (And yes, maybe it'll be something I can get away with in my own fiction.)

The experience forced me to recognize that you can't control nonfiction. The characters do whatever they want, and the plot marches on. It's just your narrative that's yours--how you describe what you see, what you feel, what it makes you think, and what, if anything, you're going to do about it. I, after years of anger, sadness, and genuine existential crises, made my peace with life after the 2001 Christmas letter.

I'll never come downstairs and see both of my parents in the living room again, my dad snoring on the recliner with his dress shirt unbuttoned and my mom playing Freecell on the Packard Bell. But I do get to see my parents in relationships in which they're both happier, even if it meant more unhappiness for one than the other, and a lot for the kids.

My dad closed the letter with a short paragraphs about 9/11 and the following salutation, "Well, I’m getting writer’s cramp and I can’t think of much more to say so… God bless all of you and your families and remember to pray."

Remember to pray. I wonder if any of us do now.

Run, Fat Boy, Run

2009-01-02T10:38:00.004-06:00

I've registered for my first 8k (or any type of race for that matter), scheduled for late March.

Good thing I bought some running shoes with some of my Christmas money.

T.S. Eliot Predicts Global Housing Crisis

2008-12-20T10:26:00.003-06:00

And he did it in 1940:

In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
...
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

-"East Coker" - The Four Quartets

Gov. Paterson Proposes Sugary-Drinks Tax

2008-12-18T13:35:00.001-06:00

Well, at least he's proposing something to combat obesity.

500 Words About Hot Flashes

2008-12-13T09:56:00.002-06:00

I happened upon an interesting writing job a few days ago that requested I write 500 words about hot flashes. Seriously.

The only instructions were "The funnier, the better!" So, here's my attempt at 500 humorous words about hot flashes. As always, enjoy.

Good afternoon, everyone. Unfortunately, I’ve called this emergency press conference under unfavorable circumstances.

Top scientists have discovered something more troublesome than our tough economy, the threat of terrorism, or our precarious infrastructure. It’s been dubbed “hot flashes,” technically known as spontaneous infernonic episodes, a side effect of menopause that debilitates our hard-working women, our mothers—those who take joy in nothing else but cooking our meals, washing our clothes, and keeping our houses clean.

Dr. Walter D. Peterson, a top researcher at John Hopkins University, has observed that some women who’ve suffered from hot flashes have literally forced their husbands to turn on Lifetime during the midst of Monday Night Football, even when their husbands’ favorite teams are playing. In the most extreme cases, these women have left dishes piling in the sink, forcing men to sacrifice time from their hobbies—and their secretaries.

While I thought fixing economic policy would be my first priority when I will become president, I have to shift priorities. And now I’ve created the Promulgation of Spontaneous Infernonic Episodes Knowledge Office, or PSIEKO, to provide Americans with the information they need to combat the consequences of hot flashes. In addition to PSIEKO, my administration is developing a new Cabinet-level agency, the Bureau of Infernonic Correction and Healing. When these entities combine, PSIEKO BICH can help women manage hot flashes through medication and therapy and reaffirm their invaluable roles as servants of men.

As I looked at my Cabinet, I saw someone who knew the importance of PSIEKO BICH, understood the gravitas of PSIEKO BICH, and had, herself, overcome the hardship of everything PSIEKO BICH seeks to destroy. Although she originally agreed to serve me, a man, as Secretary of State, I can’t think of a better woman than Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton to lead this initiative.

Senator Clinton’s passion for eviscerating hot flashes from this great nation is unprecedented. In fact, we were speaking yesterday, and she said, “Barack, I know many pundits and politicians find me abrasive and headstrong, but let me tell you something. I’m going to work so hard on this issue, people will say ‘Hillary doesn’t just run PSIEKO BICH, Hillary is a PSIEKO BICH!’” I have full faith that Hillary will not just lead PSIEKO BICH, she will become a PSIEKO BICH.

Now, I know what you’re all wondering: What does her husband think? Well, I spoke to Bill yesterday, and he said, “Barack, buddy, you go ahead and post Hillary to this auspicious position. I’ll be just fine without her.” And let me take this moment to assure the American people that I’d never appoint a woman to a Cabinet position, or any other job, without first receiving her husband’s consent.

I’ll now take questions from the media to help them better educate our citizens about hot flashes, their devastating effects, and how PSIEKO BICH, under Hillary Clinton’s superb leadership, will serve as the death knell for this crisis.

Thank you for your time, and God bless America.

But Probably Not For Rod

2008-12-10T15:53:00.003-06:00

(Taken in the Thompson Center.)

The Governor's Call Update

2008-12-09T10:45:00.000-06:00

Maybe he will call for bail money.

So, What's Blogging Like?

2008-12-08T20:59:00.002-06:00

In a long essay about the subject, Andrew Sullivan thinks it's a little like jazz:

There is, after all, something simply irreplaceable about reading a piece of writing at length on paper, in a chair or on a couch or in bed. To use an obvious analogy, jazz entered our civilization much later than composed, formal music. But it hasn’t replaced it; and no jazz musician would ever claim that it could. Jazz merely demands a different way of playing and listening, just as blogging requires a different mode of writing and reading. Jazz and blogging are intimate, improvisational, and individual—but also inherently collective. And the audience talks over both.

The reason they talk while listening, and comment or link while reading, is that they understand that this is a kind of music that needs to be engaged rather than merely absorbed. To listen to jazz as one would listen to an aria is to miss the point. Reading at a monitor, at a desk, or on an iPhone provokes a querulous, impatient, distracted attitude, a demand for instant, usable information, that is simply not conducive to opening a novel or a favorite magazine on the couch. Reading on paper evokes a more relaxed and meditative response. The message dictates the medium. And each medium has its place—as long as one is not mistaken for the other.

In fact, for all the intense gloom surrounding the news-paper and magazine business, this is actually a golden era for journalism. The blogosphere has added a whole new idiom to the act of writing and has introduced an entirely new generation to nonfiction. It has enabled writers to write out loud in ways never seen or understood before. And yet it has exposed a hunger and need for traditional writing that, in the age of television’s dominance, had seemed on the wane.

The Governor's Got My Number

2008-12-03T14:29:00.001-06:00

While talking to a friend about a possible jessebutts.com, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned my head and saw Gov. Rod Blagojevich.

