The Tale of Semester Bunny

Hop, hop, hop, hop, hopping along. The final Friday of classes. The opening of fishing. The two classes before I flee. The problem with sentence fragments.

I'm constantly telling students to correct the fragments in their writing, yet I notice myself disobeying the rules quite a bit. I explain this by acknowledging the importance of fundamentals. Learn it once and then you can make style decisions. I wonder about basketball though. It seems like high-schoolers are always getting called from travelling. The NBA rarely calls travelling.

My brother's coming home this wknd, and we're going to meet my dad and his friends for an opening wknd party. I'm looking forward to this; I'm also looking forward to the warm weather.

May the duck of luckiness descend upon your pond.

What's khaki, red, and misleading?

You might already know about this. You may have been fooled. You'll surely want to go and see.
The answer? What's khaki, red, and misleading? Target shoppers who dress like employees. Has it happened to you? You're looking for something, but not ready to ask for assistance. You've made eye contact with 3 or 4 authentic employees, but you're not really in need of their help quite yet. You'll find what you're looking for. Besides, Target is a pleasant store, and for the most part, full of pleasant people; a leisurely walk around the aisles isn't an inconvenience. Finally, you decide that it's time to get some help. You see red and ask, "excuse me, where can I find the microscopes?" The woman turns and you realize that she's not an employee. She just happens to be wearing a red top and khaki pants. As you continue your walk around store, slightly embarrassed, but still looking for the science section, you begin to notice the multiple decoys that are out shopping today. I'd be curious to know if it's happened to you. Or, have you been the one wearing the red? Keep your eyes peeled; you'll find it curious.

TGIM

It's been such a long time

And I was just a child then

What will you say

When you see my face?

Time feels like it's flown away

The days just pass and fade away

What will you say

When they take my place?

"What Will You Say"-Jeff Buckley

Oh boy, Monday, Monday, Monday!

When I was younger, Monday was winter in the season of my week. It was the seedbed where I'd plant my plans for the upcoming wknd (wknd=weekend, this is probably one of the only abbreves ((abbreviations)) that I use on a regular basis; the only reason I mention it is that I am usually the first person to wag a grammar/style finger at abbreviations; so. . .hyp, hyp, hoorayocrite!). Monday would also serve as time of reflection, a time when I would be happy for the snows of time to accumulate over the sometimes happy, sometimes sad, but always fun, events of the previous wknd. I'm talking about Monday because so many people want their Mondays silent and unacknowledged. Monday's the first unfun portage of the trip. Monday's the first few innings when you're team's behind. Monday is Moon day.

So, I've been listening to J. Buckley, and still think that he's probably the most interesting musician I've been exposed to. His voice, guitar playing, and lyrics are pretty much exceptional. The lines above are from one of my favorite songs from the live "Mystery White Boy" cd. In an hour, I'm going to go the resort I used to work at and inquire about possible bar tending. I worked at this place for years and it was a lot of fun. I guess this thinking about the past might be one of the reasons that I zoned in on this song.

Do you remember the people who loved Nirvana and then disowned them when they became regular radio favorites? The same observation could be made about countless artist/audience interactions that continue to take place forever. I've always enjoyed commenting on this, trying to remain above the fray, yet always happy to acknowledge my self-assigned ability as a musical meteorologist. Well, I heard that Buckley/Cohen's "Hallelujah" was being covered on American Idol (I think that I heard this late, through itunes in fact, so I guess that my antennae trend tracking equipment are broken).

As much as I don't mind a Monday, I'm a little salty about the fact that probably the most straight-up beautiful Buckley recording has been soiled by the indiscreet glissando monsters of AI. I know that Buckley's version is just that, a version of Leonard Cohen's words. I've heard Willie's version and Rufus's, but I don't know if I'm ready for an AI interpretation. Shooooooooot. (To anybody that's reading, the egotistical nature of blogging just hit me--talk about a soapbox. I say again, shooooooooooooooooooooot.) Into the future! Enjoy Jeff Buckley!

Take re mote to the ballgame!

Whoooooohooooooo! The Twins home opener is less than four hours away! I've been waiting for this all winter. Spring is really back, even though the dome will most likely be covered with snow this last day of March. The Twins are playing the undernamed Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, and I hope that these Califunkians enjoy the snow. I know that it'll be gone directly, but I hope it throws off their game. It'll be great to see Torii Hunter back, but it'll be strange. We can all agree on that. It will be really interesting to see the crowd react to Hunter; I'm sure that it will be reverent and civilized. I think that this quote from Gardenhire sums up the feeling here in MN:

"I love him dearly," Gardenhire said. "And I hope he goes 0-for-16."

