The Curmudgeonly Professor

Happy Eight Oh Eight Oh Eight

Happy 8-08-08. I'm not sure why the date is such a big deal, but some people think this is a cool date to get married; haven't heard about divorces yet. I Googled the date and found only a reference to some dark sounding disco club. Maybe it's something the Druids cooked up at Stonehenge. I don't think it has anything to do with the vast alleged "liberal conspiracy of the eastern press", but who knows. If anyone has any inside scoop on why this date means anything, let us all know.

Saturdays: Pros and Cons

During all of my years of teaching, I could hardly wait for Saturday during some busy weeks. Once a semester starts, teaching school is like getting on a treadmill that you are chained to and cannot get off until the last final exam is graded and the last grade recorded and the last grade whiner dispatched. Saturdays provided an opportunity to go to a quiet office and spend some uninterrupted time getting caught up, preparing for the following week, and relaxing a bit. No faculty meetings, no "got a minute" door knocks--although they did occur some Saturdays when a desperate student or two sought me out. No classes to teach, no calls from the department head's office or the dean's office, no imaginative student excuses, no one asking what they had to do to get an A--after they had probably already flunked two exams. Saturdays were perfect, despite a some times guilty conscience that I should be home helping my wife do chores.

Now that I am retired, Saturdays are just like every other day. No advantages remain for Saturday. Costco is jammed with every person in town, so there is no point in going there. Matlock reruns aren't running on Saturday, even though I rarely watch any of them any more because I am sick of them, but it's just the principle of the idea that this failure upsets my daily schedule. Brian Williams and Charlie Gibson are off for the weekend, so Charlie will not be around until the following Monday to tell me that he hoped I had a good day. We have to hope that no one will generate any big news over the weekend. Leno and Letterman are off until Monday, although I rarely find much on either show that is worth watching, and Letterman was unreliable this past week in running Great Moments in Presidential speeches. Again, it's the principle of the thing.

As a result, I almost wish I had an office to go to on Saturday just to vary the routine. I used to cringe when Velna's dad couldn't remember what day it was and thought that was really sad. Now, when one day folds into another and I haven't bothered to put the nice calendar I have up on the wall, I have to ask some days "What day is this?" Even Sundays used to be a bit different from the other six days. Now, except for church, Sunday is also just like every other day.

Thus, I always look forward to establishing my daily rhythms again on Monday. Leno and Letterman are back, unless they are taking one of their interminable vacations and running terrible reruns. The evening network news is back with their 30 seconds of "in depth reporting." Costco is once more a possibility, although my wife won't allow me to go because she fears that my average expenditures there are always $100. I spend part of Mondays each week wondering "Where did Saturday go? It used to be such a nice day."

When Some Wyoming Rebels Wanted to Create a New State

Just as I was getting ready to write this post, my niece Julie, who lives in Colorado, sent me a link to the same story I was about to post. After spending nearly 30 years in Wyoming, my home state, and after graduating from the University of Wyoming, coming back to teach there for nine years, and working for the Wyoming Legislature for nearly three years, I had never heard the story about "A State That Never Was in Wyoming." Kirk Johnson uncovered this historical incident for us in his New York Times article of July 24, 2008.

Johnson begins his article:

Sheridan, Wyo.--In early 1939, as talk of war in Europe clouded the horizon and hard times gripped the nation, a group of business and political leaders in this northern Wyoming city hatched an audacious, if not quite ridiculous, plan to break off huge chunks of Wyoming, South Dakota and Montana and form a new state.

The new state was to be called Absaroka, a Crow Indian word meaning "children of the large-beaked bird."

A street commissioner in Sheridan named A. R. Swickard appointed himself governor and began hearing writs of grievances, and how license plates were distributed along with pictures of Miss Absaroka of 1939, the first and apparently the last of her breed.

Seeking self-determination, according to former U. S. Senator Alan K. Simpson, the movement reflected the "fault lines" of political control in Wyoming between the southern end of the state, which was controlled by the Union Pacific Railroad and the railroad unions, and the ranch country of the north.

For an entertaining look at a little-known footnote to Wyoming and American history, watch Johnson's interactive search for the state Absaroka here.
Then read Johnson's complete New York Times article here.

Chairs Abandoned by the Roadside in Baltimore

This blog post is a continuation of my initial effort to explain "where I have been gone to" which I began in my English grammar post. The long and short of it is that I have had a rotten cold, the first in years of any kind, and I have been looking for cures. I thought about the beer Molly mentioned in an earlier blog of hers, but she advised me that this particular beer was 6.9% alcohol, and, as a Utah Mormon, is not on my to-do list. Molly is always looking after me.