Silly him, he asked me how I was doing in this economy. When I told him that I lost my job about three weeks ago and that I worked in marketing and technical writing for a software company, he asked for my card and said, "Hey, let's see if we've got anything open for Jesse here. He's a computer guy," to a member of his envoy.

I'll update you when I receive said call. But moral of the story: never doubt what can happen or who you'll run into at your neighborhood coffee shop.

Why I Shave My Head

2008-11-27T21:39:00.007-06:00

As if I needed any reminder of how bald I was by 20, here it is:

Yuck. The goatee was fun, though.

"It Makes You A Marketing Rep"

2008-11-25T22:25:00.010-06:00

Because I needed a tetanus shot to release my registration hold at DePaul, I visited my long-time GP for the immunization. I expected a pain in my arm, I didn't except spiritually infused career advice.

As I was leaving, I ran into a member of the church I attended from birth up to a few weeks before I enrolled at Capital in 2002. Let's call him Don. We recognized each other instantly, and began exchanging pleasantries and discussing condensed versions of our lives since we'd last seen each other roughly six or seven years ago.

He's got new a new grandson, retired about a year and a half ago, volunteers regularly--all things I'm happy for. As I was discussing my life, I brought up that I was laid off just a little over a week ago. At that time, the receptionist verified that she'd fax my updated immunization record to DePaul, and I was on my way out the door. Then Don lightly tapped his left hand on the waiting-room chair next to him.

So I sat down, knowing Don liked to talk. He then told me to focus my job search not on what I want, but on what God wants for me. He continued that I should pray to know God's will for my career; that I should "let go" of the past pain I'd experienced--in our brief conversation, I made no mention whatsoever of my parents' divorce, childhood morbid obesity, etc.--and believe in God's love; that I should accept that my raison d'etre, in this life and the next, is to honor God. Having not been proselytized in quite a few years, I thanked him for the sage advice and reiterated that I did have to leave (which I did).

That pat on the chair signified that Don had transformed from a person to a marketing rep. I can't take credit for this analogy; it comes from my favorite movie, The Big Kahuna. The plot involves three marketing reps sent, mostly against their wills, to Wichita, Kansas to convince a high-level executive that their line of industrial lubricants are what his business needs to flourish.

The young, naive rep, Bob, unknowingly encounters the big kahuna and talks ad nauseum about Jesus, rather than business. The big kahuna gives Bob a business card that will get him into an invitation-only party. Knowing Bob's the only one who can get into the party, the two senior reps send him into the trenches, instructing Bob to inform the big kahuna about their industrial lubricants and request a "brief, very brief meeting" to discuss business opportunities. Bob goes, but he, again, discusses Jesus, not industrial lubricants.

Bob informs the senior reps he was just being a "real person," and some things are more important than business. They inform him that when you're on the clock, Jesus is not more important than business. Phil, the closet philosopher, provides a brilliant explanation of why Bob is not a real person:

"It doesn't matter whether you're selling Jesus or Buddha or civil rights or 'How to Make Money in Real Estate With No Money Down'. That doesn't make you a human being; it makes you a marketing rep. If you want to talk to somebody honestly, as a human being, ask him about his kids. Find out what his dreams are – just to find out, for no other reason. Because as soon as you lay your hands on a conversation to steer it, it's not a conversation anymore; it's a pitch. And you're not a human being; you're a marketing rep."

Danny DeVito delivers these lines unbelievably well:

While I was acting like a human being, Don was acting like a marketing rep. And although I found the pat on the chair a little insulting--as if, in his eyes, I was a child who needed a father-son moment, not a young adult worthy of equal peer treatment--I cordially complied.

When I discovered that Don's religious beliefs took precedence over our relationship and my situation, I wished I hadn't. I'm open to conversations, but, for the moment, I'm closed to pitches.

A Proposal to Weight Watchers

2008-11-23T22:34:00.004-06:00

Last Friday I was laid off. It's provided time for introspection in personal and professional matters. I plan to post thoughts related to my job search under the aptly titled label "Job Search."

Because I have the time, I decided to follow up on my last post. So here's my letter to Weight Watchers that attempts to convey why they should hire me as a spokesman. Enjoy.

I’m not your average 24 year old, and I think losing over 200 pounds in fewer than two years using Weight Watchers Online for Men proves that.

And now that I’m searching for jobs due to a recent lay-off, I don’t want to settle for something that pays the bills. I don’t want to make the next job the so-so one. I want my next job to be the great one, the one that shows people it’s completely possible to lose more than 45% of their body weight while working, raising kids, studying, and living day to day. I want my next job to give me a daily sense of accomplishment that I’m actively combating America’s growing obesity rates.

Does this job exist? Unfortunately, no. But I think it can make quite a handsome profit for the company willing to take the chance. I think that company is Weight Watchers, and I think the job is its new national spokesman.

So, why should you consider such an audacious proposal from just another successful Weight Watchers member? Two words: Jared Fogle. “The Subway Guy,” a normal person who lost a remarkable amount of weight without anyone’s help, bolstered Subway business astronomically. Jared and I have a lot in common. We’ve lost more than 200 pounds. We’re living examples that it doesn’t take bariatric surgery, personal trainers, or hours out of your day to lose half of yourself. At one point we couldn’t shop for clothes at normal stores, couldn’t fit comfortably in chairs, couldn’t exert ourselves without sweating profusely in seconds. Yet we lost significant weight and discovered how radically different our lives could be—how radically different our lives are now—by altering our diet and exercise habits.

But we’re notably different in a crucial respect: Jared lost his weight eating at one restaurant, day in and day out, eating the same three meals, day in and day out, and denying himself any food that varied from his regimented lifestyle, day in and day out. I haven’t.

I’ve eaten at McDonald’s, Uno’s, and my neighborhood Chinese restaurant while losing weight. I’ve made exercise a regular part of my routine while working and going to graduate school, both on a full-time basis.

Although BMI guidelines suggest that I have roughly 60 pounds to lose until I reach a healthy weight, choosing a spokesman who has lost 200+ pounds and will allow the nation to watch him lose his final pounds shows WW members and prospects what they can achieve and what remains to be accomplished. They can see the almost-finished product, just as they will see themselves in their weight-loss journeys. It’s a message of achievable realism, not unattainable idealism.

With a strong background in writing and communications—ranging from journalism to marketing to currently completing a master’s in writing and publishing—I can articulate the hope and tools for weight loss Weight Watchers provides.