So, I'm very excited to get home, kick back and watch the new look Twins.
I got my taxes done last week and I'm happy that it's over. Besides a few last loose strings, this is perhaps my last financial interaction with the state of CA. Here's hoping. Whenever I think of taxes, I think of Prince John from Disney's Robin Hood. I know it's a kid's movie, but dang I love it. Check out this funny little sliver:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLRlzdoVgSI&feature=related

Peter Ustinov as Prince John is phenomenal. I think that the misremembered script for this movie has been a part of every BWCAW trip I've ever been on. Hooray for a nicely timed quote! Oooodalolly.

Cell-phone minutes don't grow on calling trees

Last fall I was helping a buddy paint a room in his new house, and he borrowed my phone to call his wife. I thought the conversation was getting a little long, especially since it didn't occur after 7pm, before 7am, or on the weekend. I told him this line about minutes and trees and shared a chuckle with my paint roller. My buddy didn't appear to hear. Dang phones. In class last night, we had a big discussion about the causes of cell-phone popularity and the effects on the future of our culture. It was a good discussion. Pheople are phassionate about their phones. Over my dis, mis, and unwild SB, I was told by an old friend in the cities that my phone was a bit large. I don't think that this is the case. I should provide a picture. I brought up this phony critique to my class last night and they wanted a description. I began by saying that the letter "z" was not in the name and they became skeptical. After guessing at the dimensions, I added that it has an antenna--snorts, guffaws, and giggles greeted this revalation. I'm planning on bringing my phone to class next week. I'm guessing they're expecting a backpack style carrying case. When I look back at my 30th year, I think that cell-phones and students loans will overshadow this stage of my life. Pax.

A little something from my personal stash. . .

I still intend to finish writing about the unwild SB 'o8, but I've got a whole bunch of papers to grade. One thing has led to another this afternoon, and I need to get grading, but in my afterinternetnoon journey, I ran across a story from the other side of Lent that I wrote about 3 years ago. I also found something that I wrote last year when I began teaching in SoCal. Here they are, presented without commercial interuption. The short story (maybe the only one I've ever finished) is called "Strange News". The other collection of words is, I think, my first blog ever. I was living in an apartment where I was getting internet access w/o paying for it, and that's what I'm yammering about initially. Enjoy.