My thoughts then turned to Molly's quest for photos of chairs abandoned by the roadside in Baltimore. I thought I was merely following her example by taking a photo of an abandoned wading pool in a dumpster, but she threw cold water on that and advised me it had no artistic merit. Actually, I hoped when I took it that I could use it to catch the sinner who dumped it there so the $500 fine for illegal dumping could be assessed.

So getting back to Molly's abandoned chairs, it occurred to me, as I am sure it has already occurred to her, but I'm just trying to be helpful after she has offered me good advice several times, that she could publish an album titled "Chairs Abandoned by the Roadside in Baltimore." This artistic venture would certainly beat painting pictures of Campbell Soup cans. A chapter could be written on the topic of each abandoned chair--who abandoned it, when it was purchased, who sat on it, why it was abandoned, the entire family history of the previous chair owner. It would sort of be like "An American Quilt," only we have abandoned chairs instead of quilt blocks. Surely it could become a movie as well as a best selling art album and work of fiction.

I believe I have previously suggested that the topic of abandoned chairs in Baltimore could be the subject of several doctoral dissertations in anthropology, social history, sociology, and economics. I've never heard, before, of anyone leaving abandoned chairs by the roadside in Paragonah Utah, Meeteetse Wyoming, or even in Ann Arbor Michigan. What is there about Baltimore that induces people to leave their abandoned chairs by the roadside? Are they averse to illegal dumping stuff in dumpsters or what?

The only other thing I ever learned about Baltimore while living in the D. C. and Pennsylvania for a few years was from the song: "Engine, Engine Number Nine" which I liked to listen to driving from State College PA to DC:

Engine, engine number nine,
Coming down the railroad line,
I know she got on in Baltimore.
A hundred and ten miles ain't much distance
But it sure do make a diff'rence
I don't think she loves me any more.

This is truly one of the saddest songs I ever heard, and the song never makes clear why she got in in Baltimore except that it sounds "right" in the song lyrics. The sad singer never knew "how much farther back did she get off." Just a tear jerker.

Please make allowance for the fact that I am not particularly well and my creative abilities have rather dwindled down to negative territory. I do hope, however, that I have offered my loyal blog commenter, Molly, a few constructive suggestions.

Why Do The Beetles Cross the Trail?

Now that the Curmudgeonly Professor no longer has to prepare lectures every minute, or dust off old ones at the last minute, he is free to meditate on the mysteries of life. It occurred to him one day that an important mystery surrounds the question: "Why do the beetles cross the trail?" One day, I noticed two large beetles, each starting from his or her own side of the trail, allowing for gender differences in the beetles. As each meandered to the center of the trail, I wondered if they would stop and visit when they came close to each other. But no, they met within an inch of each other and each just kept going in the other direction.

This event made me wonder: Why didn't the beetles stop and converse in the middle of the trail? Why didn't one of them ask the other "Why are you leaving that side of the trail?", or, "What do you expect to find on the other side of the trail?" And then, as each beetle continued to the side opposite from each started, did it occur to their beetle brains to consider: "Maybe I was just as well off on my own side. Maybe things aren't any better on the other side. Maybe there are no greener pastures."

All of which caused me to wonder, for example, why don't the people who live in Provo and work in Salt Lake move to Salt Lake? And vice-versa? Why does the traffic clog I-15 just because human beetles think they have to cross the trail, so to speak? I moved many times during my career because I thought the grass would be greener. Unfortunately, I discovered that troublesome colleagues, meddling deans, and a few nasty students inhabited all universities. I could have saved a lot of money and strain for my family if I had just stayed put to begin with. But that would have meant living out our lives in Laramie, Wyoming where the wind blows 365 days a year and the summer lasts five or six weeks every year. Something always comes up. Maybe I should have just stayed on the farm in Penrose Wyoming where I grew up and lived on a self-subsistence acreage raising turnips, rutabegas, and a few goats. But I will never know whether the two beetles ever thought they were better off for crossing the trail. And I have never really figured out whether I ever found any greener pastures for all my looking.

To Assess Guilt for Driving Gas Guzzler SUVs, read Judith Warner's NYT column

If you need to assess further guilt on those green foes who have luxuriated in spending thousands and thousands of dollars on gas and picking on poor little Toyota Avalons like mine, or if you need to feel guiltier yourself for getting caught up in the McAutomobile contest of the last two decades, read Judith Warner's column Domestic Disturbances in the July 10 2008 New York Times. Yes, I know the NYT is part of the liberal Eastern press but humor me on this one. Read the article here.