If you’d like to be in the Jesse Butts business, feel free to contact me at this e-mail address or [phone number]. And to see what else I’ve accomplished while losing 200+ pounds, I’ve attached my resume for your reference.

Jesse Butts
WWOFM member since 1/7/07

Career Opportunities

2008-10-28T15:07:00.002-05:00

I originally posted this essay on a WeightWatchers.com message board that I read and participate in from time to time. To see comments from those readers, click here.

Considering I'm 24 and in grad school, "What do you want to do with your life?" remains a pretty relevant question. I've entertained a number of career paths--magazine editor, freelance writer, professor, or probably some combination of them all--but I've just recently considered parlaying my weight-loss success (and continuing journey) into a paycheck.

I don't want to become a nutritionist, personal trainer, or Weight Watchers meeting leader, but as I am a writer by trade and education, I'd like to use that combo as a catalyst for a career. I'm going to take a few classes that involve writing personal essays or creative non-fiction, and I plan to make my weight-loss journey the focus for all of them.

Once they're written, I'll submit them to various magazines, hoping they're published and will, in turn, catch the eyes of the larger media. Then, who knows where it could go. I'd love to write more on the topic, be interviewed, give lectures, and perhaps get into a political realm where I could help shape policy for schools and government as a consultant or advocate. (I won't discuss those ideas here as they're off-limits according to the ground rules.)

Part of the reason I've considered such a path is that I see a void in weight-loss "literature" (Lord knows there are plenty of books) and grounded, engaging spokespeople. I don't see a lot of intellectual debate about public policy or deep exploration of obesity issues, and I haven't read anything that's akin to creative non-fiction (like something Joan Didion) or contemplative essay (a la Annie Dillard).

I've learned that if I work hard enough for what I want, I usually get it. Granted, I never wanted something so ... lofty, but I don't think it's not worth pursuing. And I know even if I could make a living off of it, it probably wouldn't last forever. But I'd love to feel that I'm helping people and doing it in a way that uses my talents and my accomplishments.

Let's just hope Jared Fogle hasn't taken all of the wind out of the weight-loss-career sails.

He's Got My Vote

2008-10-19T18:18:00.003-05:00

It's just a shame that he's not running for anything.

Colin Powell's recent appearance on Meet the Press reminded me just how much I've always respected and admired this man. (Yes, even as he propelled the Bush's Iraq agenda forward--and especially when he referred to Bush's neocon cohorts as "fucking crazies.")

Look at how great he is starting around 3:45:

Now that's presidential material.

Real-Life Weight Loss And The Biggest Loser

2008-09-25T09:32:00.003-05:00

Losing 205+ lbs. in 20-or-so months doesn't translate into interesting television. At least that's what the major network execs must think. Placing obese and morbidly obese Americans into a controlled environment completely removed from work stress, family, and most importantly, individual choices, gets ratings. Commendable ratings.

But I've always had issues with The Biggest Loser approach to weight loss, mainly for the reasons listed above. Rather than dive into my own polemic, I decided to solicit the opinions of others who've lost significant weight or are in the process of doing so. So, click here to see what members of Weight Watchers Online's Guys on a Diet message board think about The Biggest Loser. You may be surprised.

(Incidentally, my starting BMI was at least 10 points higher than this season's heaviest contestant. This brand of weight loss isn't the only solution.)

Dancing Days Are Here Again

2008-09-24T14:59:00.001-05:00

Happy National Punctuation Day.

Going Semi-Active

2008-09-14T19:24:00.002-05:00

As if I didn't update this blog sporadically enough, I've now got grad school to contend with (in addition to my full-time job). Hopefully I'll manage a few posts before Thanksgiving break.

The Agnostic/Atheist Vote--Up For Grabs?

2008-08-26T07:46:00.004-05:00

After the goings-on during the first night of the Democratic National Convention, it very well may be.

The Day That Never Comes ... Is Here

2008-08-22T10:47:00.004-05:00

I'm a Metallica fan. Have been for years. Yes, the band has had its pitfalls, but I've generally found some good in even the most panned albums. Hetfield always manages to write a few lyrics that make me stop and applaud his efforts. Even in St. Anger, easily the worst album musically speaking, I'm still hooked to Hetfield's "No compromise / My heart won't pump the other way." An objective correlative T.S. Eliot should be envious of.

The new Metallica album, Death Magnetic, is slated to release September 12. And, I've gotta say, so far, so good. Check it out:

My Stance On Pants

2008-08-16T23:41:00.005-05:00

Big pants = great photo opportunities:

Note: Dumb smile must accompany all big pants-related photos.

No Kidding

2008-08-07T07:55:00.003-05:00

The most factual statement I've ever encountered on Wikipedia:

From Catch-All To Niche: Grad School Update

2008-07-28T06:48:00.006-05:00

DePaul's English department recently created two new programs: the MA in writing and publishing and the MA in writing, rhetoric, and discourse. When I applied, the only master's-level writing program the department offered was the soon-to-be-defunct MA in writing.

So where does that leave me? In a great spot, actually. One of the reasons I applied to the MA in writing program (and never fully admitted to myself) was that it didn't require a huge commitment. I could take rhetoric & comp. classes, fiction writing classes, technical and professional writing classes, stylistics, etc ... It was a safe way to go about things, but that lack of commitment to one area means sacrificing growth for variety, mastery (harr harr ... ) in one field for proficiency in several.

That's the route I took in my undergrad days, and though I have no regrets, grad school isn't undergrad part duex. (Unless, of course, you're like my esteemed friend Matthew Sandwisch who enrolled in St. John's master's program.) And when I attended an information session last week about the new programs, I realized the MA in writing and publishing is perfect. The first paragraph of the program description says it all:

The Master of Arts in Writing and Publishing program offers advanced training in the art and craft of writing poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. The program is specifically designed for students interested in careers in creative and literary writing, publishing, and editing, as well as for those seeking to expand their knowledge of writing for the purpose of teaching.

That's me. That's what I want out of grad school, and that's what justifies the loans and complete loss of my free time. It's time to spend a few years--and quite a few bills--working at what I want out of my professional life and then seeing that come to fruition.

