the blackout from space:

whew

In the present absence of anything to say of lasting cultural value, I submit my schedule yesterday:

6:15 a.m. Woke, showered and went over notes for class (again). Consulted law dictionary 10-12 times. Sweat pellets.

8:30 a.m. Attended Contracts class with Dr. Fenton. Was prepared, but once he started grilling the girl next to me I began radically rethinking the notion of what it means to be prepared for class. Sweat bullets.

9:45 a.m. Left class and headed to library. Checked out “Biography of a Legal Dispute” and began reading.

12:45 p.m. Realized book was on reserve and 15 minutes overdue. Walked to desk, checked book in, checked it out again and walked back to continue reading.

12:49 p.m. Detected hunger.

12:55 p.m. Arrived by bicycle at house, where my landlord was installing vinyl siding in the rain. Declined offer to assist. Found sandwich and ate it.

1:15 p.m. Back in library reading “Biography.”

2:45 p.m. Briefly looked out of window at the thunderclouds.

4:45 p.m. Realized book was overdue again and went to front desk to check it back in and out.

4:55 p.m. Peeled self from chair and attended Legal Research and Writing with Dr. Kohlrieser, who before class started actually gave me a bonus point for pronouncing her name correctly (it’s coal-ree-ser). Realized I have a paper due in less than a week.

6:00 p.m. Found seat in library and began reading “Biography” again.

8:35 p.m. Finished “Biography,” which was now overdue again. Joked with librarian until she let me off the hook for the 55-cent fee.

9:00 p.m. Got home, ate a bowl of soup and began jog with Scout.

9:15 p.m. Thunderstorm begins, drenching us. Lightning becomes general. We pause for safety beneath a large poplar on campus.

10:00 p.m. Get home, dry off and head upstairs to study. Brief six cases for Property and Civil Procedure while listening to Yo Yo Ma’s Appalachian Waltz (thanks Nate).

1:00 a.m. Crawl downstairs and into bed. Bedroom light stays on.

1:01 a.m. Begin dreaming about action of ejectment for lands in the State and District of Illinois, claimed by the plaintiffs under a purchase and conveyance from the Piankeshaw Indians in 1773, and by the defendant, under a land grant from the United States in 1775 …

whoops

My last post was cut short due to the antiquated computer I'm typing on here in the lab. Anyway, because of the lack of home cable internet connections here I won't be able to post any of my pictures of Ada, so be patient. Otherwise, I'm back in the groove, and If you need me I'll be in the library studying.

Thus it begins

I just got out of my first two law classes, Criminal Procedure and Property, and my wits are still about me. A law class ain't no picnic. Unfortunately the bookstore sold out of all the Criminal Procedure textbooks yesterday, so I had to attend the dreaded first day not having read the assignment. Luckily I wasn't called on, but the nature of the discussion was hypothetical anyway; the professor basically strarts with the facts in the case and then expands into any possible scenario. It is a tense environment, but fascinating. It just takes getting used to the intellectual play on the subject. Property I was ready for, but we were discussing a case of Native American land rights and the class veered off into the ethics of imperialism, discovery and conquest. I'm not really sure what I was supposed to get out of the discussion, frankly. I imagine this feeing will persist for some time.

Anyway, I'm all moved in and settled and have made a few friends, most of who are from Ohio. This town is really so small that you cannot avoid getting to know a lot of people - my banker is my landlord's wife, for example - but that's really what makes the town (village, actually) nice. I've heard a bit of grumbling from some of the students who hail from Chicago and Boston, but most seem to like the place. Scout, by the way, loves it. She has free reign in the neighborhood and the many children on the street love her.

Off to Ohio

This is my last post from Birmingham as I officially load all my meager possessions into a U-Haul tomorrow and leave for the Great Midwest town of Ada. My new address is to your left and my updated phone number will be added there soon. Wish me luck. May I see all of you very soon.

It All Depends on What You Mean by 'Have'

By STEVE MARTIN (via New York Times) So if you're asking me did Iraq have weapons of mass destruction, I'm saying, well, it all depends on what you mean by "have." See, I can "have" something without actually having it. I can "have" a cold, but I don't own the cold, nor do I harbor it. Really, when you think about it, the cold has me, or even more precisely, the cold has passed through me. Plus, the word "have" has the complicated letter "v" in it. It seems that so many words with the letter "v" are words that are difficult to use and spell. Like "verisimilitude." And "envelope." Therefore, when you ask me, "Did Iraq have weapons of mass destruction," I frankly don't know what you're talking about. Do you mean currently? Then why did you say "did?" Think about "did." What the heck does that mean? Say it a few times out loud. Sounds silly. I'm beginning to think it's just the media's effort to use a fancy palindrome, rather than ask a pertinent question. And how do I know you're not saying "halve?" "Did Iraq halve weapons of mass destruction?" How should I know? What difference does it make? That's a stupid question. Let me try and clear it up for you. I think what you were trying to say was, "At any time, did anyone in Iraq think about, wish for, dream of, or search the Internet for weapons of mass destruction?" Of course they did have. Come on, Iraq is just one big salt flat and no dictator can look out on his vast desert and not imagine an A-test going on. And let's face it, it really doesn't matter if they had them or not, because they hate us like a lassoed shorthorn heifer hates bovine spongiform encephalopathy. Finally, all this fuss over 16 lousy words. Shoot, "Honey, I'm home," already has three, with an extra one implied, and practically nothing has been said. It would take way more than 16 words to say something that could be considered a gaffe. I don't really take anything people say seriously until they've used at least 20, sometimes 25, words. When I was criticized for my comment, I was reluctant to point out it was only 16 words, and I was glad when someone else took the trouble to count them and point out that I wasn't even in paragraph territory. When people heard it was only 16 words, I'm sure most people threw their head back and laughed. And I never heard one negative comment from any of our coalition forces, and they all speak English, too.

