Political Pumpkin

Enjoy the glow from my Barack Obama pumpkin.  I got the stencil here.

Haunted House

A friend of mine suggested that since Halloween is approaching, we should visit a haunted house.  There are a number of these places around Atlanta, where people take over part of a mall and turn it into a maze full of vampires and smoke machines.  We found the address, next to a discount furniture outlet, and we knew we were in the right place when we saw various monsters wandering around the parking lot, making menacing gestures at squealing teenagers. The lizardy alien with glowing red eyes chased us to the ticket booth.  There were two paths to choose from, one called "Mangler", the other "Carnivore."  We went for the latter, and I noted that you'll never hear of a horror attraction called "Vegetarian".  

Upon entry, the first thing you see is a TV attached to a night-vision security camera - a novel way of reassuring the visitor that they won't get lost in the dark, and also dissuading anyone with funny ideas.  After the safety briefing about not smoking or eating, you walk through a labyrinth of corridors and chambers, each filled with a different variety of scary stuff, including actors who ham it up to great effect.  There was no unifying theme or logic to the place other than "BOO!", so the werewolves hung out in the mad scientist's laboratory, while a chainsaw maniac was guarding the occult temple of skulls.  Whatever.  Even though I kept repeating "It's only a theme park", we were a couple of nervous nellies, and I think I annoyed the group of teenagers in front of us with my screaming.  Still, I reserve the right to scream when an axe-wielding clown jumps out of the shadows at me.  I had read the website before we went, and one of the FAQs was "can you get lost?".  The answer is no, since it is not a maze, and while there are areas where you are meant to get disoriented, staff members will appear to direct you to the exit if you get turned around.  I required re-orientation in the hall of mirrors.  After a few minutes of running around in circles and screaming at my own reflection (yes, really), a helpful zombie lady shuffled in and stuck out her arm to show me the door.  

An Honest Day's Work

Last weekend I volunteered to help build a Habitat for Humanity house.  My church organized the work group, and it was quite amazing to see how much we did in a day.  I loved meeting the future owner - a woman who works as a doula, and who specializes in teen mothers.  She's building the house for her and her kids, plus she is raising her sister's children, all of whom came out to work on the house.  The crew from the previous weekend had put up the exterior walls and the interior studs, and we did the whole roof, installed the windows, and started the back deck.  I was on roof duty, and I successfully navigated the struts and nailed the plywood pieces into place.  When I say I was "successful" I mean "I did not fall off the roof".  It is a strange experience to work on a roof when the house is full of people hammering nails - the echoes change every time you install another piece, and the vibrations can be unnerving.  After a lunch that reminded me of why everyone in America has type-2 diabetes, I started working on window installation, which involved yet more hammering.  I did so much hammering, sometimes I did it with my left hand just to keep things interesting.  Being an academic and unaccustomed to manual labour, I found that by the time I got home I had to take a tylenol and put my right arm in ice to recover.  This made me feel a bit lame, so to speak.  

Let Your Fingers Do the Walking

I am on the job market, as usual, so I spend a lot of my time reading academic job ads.  They rarely make interesting reading, except that they sometimes reveal levels of confusion within a given department, like the ad that said they were looking for an expert in "silent and sound cinema".  My understanding of film history is that "silent and sound" is the same as "everything".   I am used to this type of vagueness, but a recent ad takes specificity to a new level.  It starts out normally, but then it descends into absurdity, with some mystifying details about the successful applicant they have in mind:

"Presents classroom lectures that are logical and coherent".  Well, ok, but it's sad that you have to state this.

"Treats others with respect and consideration regardless of their status or position; Accepts responsibility for own actions; Follows through on commitments."   Everything I need to be a professor I learned in kindergarten.  

"Ability to read and interpret documents such as research studies, administrative policies, and journals, newspapers, etc."  I should note that the first requirement for this position is that you have a PhD.  Ability to read?  Newspapers?  I should mention in my letter that I, like Governor Palin, have read "all" the newspapers?

There is an entire section entitled "Reasoning Ability", which includes such gems as: "Ability to apply logic as appropriate."  When is it not appropriate?  "Ability to interpret instructions furnished in written, oral, diagram, or schedule form."  I refuse to read schedules!

The physical requirements are truly bizarre:

"Vision requirements include ability to read student assignments and grade appropriately."  May I remind my reader that this is a film studies job.  And which body part do we watch movies with?