What I've Lost: 18 Months On Weight Watchers

2008-07-07T20:19:00.006-05:00

Today marks my 18-month anniversary with Weight Watchers Online. Thanks to patience and perseverance, discipline and discernment--but not bariatric surgery--I've seemingly reinvented my body image.

Or so people tell me. (I also haven't drank a mini-keg of Grolsch in about two years. I'll let you ponder that correlation-causation debate.)

While pictures are the most eye-catching display of my transformation, I think some solid facts further elucidate the last year and a half. Like all white people, I love statistics. For your reading pleasure--regardless of ethnicity--I've compiled some data that I'm simply titling "What I've Lost." Enjoy.

What I've Lost

$1,000+ I had to redirect to the clothing budget
197.2 lbs.
43.8% of me
29 BMI points (from well into morbidly obese to 6 points away from overweight)
5+ hours a week of lethargy replaced with cardio
4 1/2" around my neck
4 pants sizes
3 shirt sizes
1 Colin Devroe
Very little compared to what I've gained

Justice Kennedy Condemns Capital Punishment For Child Rapists

2008-06-25T19:50:00.014-05:00

As did Stevens, Ginsberg, Souter, and Breyer. In Kennedy v. Louisiana, the Court revoked states' rights to execute convicted pedophiles. Per de facto policy for controversial decisions, the Court was split 5-4, with Roberts, Scalia, Thomas, and Alito dissenting.

Much like defending free speech, defending the eighth amendment means tolerating an imperfect society. No rational person enjoys Fred Phelps and Westboro Baptist Church members vocalizing their antipathy for homosexuals and fallen soldiers at the most inappropriate times. No one likes a neo-Nazi march, especially one through historically Jewish communities like Skokie, Illinois. And no one likes it when a convicted pedophile can celebrate a Supreme Court victory.

But this isn't The Republic, this is America. Our goal is not a utopia. Roughly 220 years ago, we decided that liberty, freedom, and respect for human life trumped a perfect society. We enumerated these points in our Constitution and agreed upon them, though we've been struggling to interpret them ever since.

Kennedy and his majority-vote-casting peers understand that. They're well aware of the pain this girl has suffered and will probably never stop suffering. They know Patrick Kennedy's crime is of the most heinous, execrable nature. Yet they knew sanctioning capital punishment for any crimes other than murder--a case study in quid pro quo--would lead to a slippery slope where mob rule determines which crimes merit death.

The majority opinion acknowledges the ugliness of Kennedy's crime while insisting upon respect for his life:

... We cannot dismiss the years of long anguish that must be endured by the victim of child rape.

It does not follow, though, that capital punishment is a proportionate penalty for the crime. The constitutional prohibition against excessive or cruel and unusual punishments mandates that the State’s power to punish “be exercised within the limits of civilized standards.” Evolving standards of decency that mark the progress of a maturing society counsel us to be most hesitant before interpreting the Eighth Amendment to allow the extension of the death penalty, a hesitation that has special force where no life was taken in the commission of the crime. It is an established principle that decency, in its essence, presumes respect for the individual and thus moderation or restraint in the application of capital punishment.

Not respect for the law-abiding, church-going, non-child-raping individual. Respect for the individual. Period.

When the Supreme Court rules that states can't execute a man like Patrick Kennedy, it ensures civil liberties for all of us. As painful as the decision is, it's the right one. It embodies the sentiment fictional President Andrew Shepherd delivered in The American President:

America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You've gotta want it bad, 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say, "You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours." You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country cannot just be a flag. The symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Now show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms.

Then you can stand up and sing about the land of the free.

And if you want respect for human life, you have to defend the child rapist's right to live. Now go write about that in your blogs.

Where I'm Writing From

2008-06-22T20:03:00.005-05:00

One of Raymond Carver's better short stories--and, if you're asking me, one that English professors should consider canonizing before "Cathedral"--examines the life of a recovering alcoholic in rehab. The protagonist (really more of an anti-hero) waffles around with phone calls to his soon-to-be ex-wife and his new girlfriend, hence the title "Where I'm Calling From."

What's most interesting about the story is that, like most of Carver's fiction, you empathize with the main character and his history. The plot is inconsequential, and you practically gloss over it; the character is that engrossing. In the case of "Where I'm Calling From," the events that brought the main character to that point aren't pleasant. You get the sense that if you were talking to the character, he'd have a little difficulty sharing his background with you because it's painful. It's where he was, not where he is. But divulging his past reminds him how far he's come and how comparatively miserable life was before rehab.

The last 18 months have been a foodaholic rehab for me. Not to say that I've "overcome" an addiction akin to alcoholism, but it's been a rough journey that requires constant attention. I need to remind myself from whence I came in order to keep plodding along, consistently making better food choices, exercising regularly, and applying portion control when I eat fatty/high-caloric foods.

A few weeks ago Weight Watchers provided the impetus I needed to finally write down my journey: a chance to win a free trip to NYC plus a $500 shopping spree. I've pasted the essay I submitted to the contest for your reading pleasure. Now when I post more blog entries about weight management, you'll know exactly where I'm writing from.

*****

I thought I’d break it.

But I sat there for nearly two hours, shifting my 450-pound frame every five-to-ten minutes in hopes that the folding chair wouldn’t collapse underneath me. Four years of sleepless nights and endless reading and writing in order to obtain my bachelor’s degree culminated in me barely withstanding the ceremony. Then my graduation photos came in the mail.

I cried, completely ashamed of how large I’d let myself become.

For the first time, I couldn’t shake it. I reached my nadir. The weight had to go. No more abandoned-in-three-weeks fad diets, no more jettisoned exercise programs. It was time to learn how to eat well-balanced meals whether at home or at Burger King. Exercise had to take precedence over reruns of Seinfeld.

After hearing of some acquaintances’ success stories, I turned to Weight Watchers Online for guidance through my massive weight-loss effort. I needed the structure of a program that excluded no one food or type of food—the hallmark of Weight Watchers’ approach to a healthy lifestyle. After signing up, I spent the first three weeks learning how to eat appropriate portions and to incorporate fruits and vegetables into my diet. If I could stick to it for three weeks, I promised myself I’d start exercising. After three successful weeks on Weight Watchers Online, I started exercising four-to-five times per week. Neither the POINTS-tracking nor the exercise has ceased.