Phun

Good article on Phish's "It" shows in Maine this weekend. Well, there's not a whole lot about the shows but a lot about the logistics and technology that went (and usually go) into the experience. Wish I could've been there. There's also a really good interview with the band on the front page.

This shirt cracks me up. Don't think I'd ever wear one but it would be pretty funny. And very geeky.

Finally, a useful program

NaDa™ does nothing for everybody. NaDa™ will make you feel good. It is as light and as deep as a simple thought. It's like a world with no wars. Download it today.

Weapons of mass destruction found.

You will find the time to rest your mind in luminosity

I have few words to say. It is late and I am in transition, having just returned from seeing the Bellydancing Allstars, a bellydancing troupe currently on tour with Lollapalooza. They were amazing, a crew of gorgeous women from across the globe dancing in what I can only describe as the most provocative way known to man. Not mankind; to man. Actually I'm wrong because three-fourths of the people at the venue were women, and there was plenty of your hooting and hollering as these ladies carved the very air. But let there be no doubt: bellydancing is primal and sensual and sexy, no matter what scholars they quote in the brochure to anchor the dance's roots to art and culture. But it's late and tomorrow I am going to hear a Hindu swami give a prayer session in Huntsville, so I'm trying to be objective. My goal this week is to subject myself to as much nontraditional cultural influence as possible and see what I think about it all.
As Ryan put it, "All you need to do is go to a mosque on Wednesday and a synagogue on Thursday and you'll have all your bases covered." I might do that. I'll report as the experiences expand.

glory day

Is your soul filled with the spirit? Can you feel the light of Jesus just a-pourin’ all over you? I just want to know one thing – is there a hallelujah in the house? These were the first words I heard yesterday when I walked into the church. They were immediately greeted by a tumultuous rush of voices from the all-black congregation, standing and waving their arms to the rising beat of the drums and piano. Hallelujah! one lady near me shouted, smiling and her eyes shut tight.

I hesitated in the door, feeling all of a sudden very, very white. But the beat continued to rise and the man on the piano had nimble fingers. Then a kind woman was handing me a program and inviting me inside, telling me to sit anywhere. Within a few minutes I was clapping and swaying my body to the sweet sound of two hundred fervent voices lifted in serious praise.

This is not how I usually spend my Sundays. For the most part I would rather be outdoors than in any church, but my friend Ashley Hulsey had invited me to the service as she was singing in it. She’s a member of the University of Alabama at Birmingham Gospel Choir and this was their last recital. She confided beforehand that she was nervous, as her director only taught them half of each song and she supposed he expected “the holy spirit” to teach them the rest. Due to my epsicopalian background, I naively assumed they would just be singing a few numbers between the sermon and the reading of the psalms.

Um, no. This was the New Hope Baptist Church Music Ministry and the entire service was in song. Loud, joyous song. The choir director, dressed in a black suit with sparkly lavender stripes, worked the crowd like James Brown in The Blues Brothers, punctuating each verse or spontaneous meditation on the love of Jesus with an earnest Can I get a witness? to which the room shouted back Amen! passionately. It was an amazing display of joy and praise. Being one of three white people in the room (Ashley and her mother were the others) I was just concentrating on staying on beat at first, but the music was so good, and everybody was loving it so much that before long I was immersed. And when the preacher told us to embrace six people around us and thank them for helping us survive I grabbed the big black lady in front of me and we hugged like best friends. The songs were long and flowed into one another, segued only by moments of quiet piano and the preacher praying softly. Then another song would emerge and soon we were all back on our feet clapping and shouting to beat the band. During the climax of “Take me Jesus” a woman in the front row went into a fit, her body rigid and shaking and people gathered around supporting her, praying for her sprit. We sang until everybody was exhausted.

It was the darndest thing I’ve seen in years. I don’t know if I’ll go back anytime soon, but I probably should. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you praise as long as you do it with sound and passion.

This is a kayak?

I'm nor sure if you take this down the river or use it against enemy soldiers.