Strange News

Upon receiving the call, Cantilever was stunned. This appeared to be the sign that he'd been hoping to see. The day was Ash Wednesday and he was unsure whether or not he should attend the mass that evening. It had been over ten years since he'd attended any mass. In a cautious attempt to see whether any symbols would guide him, he walked out into the world. A stop at the used bookstore, Gabriel's, offered nothing. He continued his stroll around the neighborhood. After buying bread at the grocery store, he stopped at St. Michael's Church. The doors were unlocked and he went in.
The inside of the Church was bigger than the one he'd spent the early Sundays of his life in, though not as awe inspiring. Of course, that could have been the divide in time between the past and the present or the shift in perspective that accompanies aging. He grabbed a little book on the significance of Lent, and after a couple passes around the interior of the building he went home. Trying to read a bit, he realized that he still felt distracted and decided to call his grandmother; she always came to mind whenever he thought of Catholicism. He'd decided that if she mentioned anything about it being Ash Wednesday, then it would be settled, he'd attend the mass. She didn't say anything about it. He thought that she was going to when she mentioned that Grandpa had fasted that morning, but this was due to the possibility that he would have to have a blood test at his monthly check-up. Grandpa did have the test, and the fasting was a good thing. He said goodbye to his grandmother and wished her well until they saw each other again.
Next he called his girlfriend, who was at work. She'd sent him an e-mail earlier in the day discussing the possible plans for that evening. She'd mentioned mass, happy hour at a co-worker's or dinner and said it was his choice. He called and told her about the absence of any obvious sign. They'd spoken of the lack of religion in their lives and he understood that he could discuss this with her. They had a candid conversation, involving an unfinished analogy about the significance of yellow at a traffic light, and decided that they would see each other around five that night and figure out what to do.
Still too distracted to read, he thought of the previous night bartending. It was an awards dinner for the Knights of Columbus and the guest speaker, a Benedictine sister, talked about the shortage of people entering religious vocations, the negative and positive impact of the Vatican II council, and the significance of the change in religious attire for Nuns. The Knights and their guests were all fairly old and the Benedictine sister made the point that, in her experience, many young people, whose parents had moved away from the church during the late 20th century, were reaching out, across the generations to speak with grandparents about the Church. This was exactly the desire and curiosity that Cant had been experiencing for the last five or six years. He went downstairs and took a shower. When he got back upstairs, he noticed that he had a message on his phone. It was from an unlisted number. "Hi, I'm calling from St. Michael's church in Lakeside and I'm reminding you that today is Ash Wednesday and there is a seven o'clock mass, and we would love to see you this afternoon. Thanks and have a great day."
He spent some time considering the implications of this call. Today had been the only time in his life that he'd entered the Church of St. Michael's, and though he'd really wanted to speak to somebody while there, he didn't see anybody and certainly didn't leave a phone number. He understood that this must be the sign that he'd spent that morning looking for. He concluded that all members of the community must have received a similar call. In no way did the fact that this call was random hinder his delight about its appropriateness and timing. He went downstairs and told his sister-in-law about the experience and asked whether she'd received a similar call. She hadn't. He called his girlfriend, excited to tell her about this strange news. She wasn't in, so he left her a message, attempting to explain how strange the afternoon's course of events had been.
His mind was at ease and he began reading his book again, determined to attend the mass that evening at seven. After some time his phone rang. It was his girlfriend. He picked up and asked whether she'd heard his message. She had. She was giggling. He began laughing too. He assumed that the strange power of coincidence was affecting her. He told her how the whole thing was so strange and hard to believe. She made it easy, telling him how it was her co-worker who had left the message.

Ok, and now this is a bit from February '07:

Agghhhh, the stab and slash life of an internet pirate. Some rum times I'm online, and other times I amn't. Blog, blog, blog. As I told my friend Andy, blogging sounds like a German thing to do. So here I am premeditating, processing words and I'm not even connected! I'm anticipating my readers, reaching out through time and eventual fiber-optics to spin you this yarn. . .a blogyarn. Oui. First, let me tell you though, I really wish I didn't have to live this shadow hopping internet life! I wish I had my very own connection to the Amazon and the Google, but alas, I dunnit, and their absence makes me sad; however, I'm not paying for what I do get when it's good, so I guess I'll take the ups with the downs, the silver with the slivers, the wine with the hangovers.
There's this character in my afternoon class and his name is Harry Johnson. I'm not kidding. He's a flippin' hoot. He's a middle aged black guy, and I've nominated him as my all-time substitute if I can't make it to class. He wears overalls, has an endearing lisp and shares a head shaving schedule with me. Twice now, after I fear that the bucket is getting too shaggy, I've shaved, and low and behold, next time I see him, he's done it too! Good ol' Harry, he's the only student with the book so far and he reads it. So today, we basically spent some time talking about Ishmael while the other 27 students listened for words that I say with a Minnesotan accent. So far the funniest thing has been my pronunciation of the word root. I guess I say it more like rut, and the rest of the high-desert says route. I tell them that that sounds Canadian to me and they say that they don't care. So Harry and I talk about the book. After a little while we move on to Grammar. (I said, "over the river and through the woods, to Grammar's house we go", to my morning class and they all agreed it was funny. Even the resuscitation dummy in the back of the room ((for whatever reason this 8am class meets in one of the medical rooms)) appeared to enjoy it. I swear that Bob ((the name given to the dummy)) moved a bit with the mirth of it all, since the pillow that some student mercifully put over his freaky blank face wasn't in place after class. I've never been able to discuss the dummy in the back of the room with the rest of the class before and find the whole subject adventurous.) So my grammar carol didn't work in the afternoon class. I heard some hisses out of Harry, but the rest of the accent academy said it was hokey. I told them that I think the word hokey is cheesy and we all wasted 10 more minutes talking about different words. At one point during our pre-flight check for grammar, we discussed the memory trick of using acronyms to remember somewhat practical things. FANBOYS=(the coordinating conjunctions) for, and, but, or, yet and so. They wanted more of the same but I couldn't think of anything grammatical. I did, however, remember the names of the Great Lakes trick. HOMES! I wrote this on the board and turned around and said, in a ridiculous sounding voice, "hey Holmes". As soon as I said it, I realized where I was, and figured that big, dumb, white, me was going to hear about it. . .but no, everybody laughed and I even learned new phrases that I'll never use until I verify their meaning with a Spanish/English dictionary. After class, one gal lingered and told me that she'd seen the movie Fargo and that I didn't really sound like I was from MN, ever. I said thanks about that and admitted that she didn't sound like she was from high-school, ever. Ok, that's it, I think that I'm back online, and you'll know it if you're reading this. . .