As I remained faithful to Weight Watchers Online, my shirts turned into tents and my jeans into Hammer pants. People noticed that I looked different. (And this time, it was a good thing.) I started sleeping better, fitting into restaurant booths, and getting up from the floor without clinging to a nearby piece of furniture for support. I learned how to include my favorite comfort foods by applying portion control.

After 17 months “on plan,” without feeling deprived or starved, I’ve lost 195 pounds, four and one-half inches around my neck, four pants sizes, and two—and rapidly narrowing in on three—shirt sizes (and plenty of money from my savings account to fund my ongoing wardrobe changes).

People constantly tell me that I’m an inspiration. I thank them and reply that it’s not surgery or a magic pill from a late-night infomercial: it’s Weight Watchers Online, willpower and tenacity, better choices and more activity. It’s a hope-filled outlook. And it’s for life.

Hard Times In Huber Heights

2008-05-27T21:58:00.005-05:00

Rather than celebrating the long Memorial Day weekend gorging on grilled food and cold beer, my mother and I drove to Ohio to visit an aunt who's dying of breast cancer. And lung, liver, lymph node, and bone cancer.

My mother, a director of nursing with 30+ years of experience in the healing arts, always knew when to leave the room, to offer her professional services, to stop a conversation or story short when my aunt needed a nap, and to just be there. I followed her lead (with obvious limitations), and, for the most part, it worked.

I'm glad I went to drive my mom from Chicago to Huber Heights, a suburb of Dayton, and to show that even as an out-of-school working boy on his own, family still matters to me. And, after the first day, I learned that sitting around, watching hours of programming on the Game Show Network, and listening to their remembrances of things past meant something.

But what resonated most--what I just couldn't stop pondering--was a poem I read during my junior year of college that I still think about a few times a year, especially now. A Google search turned up nothing, but I've decided that it's worth the manual effort of typing. Although the portrait Skloot paints is more grave than my aunt's, it still dominates my daydreams.

Critical Care

Floyd Skloot

Nothing

not the fall crop
of fat blackberries that dazzle
now where they have hidden all month
from daylong sun
in a quirk of gnarled scrub oak

nor the suddenly gold leaves
dropping
from maples as we cross the creak
bone dry since early June

nor twin fawns in their spots
still too innocent to run
from what danger we pose

prepares us
to come inside
and see you lying there
in a wash of brilliant light
breathing
only when an eggshell blue
bellow drives the air into you

Across The (Chicago) River And Into The (Oak Park) Trees

2008-05-20T21:08:00.012-05:00

Anyone who knows me should be shocked that this post marks my first entry about anything Hemingway-related in A New Raid On The Inarticulate. But Papa's time has come. And not in the sense of this mildly amusing farce:

Last weekend, my girlfriend was kind enough to humor me as we toured the Ernest Hemingway Foundation of Oak Park's Museum and House. As she observed me make remarks and critiques about far too many items at the Hemingway Museum and ask the Hemingway House tour guide never-ending, esoteric questions, two thoughts crossed my mind: a) she's a keeper, and b) I'm in my milieu.

Hemingway has been my favorite author since my first year of college. (T.S. Eliot earned his spot as #2 a few years back.) When I finished my senior year of college, I planned to attend grad school in rural Pennsylvania and write my thesis on gender roles in Men Without Women. Following that, my dissertation would take a new historical perspective on A Farewell to Arms. But, as a contemporary of Hemingway's wrote, things fall apart.

Luckily for me, things didn't really fall apart; the centre did hold. Rather than earning my master's in literature at this point, I've spent two years in working world, matriculated into DePaul's MA in writing program, found a girl who's willing to put up with my nerdiness, and managed to drop a few pounds in the process. With some tenacity, hard work, and good fortune, I've established a life that doesn't leave me contemplating regrets every day. (It does leave me paying sizable student loans payments on a monthly basis, though.)

I'm not well on my way to becoming the next Michael Reynolds or Scott Donaldson--names you honestly shouldn't concern yourself with recognizing (and the men themselves would probably echo my advice). Still, I'm happy.

Whether studying and reading Hemingway (and all those other terribly boring I-had-to-read-them-in-college books) will exist in a professional or personal capacity remains unknown; that they will endure regardless is certain. At this point in my life, that realization shows more professional growth than two years of grad school completed immediately after graduating from Capital would have ever given me. And all thanks to a little trip to Oak Park on a chilly Saturday afternoon.

We Don't Live Here Anymore

2008-04-13T23:51:00.010-05:00

Like many readers, I'm the proverbial--maybe even parabolic?--Doubting Thomas when it comes to film adaptations of books, particularly fiction. Throughout the years, I've watched one adaptation that was better than the book. (Primary Colors.) I've seen a few movies that come close to their corresponding books' greatness. (Wonder Boys and Short Cuts.) But, let's call it eight times out of ten, I'm disappointed. Yet through pure serendipity, I've watched a movie and then discovered it's much better book.

We Don't Live Here Anymore: Three Novellas comprises the lives of the Ashleys and the Lindens. New Englanders where the men are academics and the women are housewives. The plot doesn't go much of anywhere, but Dubus is a writer who relies on character development to craft stories more enthralling than whodunits, more sexual than Harlequin romances.

The challenge of writing about sex and relationships is avoiding tawdriness and cliches. You need hard edges and sanded corners. And here's how Dubus does it:

Sex: "On a moonlit summer night, in a cemetery six blocks from my house, lying perhaps among the bones of old whaling men, in the shadow of a pedestaled eight-foot bronze angel, Hank made love to my red-haired wife."

Relationships: They eat quickly, looking at the valley. Then Hank lies on his back while Lori sits smoking. When she puts out the cigarette she returns it to her pack.
"That does it," he says.
"What?"
"Anybody who'd take a stinking butt home instead of leaving it here out to be loved forever."

Somehow I doubt my upcoming stint at DePaul will teach me how to do what Dubus mastered 25+ years ago, but if I get halfway there, I'll be happy.

Application Denouement, For Real

2008-03-27T09:28:00.002-05:00

I have been accepted into DePaul's MA in writing program. A nice piece of news on an otherwise dull evening last night. Now that the top schools have replied, it's time to re-evaluate everything. Again. Why can't I ever make a decision between writing and literature? (I took the easy way out as an undergrad and declared both as majors.)

For those of you still checking in sporadically, more interesting posts will come soon, including one covering The Dyer's Hand, an insightful collection of essays by W.H. Auden. But, for now, it's time to think about my future, career possibilities, scholarship, and--you guessed it--more debt.