Robert Kirby Teaches Us a Wonderful Lesson in the Salt Lake Trib on Watching Fireworks

Robert Kirby, columnist for the Salt Lake Tribune, who typically skewers Utah culture with skill and wit, has written a glowing column that deserves to be read beyond the reaches of the Salt Lake Valley. Conservatives in Utah are afraid of the Tribune anyway because they have become convinced that it is a liberal newspaper, so such carefully discriminating readers don't see Kirby either. Kirby writes about the explosions that come from watching fireworks:

Explosions breed impatience, which in turn breeds a dangerous obliviousness. We rarely understand that we are fireworks . . . how we also sparkle, flash and die against the black screen of eternity.

Read the entire Kirby column here. It's worth a look.

June 30 2008: One Half of the Year 2008 in the History Books

Something rather ominous popped into my head today when I realized that not only had I seen the Matlock rerun episode today and that it was one I couldn't stand, but also that exactly one-half of the year 2008 was kaput, down the drain, done with, over, vanished, and that there was nothing I could do to recapture lost moments, missed opportunities, wasted time, and fractured days. The best I can say is that I survived another six months, that I outwitted my mean cardiologist who made me have an angiogram and lie flat on my back for 36 hours just so she could make sure I wasn't about to croak, and that I survived the Presidential Primary Sweepstakes, the he-said, no-she-said, no you didn't wear the flag pin, no you knew a jerk 20 years ago, and all related entertainment.

My son Ron regularly tells his dear wife that she is supposed to plan her work and then work her plan. I don't know why he does this, since he is usually in enough trouble disseminating other words of wisdom and merely adds insult to injury with this oldie but goodie. But I did think back to January 1, which seems like yesterday, and asked myself, "Excactly how did you plan to whittle away the next six months?" I thought doing household chores like vacuuming, emptying the trash, emptying the dishwasher, and planting my tomato plants among the petunias would likely take up about 63.2 percent of my time.

Now I ask my readers, does this tomato plant in my petunia patch look healthy or what?

Then I budgeted 10% for Matlock reruns, 10% for fixing my breakfast and lunch since my wife does not run a breakfast or lunch business around here, 10% for reading newspapers, including the Powell Tribune, my hometown newspaper from Powell, Wyoming, the finest town in the country, which I regularly try to read to my wife who regularly informs me she is not interested. Can you imagine? Add to that the attention I pay the three or more blogs I keep paying some attention to, the effort it takes to get ready every day, the morning walk, the nights when I can't sleep, and my efforts to play Name that Tune with my spouse, and you can see I am way up over 150% of my time, budgeted to the max, just like the federal budget deficit.

Is it any wonder my desk is still mired in old book bills, unanswered correspondence, newspaper clippings, software gizmos, and that I haven't yet filed or put away the junk I hauled up to Salt Lake City from St. George? No, the pressure of overload was just way far too great, and I haven't even counted the % of time I needed to spend on a little nap here and there, or the time I spent reading a bunch of books and ordering a bunch more. It was hard even to find time to sign my tax returns after my wife, our chief financial officer, compiled all the data and put the return in front of my nose to sign. I even went out and hoed my tiny garden spot today and began counting the ripe tomatoes that will appear shortly so I can get out my Vita-Mix and crank out an endless flow of fresh salsa. Oh, yes, and I forgot the time commitment to make regular trips to Costco and Wal*Mart, at least when I get permission to accompany my wife on condition that I am not going to be a pain in any bodily area.

So you can see where my six months of Two Oh Oh Eight went to. Now I have got to give serious thought to planning my next six months so that I can work my plan and try diligently not to annoy my wife, other relatives, and try to avoid going to sleep in church so maybe I can still repent. So I will dust off my twelve-step improvement project and get ready to roll. See you in six months.

Fact of the Day: How Many Americans 18 and Older are Single?

According to USA Today:

According to the most recent Census data, 42% of U.S. residents--about 92 million Americans ages 18 and older--are unmarried. More than 30 million live alone, making up 27% of all households; that's up from 17% of all households in 1970. (USA Today, "More than friends, but no longer boys and girls", June 23 2008, p. 7D.)

"Adults Stumble on What to Call Their Romantic Partners." Read the entire story here.

Dear Liz: It took you 16 minutes to comment on the poppies

You're a little slow this morning!