Spring Break '08: First Movement

The word "wild" doesn't even begin to describe the events of this year's Spring Break. Mostly because it's been pretty routine. For those of you playing along at home, shoving a little wooden representation of Peeps (my trusty car) and me around a state map, let me bring you up to speed. I'll have to keep this brief since the sun is up and the waves on Superior are looking choice. Here's how things have happened:

• The bell rang at school on Friday afternoon, and in new shoes I ran into the afternoon. I felt great, relaxed, and free. It was the beginning of SB '08! After I put my school bags in my car, making sure that my laptop was placed on the backseat in manner that would prevent falling in case I had to break hard, I walked back into the school to make sure that I'd locked the door to the office suite. However wild I thought about feeling, I didn't want to jeopardize anything.
• My ace buddy and I went to the Last Turn Saloon and met some teaching pals there. It was a lot of fun. Though initially, the excessive talk about global warming, floating garbage islands, and fuel prices was a bit sobering, the Finnegan's Irish Amber eventually righted our craft (it takes 1oz. of Finnegan's to get the brain moving, and then electrical impulses can take over between draughts).
• Leaving Baxter and Brainerd, Peeps and I travelled to Aitkin. I got to my folks' place on the river, and in the absence of a white cross drawn in chalk on the door, I walked right in. Within 10 minutes I was on the road, heading north to Emily. It seems that there was an influenza blight of some sort battling my most excellent parents. After offering my services as a retriever of soup or 7-up, I retreated, knowing that a run in with flu at this early stage of SB would severely hamper the expression of my freedom.
• I made it to my friend Strong Johnson's house at 8:30pm. I'd asked him to raise a mug at the distant Brainerd Saloon earlier, but he was unable. We both agreed that the universe had willed us together, so we had a drink, sang some songs, and travelled deeper into Emily to visit the Log Cabin, where Strong's g-friend, M-gan works (Drink Consumed: White Russian Songs Sung: "Here's a Quarter, Call Someone Who Cares", "Angel Eyes", "Wagon Wheel").
• At the bar in Emily, I first realized the potential power of a blog. The service was excellent, and the music was great. I was feeling a bit irreverent and began asking for things that I knew I couldn't have: ashtray, money back for peeled and returned pull tabs, and a phone to call in an incorrect pizza order (seemingly making the incorrect pizza, once cooked, free for attendant patrons). My increasingly and seemingly humorous ideas were being turned down repeatedly. Feeling powerless, I said "Oh, well, I guess this will all be in my blog [arms spread to indicate all details physical and conversational]." This idle bluff became a favorite line that night. Of course I was kidding, but here I am, 2 days later, blogging about it! Little did I know that my somewhat bleary oaths would actually find credence here.
• In conclusion, I'd like to muse upon this idea of blog imitating life. In the past, SB's might have been considered decadent, but I didn't think that I'd consider decadence a possibility this time out. However, it seems that my silly and good-natured threats at the bar, have become reality. Experimenting with blogs and hinting at their ability to right social wrongs (actual or perceived) may be something that I, and others like me, should leave to the professionals. There is a philosophical and physiological interface taking place that I'm unprepared for. It appears that this may be a gateway blog, perhaps leading to harder blogs. I'll keep you posted as the experiment continues. Next stop: Duluth.

Schematic of Ramble: Coldplay Compromise, Thoughts on Couch, Too Much Stache

Thanks a lot 40 Year Old Virgin for messing with my perception of Coldplay. I'm sitting in the front room of my brother's place in Duluth, looking out the big front window. I'm listening to Coldplay. I've spent a lot of time in this room, and I just saw the girl next door get her daughter out of the car and they both walked to the house. I remember sitting here when she and her husband were moving in; I remember sitting outside and hearing that they were going to get married; I was helping out, mowing the lawn, when I first realized she was pregnant; life is great and moving and I'm slowing it down, writing through windows. Wild man, wild.