Application Denouement

2008-03-09T10:47:00.002-05:00

All grad school apps, including every writing sample, resume, CV, and the like are complete. Mailed. Finally.

The top contenders remain Northwestern and DePaul. Considering I just mailed my transcript, writing portfolio, and statement of purpose to DePaul Friday, I probably can't make an informed decision for a month or more. Northwestern did accept me into its MA in literature program. And yes, there goes any hope of affording a condo anytime soon. (Not that I was planning to buy.)

On a more humorous--OK, it's really mildly amusing at best--note, I'm attending IIT's grad school open house this Thursday for no other reason than receiving reimbursement for my application fee. 40 bones is 40 bones, man.

Priceless

2008-03-05T12:40:00.004-06:00

The joys of Weight Watchers Online for Men:

Found Poetry

2008-03-04T18:09:00.002-06:00

A good friend wrote the following e-mail:

Definitely got my ballot out in time, so as not to disappoint the Bizzles of the world.

I did see Andy Stewart on Sunday. It was a disappointing crowd, but still a good show.

I don't see much potential for a depressing night. I think Hillary takes Ohio, but she'll lose the delegate count in Texas, because of the nighttime caucuses. She'll probably stay in the race no matter what happens, but I don't think she has much of a chance going forward. But I'm just a silly little Bliss, so we'll have to wait and see.

And in it I "found" a poem:

My ... world ... was a disappointing crowd,

But still a good show.

I don't see much potential ... in Texas ... going forward.
But I'm just a ... little Bliss ... see?

Indicators Of Progress

2008-02-24T14:23:00.005-06:00

Here's a little Jesse-is-so-Victorian tidbit for you: I've never smoked. Anything. But if I want to make some headway with this final grad school app, maybe I should:

The Best Cigarette

Billy Collins

There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.

The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.

How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.

Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Writing

2008-02-10T19:55:00.002-06:00

Blame my recent Raymond Carver kick for the verbose title, but it's a propos. Loyal readers will note that I talk--"talk" in the general communication sense--about writing. Not so loyal readers probably hopped ship because of my relentless metawriting, never really showing any progress. That or not devoting every post to weight loss, a reliable crowd-pleaser. But I digress.

Last evening, I said I was going to work on a short story. And I did. Novel concept, right? For me, yes. I'm diligent at work, writing data sheets, press releases, landing pages, case studies, and anything needed. Yet once I'm out of the office, my writing consists solely of IMs, e-mails, bulletin board posts, and the occasional entry in today's leading T.S. Eliot-inspired blog. I open the appropriate Word document, get a glass of water, and return to that blinking cursor. Then I remember there's Facebook, Wikipedia, Americanrhetoric.com, etc ... And then it's midnight.

Writing is difficult. My bachelor's in the field just means that I can do it a little better and quicker than the general populous, not much more than that. The process involves copious editing, endless revisions, diffidence over diction. There's always some character, some bit of the storyline, some part of you in everything. It's emotional. It 's thinking you've written something worthwhile, shelfing it for a month, and returning to read stiff dialog with pedantic exchanges, zero plot, and a questionable story you wonder is even worth telling. (That's usually after re-reading the first two pages.)

But last night, last night was a little different. I worked through the problems. Tossed out idea after idea, searching for an interesting plot to complement the characters and dialog. What I'm reading today isn't too bad. The intolerable wrestle with words and meanings won't depart anytime soon, but a tolerable wrestle with everything else is all I ask.

I need to add a few more pages to meet (but not exceed) the 10-page requirement my DePaul app, and I'm more optimistic about that actually happening than I've been in a long time. Yes, rounds and rounds of edits and revisions await me. But--but, but, but--I'm making headway, more than I have in the last two months. I'm even confident to leave a little teaser for all to enjoy that goes a little something like this:

The parts never come in on time. My VP of Customer Care is knocking on my door, assumably wanting to give me an update about how we’re going to lose Krebs’ account if these parts don’t come in now. They should’ve shipped Wednesday. I’m hunched down in my chair, trying to remove an ingrown toenail that feels like I’m giving birth out of my right big toe. It hasn’t learned to say something like, “Hey, Sid, it’s about the Krebs account,” while it knocks. Just another bug to log.

Always subject to change without notice. Finding balance between an interesting plot and meaningful story remains. Lord knows I didn't as an undergrad. But at least it's starting with some ... I think.

Sometimes It Does Take A Modernist

2008-01-28T21:23:00.000-06:00

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

Mr. cummings, that's one damn fine objective correlative.

As I've spent time applying to grad schools--broken-record spoiler--and catching up on some canonical works, I've realized something: I really enjoy it. Couldn't tell you if my career will follow suit, but I'm unequivocally looking forward to the classroom. Although I'd have no qualms if a student stopped by my office to discuss the aforementioned poem.

There She Blows

2008-01-22T21:04:00.000-06:00

As I walked to the Montrose El Station this morning, I saw a number of "Police - Do Not Cross" signs. As Chicago's Finest and their cruisers were nowhere to be seen, I didn't think much of the portent signs.

Then I reached the Montrose El Station ...

A broken water main was the culprit. No injuries, no fatalities.

You never know when a camera phone will come in handy.

Know Country For Cold Men

2008-01-20T09:29:00.000-06:00

Believe me, I do.

Time Takes Time, You Know

2008-01-14T23:42:00.000-06:00

More interesting entries to follow as my grad school apps near completion. At least I'm writing more, eh?

Missing: One Person; Lost Throughout 2007

2008-01-01T11:58:00.000-06:00

That's my six-word short story. But it's not fiction. Observe.

If losing a person is a bit of a stretch, I did lose one of these. Just my small part in going paperless.

Midwestern Modernism: Thanks, Mr. Lewis

2007-12-30T10:39:00.000-06:00

"This is America - a town of a few thousand, in a region of wheat and corn and dairies and little groves. The town is, in our tale, called 'Gopher Prairie, Minnesota'. But its Main Street is the continuation of Main Streets everywhere."

Aside from my long-standing interest in modernism, I'm particularly interested in the correlation between Midwestern life and modernism. So it follows that Sinclair Lewis' Main Street and I would be a nice fit. It's a good representation of modernism, but it's an exemplary description of Midwesternism.