"The employee is required...occasionally to use hands, fingers, and frequently to talk or hear."  Only occasionally to use hands?  It makes me want to get this job and then push this point, i.e. "I totally used my fingers ten minutes ago, so I'm not doing it again until tomorrow."    Or, "My contract says I have to talk OR hear, not both."

"The noise level in the work environment is usually moderate.  Noise could include interaction with students, faculty, staff, and the public; other noise may be generated by telephones, computers, or instructional equipment."  I feel compelled to get this job just so I can run out of the room screaming when the telephone rings.  I might even wave my fingers around.

My question is, what kind of lunatic did they have to fire to make the lawyers write up this ad? One of my colleagues said that it sounds like a job ad written for aliens who are unfamiliar with life on planet Earth.  I hope I at least get an interview so I can find out what happened.  

Blessing of the Animals

This morning was the Blessing of the Animals service at my church, and it was everything I had hoped.  For one thing, everyone there (including me) was straight out of the Preppy Handbook - never have I seen so many Chocolate Labs and King Charles Spaniels.  There was also an array of rescued Greyhounds, some with missing limbs and others with surgery scars, but all of whom were happy to be in a crowd of animal lovers.  It was standing room only, so we sat on the floor at the back, and Mollie lay down quietly amid the cacophony.  The woman next to me had a Pointer puppy named Pinto who alternated between leaping around and sitting on me.  She said, "Thank goodness you're an animal lover."  Mollie was extremely well behaved, and she even stood up for the reading of the Gospel.  There were no parrots in attendance, alas, but there were some hamsters inside those plastic balls, and a few brave cats.  I was disappointed when I overheard someone saying that they had left their iguana at home.  The role of "escaped animal running crazily through the congregation" was played by a Jack Russell Terrier, who embraced the role with gusto.  He was eventually captured, and as his owner carried him away, he had an expression of doggie pride at a job well done.  During the Eucharist the priest went through the congregation to bless all the critters and those who care for them. At coffee hour we chatted with another priest who is heavily into cat rescue and was full of stories about Border Collies who have real jobs herding sheep in Colorado.  

Vote or Die

It was a glorious day in Atlanta today, so everyone went to the park to have picnics, play frisbee, and walk their dogs.  While walking mine I noticed that the voter-registration people were out in force, getting everyone signed up to make democracy happen.  A mother-daughter team approached me and asked if I was registered.  I said "Thank you for asking, but I'm not American." The mother said "Oh, I don't think that matters."  I suggested that it did, but she wouldn't take no for an answer:

Woman: Do you have a driver's license?

Me: Yes, but I'm not a U.S. Citizen.

(Woman consults clipboard)

Woman: Are you a legal resident of Fulton County?

Me: Yes, but...

Woman:  Well then you can vote.

Me:  I'm pretty sure you have to be an American citizen to vote.

Woman:  But if you live here legally you can register.

Daughter:  Mom, that doesn't sound right.

Me: I'm Canadian.

Woman:  Let's look at the list again...driver's license...social security number...over 17 years old...not a felon....

Me:  I don't want to get deported.

Woman:  Oh, wait, I guess you have to be all the things on the list.

(Daughter rolls eyes)

Me: Yes, I imagine so.  But thank you for your dedication.  Good luck! 

While this was going on, I was on my cell phone with a Canadian friend who works in the U.S. As she listened to this confused repartee, she found herself seconds away from demanding to speak to the woman herself and explain how citizenship works.

The irony is that if I had registered to vote, illegally, then that would be a felony.  Then I'd be a felon, and wouldn't be able to vote.

This made me reminisce about the time I got my Georgia driver's license and the woman at the DMV tried to register me to vote in spite of my Canadian passport and Ontario license because I "seemed American" on account of my clear English and blonde hair.

America is dying for me to get the franchise.  

Looking for Nothing

This weekend I visited the Shambhala meditation center, where Mick takes meditation classes.  As one might expect, it was a very peaceful place.  I took part in a class, and after we did a five-minute exercise where you sit quietly and become conscious of the feelings in your body, the instructor asked us what we had experienced.  

She asked "What was it like?", but then revised her question. 

"No, wait, I don't mean what was it like, I mean, What was it?"  

I thought, man, this is sooo Buddhist.  Afterwards, we had the universal experience of coffee hour, except that it was green tea instead of coffee.

To reciprocate, I'm planning to take Mick to the blessing of the animals service at All Saints' at the end of the month.  I'm planning to bring Mollie too!