Anyway, after writing that, I feel equal parts Rear Window, The Burbs, and Lady in the Water.

I'm in town for a good friend's 30th b-day tonight. I got here yesterday afternoon, and of course, as so often happens, many of us who will meet again tonight, got together for a rehearsal happy open ended hour. It was fun. I learned that there's a Mustache March movement among my friends here. Being bearded, I find myself a part of the gang.

Each summer a group of us go to the BWCAW to fish, have adventures, and recharge our mental batteries. It's a big deal to have the newest and lightest equipment. I completely understand the idea of reducing weight in the pack, but this whole concept is often taken to silly extremes. I know that REI and the Mountain of Gander make money hand over fist during the week prior to our departure. More than once have I run into a fellow member of the team up there, purchasing the very item we'd all laughed about as being unnecessary and excessive the night before at a planning meeting. It seems that each year there's one new item that everybody derides initially, but purchases eventually. It's an honor to produce the newest and coolest item. To watch all your buddies fall in line with your suggestion. No one really ever takes credit, and we don't really keep track of this honor, but somehow it remains important.

One implement that has been nixed from day one is the razor. Though there are camp shaving kits available, our group has avoided them. Actually, one rookie brought one once, and he's never been on the trip again. This has less to do with the contraband razor, and more to do with the fact that he hoarded communal jerky. He admitted this to us once when a few of us were in St. Cloud. After his one and only trip, he threw his clothes and gear in the basement and forgot about them. I guess that two months later he remembered the secreted jerky when he found a mass of maggots among his gear. Gross, I know. Serves him right. Anyway, in the absence of razors, everybody's face gets bushy. One fun tradition that we share and laugh about (though I've learned that the humor isn't universal) is going out the first night we get back. Everybody agrees to clean up, but leave the stache. I think that this only happened once. There are pictures though. I think they're hilarious. I showed them to my mom and she didn't understand why I was laughing so much. She grew up in the 60's and 70's and the mustache was common.

So, last night when I learned of the Mustache March movement I took a little trip down memory lane. And reader, you came with me. Here's a group shot from a few years back. In this picture, taken in the Huntley Acre Wood, you see, from left to right, Ben, Joe, Matt, Myself, and Dave. Now in order of mustache creepiness: BEN.

Many heads were nodded about the idea of Mustache March, and tonight I guess that I'll see how many people remember their pledges. Five o'clock shadows all around I'm guessing. Only one brave character attended last night's gathering with a true stache, and his name is Dan. He was a good sport about it. He got a lot of crap, but in the end I think his beery and bleary bearing triumphed. I think there will be more than a few lip warmers beginning today.

Another funny term and phrase:

Catterlipper: this is a term that Joe and I came up with a few years back. It references the peculiar mustache of an upstairs neighbor. We kept imagining a caterpillar on his lip.

Stache must ride! :This was a silly and mashed up battle cry a couple years back. It came up multiple times last night, but originated within a Chester Park home. Actually, it was Chet's house, but not really his park.

It's been quite a ramble thus far. The sun is out and I'm feeling good. Phones are ringing and people are getting ready to assemble. Stories are emerging: "where'd you end up staying last night?"; "what time was it when I left?"; "did the band really play that song, or was that guitar hero?" Ah yes, back in Duluth, and it feels a lot like those heady days of my freshman year. However, now I should be grading papers, rather than writing them. Shoooooooot, it's Saturday though! Daylight Savings tonight. . .oh boy, an extra hour.

I better get back to reality. I'm going to quit looking through windows. I'm going to put on The Hold Steady in favor of Coldplay, and get ready to laugh and hang out with friends. Happy Saturday.

April Is the Coolest Month. . .

Ahem. . .is this thing on? Hello there, my name is Norm Depluhem and I'm a long time reader, first time writer. I'm not sure what this blog will concern itself with, but over time I think that it will become evident. I know that I'd like to discuss some of my favorite things here. I really like books, songs, Minnesota, birds, camping, card games, alchohol, fishing, and baseball. For now though, I'm happy to introduce my picture to your eyes and to wish you a very happy Friday. I hope that I can recruit some fellow intervestigating writers to join this endevour. I love movies, but say that I hate tv; however, I know that I'm telling the truth.