To start, Midwesternism is a peculiar culture and region, mainly because the boundaries of the latter are so nebulous. As an Illinois native, there was never any question that I grew up in the Midwest. Protestantism was prevelant, but Catholicism flourished in its niches. Damn near everyone enjoyed homecooking like stuffing (not "dressing"), pot roasts, beef stroganoff, and, of course, turkey. Italian beat out every other ethnic food (with Mexican coming in as a close second). Californians were pegged as generally "out there"; New Yorkers were fast-paced and pretentious but preferred over Californians. We could drive in the snow--well, most of us could. We placed a large emphasis on family and sheltering youth from "the secular agenda."

Then I went to college in Ohio, a place whose inhabitants can't decide if they're Midwestern or not. Funny, I thought, we share an awful lot in common. Except, of course, my superior driving skills courtesy of a Chicagoland upbringing. A good friend--who correctly identified Ohio as a Midwestern state--and I constantly debated Missouri's status: Midwestern or Southern? I argued Midwestern (St. Louis); my friend argued Southern (everything else). Like good Midwesterners, we agreed to disagree. After all, we were both raised to pick our battles and appreciate our friends' strengths, not bicker over petty differences. Midwestern and manners go hand in hand.

According to Main Street, some of these Midwestern values have continued over the last eight or nine decades. And that includes the good and completely undesirable. Lewis, a Minnesota native, is incredibly adept at stepping outside his milieu and observing small-town Midwestern life as a foreigner would. Granted, he's condescening at times, as all of us are. He's also notorious for his expatriate status, as this particular quote of his illustrates: "I love America, but I don't like it." The quote doubles as a pretty good summary of Main Street.

The book's protagonist, Carol Kennicott, transplants herself from the Twin Cities to Gopher Prairie, Minnesota. She changes from an independent, career-minded woman to a country doctor's wife. Every attempt at changing Gopher Prairie and beautifying Main Street is thwarted by the town's de facto aristocracy. By the end, few of Carol's big ideas for the Midwestern hamlet come to fruition. She never loses her audacity, hifalutin' liberal ideas, or passion, but she does grow to appreciate being a member of a community, even if her role is the proverbial pariah.

Carol could be far more politic and diplomatic, but her zeal blinds her intuition. (It's like she's an actual person ... ) I won't spoil the ending, as it's outstanding and something akin to Hemingway's gift for concluding a story. But she doesn't have an affair, completely abandon Gopher Prairie, or defer her dreams. She balances compromise with integrity with her own acrid flair.

Today's Midwest has taken a few lessons from Carol Kennicott. It will never be like the coasts, just like it will never be the South. (Although the rise of NASCAR makes me wonder ... )

Burt Reynolds Tackles Suburban Ennui

2007-12-20T21:12:00.000-06:00

"This is the best thing that ever happened to this town. We might have to wait a minute until the church gets outta the way."'

Well, he did in 1972.

Deliverance is one of those movies I've always meant to get around to watching. Thanks to the advent of Netflix, it's now relatively easy to brush up on the classics.

Initially the movie poses an age-old question: Should we escape to or from nature? It's not a new debate, but Deliverance doesn't use a stock a the-city-will-suffocate-you or nature-will-eat-you-alive argument. As the four suburbanites encounter a once-in-a-lifetime quagmire, the predicament becomes one of civil obedience or lawlessness.

Sometimes it just doesn't matter which you choose; you're screwed either way, as Warren Beaty painfully learned. It's not a topic we should dwell on, but it's something we should remind ourselves of occasionally.

She Nailed It

2007-12-13T22:40:00.001-06:00

I've yet to achieve this level of weight loss--in pounds, yes; in percentage, no--but I can (un)comfortably confirm some of Megan Northrup's observations regarding society's view of the overweight and obese.

On Grad School

2007-12-10T00:09:00.001-06:00

Here's why I'm applying for an MA in literature:

Had I achieved a full night’s sleep that particular evening of my freshman year, I might not have chosen literature as an undergraduate major. But after four hours of unsuccessfully trying to sleep during a poorly executed, off-season camping trip, I decided to read a copy of The Sun Also Rises I’d packed in case of any “downtime.”

That frigid night served as my introduction to Hemingway; a few weeks later I submitted the appropriate triplicate-form paperwork to the Registrar’s Office, effectively changing my major from undeclared to a double major in literature and philosophy. My academic interest in philosophy flagged, but my fascination with literature conversely escalated, eventually leading to the addition of a professional writing major and creative writing minor.

Thanks to a professor—now a good friend—who encouraged me to enroll as a teaching intern for one of his freshman composition sections, I appended “teaching at the college level” to my list of personal goals. The freshman composition experience coupled with my work as a writing tutor showed that I could help students in the classroom and in private tutorials. I was hooked on helping students develop their arguments and polish their prose, regardless of majors. But teaching and studying rhetoric and composition would mean foregoing that which I enjoyed most: literature.

Now I’m ready to continue—better yet, reignite—my study of literature. My “real-world” job as a copywriter/technical writer is going well, but as I envision my life in ten or twenty years, academia is where I’d like to earn my living. The transition from the business world to academia will likely entail an initial pay cut, but that’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make. After watching my father endure a job for twenty-one years that doesn’t suit his interests or fortes, I’ve learned that the you-can-be-anything-you-want-to-be platitude requires a slight adjustment: Do what you love, and don’t care if the money will follow.

The chance to present papers on Hemingway, Eliot, and modernism; the opportunity to foster students’ proficiency in literature (and composition) and guide them in their undergraduate careers; the duty to enhance an English department that better serves all students—these are the challenges that will enrich my adult life and blur the line between work and pleasure.

Over the course of 2007, I fulfilled a central tenet of my bachelor’s degree: to write professionally. Now I’d like the chance to further my knowledge of literature and to apply that education to my career. (Where the creative writing comes into play remains to be seen.)

In Death in the Afternoon, Hemingway wrote, “Prose is architecture, not interior design.” I’m ready to learn more about his and other writers’ skyscrapers.

Acutally, D.H. Lawrence Is For Lovers

2007-12-03T20:56:00.002-06:00

Home ownership, bonsai cultivation, and Sons and Lovers: three things that require a bit of effort, time, and tenacity but, in the end, are completely worth it. Or so I've been told about home ownership and bonsai cultivation.

Sons and Lovers isn't the best Lawrence I've read--not that I've read multitudes of Lawrence--but the novel achieves what every bit of Lawrence's prose should: it provides complicated characters who aren't contrived or unrealistic, elucidates sexuality and love (and doesn't confuse or completely separate the two), and uses the class system to demonstrate that some of humankind's ugliest tendencies transcend the "statusphere."

Paul just can't seem to commit himself to marriage, though monogamy isn't really the problem. Clara, for the time, isn't terribly compatible with her gender role. Walter is an alcoholic, abusive father and husband. Calling Mrs. Morel overbearing is like labeling Dennis Kucinich as a centrist. But by the end of the book, I knew that each character was human. I felt a little sad for all of them; everyone at least tried to do some good. (Yes, even abusive alcoholics have their fortes, as much as we'd like to think the contrary.)

Sons and Lovers isn't Lady Chaterly's Lover in the sense that Jackie Brown isn't Reservoir Dogs. Admittedly, it's missing that oomph to catapult it from very good to great. But there's a lot to be said about the occasional oomphless work, especially if penned by D.H. Lawrence.

Unicorns, Atheism, and Debate

2007-11-25T11:02:00.000-06:00

Where do unicorns and theology converge? In the mind of a noted conservative author, apparently.

In a late October debate broadcast on C-SPAN 2's BookTV, Dinesh D'Souza observed that modern atheists, particularly Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins, passionately make light of that in which they do not believe. In the context of the debate, D'Souza was referring to Hitchens' devotion to renouncing the existence of God.

D'Souza mentioned that he does not believe in unicorns, but he has never felt the need to publish books that deny the existence of unicorns or to attend debates defending his position as an aunicornist. But, of course, D'Souza never mentioned if he'd act differently in a country where 90% of its population claims to believe in unicorns. Accordingly, he failed to consider whether he'd disregard unicornism if many Americans used its tenets as a rationale for morals, ethics, and even laws.

Maybe you'll think twice about the implications of unicornism when a young child mentions his or her belief in these ethereal stallions. Unless, of course, you're Dinesh D'Souza.

Eliot And Perspective

2007-11-17T13:24:00.000-06:00

I can't tell you why high school English teachers are bent on teaching "The Waste Land." Much more accessible (and meaningful) Eliot poetry is readily available for inculcating young minds.

"Ash Wednesday" is one of my favorite Eliot poems. Favorite poems, really. This particular stanza is something I'd carry in my wallet if a publisher made a nifty wallet-sized edition. (Beats throwing off my posture with stacks of business cards I never give away.)

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

Who's the blessed face? What's the voice he's renouncing? I'm not sure, but it doesn't matter much to me.

Rocky Mountain Nadir

2007-11-16T06:37:00.000-06:00

Have you seen this one courtesy of Tancredo's campaign?

Ogden Nash: The Everyman Theologian

2007-11-14T18:28:00.000-06:00

Looking for inspiration or a heady read? When I'm in that type of mood, I often peruse plagiarist.com. Ninety percent of the time I remain stuck on T.S. Eliot. (You could have guessed that one, right?) But when I'm searching for a chuckle or two, there's always a safe bet: Ogden Nash.

Yet even Nash has his deeper side. I stumbled upon one of my favorite poems of his that I actually included as an epigraph in my final paper for Intro to Religion. (This poem is much better than that paper.) Regardless, enjoy, folks.

I Didn't Go To Church Today
-Ogden Nash

I didn't go to church today,
I trust the Lord to understand.
The surf was swirling blue and white,
The children swirling on the sand.
He knows, He knows how brief my stay,
How brief this spell of summer weather,
He knows when I am said and done
We'll have plenty of time together.

The American Idea

2007-11-12T22:23:00.001-06:00

The Atlantic Monthly is celebrating 150 years this month. The editorial staff decided that the focus of the anniversary edition is the American idea. Not an American idea or American ideas, the American idea. If you haven't done so, take a gander at what today's writers, politicians, artists, businesspeople, educators, and intelligentsia think about the concept. (The issue has some other great content, and I didn't even make it to The Critics section before my December issue arrived.)

Readers are encouraged to chime in with their thoughts on the American idea in 200 or fewer words. The top three essays and five honorable mentions will be published in an upcoming issue. Guess what I devoted a chunk of my evening to?

Yup, it wasn't time spent revising a new short story (I actually have one ... it's just not coming along well), working on grad school apps, or catching up on work. But it was time spent writing. And maybe that' the start I need.

It's Bigger And Better, But It's Not Right

2007-11-12T20:35:00.000-06:00

Kieth Olbermann observed that President Bush failed to appear at Arlington National Cemetery on Veterans Day. Bush was busy in Crawford, Texas. Andrew Sullivan also noted that the vice president, not president, was the "face of the day." Send 'em but don't recognize 'em? Can someone please explain?

The No Sin Zone?

2007-11-11T18:59:00.000-06:00

I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings with this one, but my sentiments are only effective in plain, direct language: Bill O'Reilly is what's wrong with America. Maybe not everything that's wrong with America, but, say, at least a fifth of it. Perhaps more. I haven't analyzed all the empirical data yet.

His effrontery--not the good kind you see in stories of the courageous, Rosa Parks underdog or prescient, Al Gore visionary--and brashness does little to make headway with contemporary social/economic/religious/whatever issues. One of his most recent iniquities involves a student body that voted for a lesbian couple as the "Cutest Couple" for the upcoming yearbook. O'Reilly insists that social norms should dictate appropriateness regardless of civil liberties violations or blatant intolerance.

Yes, Bill, the kids may be doing it for a reaction. I'll give you that. The lesbian relationship could be a hoax. (As any relationship may be.) And I've admittedly never attended public school and know little of the rules that dictate pictures of lesbian couples appearing in high school yearbooks. But I'm willing to guess they're a)non-existent, b)ambiguous, or c)controversial. I'm hoping for the first, excepting the second, and aware that third will mean more time in court than any 17 year olds should have to endure.

If the couple ends up in court to fight the good fight, they can expect two things: more "fair and balanced" coverage in The No Spin Zone and my small charitable donation to help mollify their legal fees.

Purpose

2007-11-11T16:04:00.000-06:00

I created this blog as motivation to write more often. But, at least for today, it's served as yet another distraction. With that written, it's best that I get back to (or "start" if you want to get technical about it) work.