The Old Prof

I decided to make meself some oatmeal. (I think that's how you spell "meself") Anyhoo, I like oatmeal. I always have. I remember going to me cousins home when we'd visit and they always had oatmeal. They called it "mush" but I knew better. It was definitely oatmeal. It was soft, hot coagulated grain. I know my coagulated grains. I've eaten them all; grits, oatmeal (obviously), and cream of wheat. I've even eaten hot rice in milk with brown sugar. It's all very tasty and I'm always happy to have it. Especially at my cousins house cause they were the family that didn't believe in real milk. Real milk comes from the milkman who leaves those milk cartons in the milk crate, all cold and sweating with freshness, like the toothfairy leaves coins under your pillow (it was always coins for us, our teeth weren't as valuable as some of my peers). Well, we used to have a milk-man when I was a kid and I kind of wish we still did. They're awesome. Anyway, that's not the kind of milk my cousins had. It was more like tang, except gross. It was gritty, untasty, add water and stir, milk. it was quite literally like drinking a lie. Don't make your family endure powdered milk. So, I said they always had oatmeal, but actually they occasionally just had generic corn flakes. I have no problem eating generic corn flakes, but when you eat them with powdered milk you expose yourself to whole discomfort of tasting the powedered milk in all it's awesome unpalatability. At least with oatmeal the filthy milky-lie does not stand out in defiance to good taste. Oatmeal consumes everything added to it and makes the whole lump a delicious vehicle for brown sugar. Let's face it, oatmeal owes a large portion of it's fame to brown sugar.

So like I said, I decided to make me a pot of oatmeal. You have to watch it so you don't burn the oats to bottom of the pot. That doesn't just make a mess; it ruins the flavor of the oatmeal. Brown sugar just can't cover the taste of charcoal in your breakfast. Once the oatmeal is done cooking you have to let it sit for a little while. It's just too darn hot straight off of the flame. Also, it's better if it has a chance to set up a bit, otherwise it's just a slimy goop. So, I took it off the heat and proceeded back to my seat to take care of some business (I'm back to the job hunt again in case anybody cares). Well, in that period I was suddenly flooded with a barrage of phone calls and business to discuss. None of this lead to a job offer yet so you can go agead and keep your fingers crossed for me. What this lead to is way too much cooling off time for my breakfast. This made it much more dificult to eject the grainy treasure from it's metallic womb. I persevered knowing that I was too hungry to start over again but fearing that my breakfast goal would be a disapointment. I managed to extract the mass of nutrition into a waiting pyrex bowl. After so much anticipation and hunger building I wasn't sure I could handle a failure. I faithlessly added brown sugar and milk (the real kind) doubting it could save this doomed masterpiece. Then I popped it into the microwave. Absently I set the timer for one human minute of time. I pretty much forgot about it for the whole breadth of that minute until the pretentious bell of the automic oven reminded me of what I now thought of as an "experiment." I plunged my spoon into the mess and began to stir it up. Then it happened . . . I heaved the spoon up towards my open mouth and consumed my first sample of this morning's endeavor. It was good. It was DAMB good. Just like oatmeal should be. I may need to do a few more experiments to confirm this theory but I am beginning to believe that oatmeal is the indomitable miracle of breakfast. At least on this day to this mortal it was and is a miracle and my belly is warm and full with it's goodness and love.

Posted by Old Prof at 12:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I decided to make meself some oatmeal. (I think that's how you spell "meself") Anyhoo, I like oatmeal. I always have. I remember going to me cousins home when we'd visit and they always had oatmeal. They called it "mush" but I knew better. It was definitely oatmeal. It was soft, hot coagulated grain. I know my coagulated grains. I've eaten them all; grits, oatmeal (obviously), and cream of wheat. I've even eaten hot rice in milk with brown sugar. It's all very tasty and I'm always happy to have it. Especially at my cousins house cause they were the family that didn't believe in real milk. Real milk comes from the milkman who leaves those milk cartons in the milk crate, all cold and sweating with freshness, like the toothfairy leaves coins under your pillow (it was always coins for us, our teeth weren't as valuable as some of my peers). Well, we used to have a milk-man when I was a kid and I kind of wish we still did. They're awesome. Anyway, that's not the kind of milk my cousins had. It was more like tang, except gross. It was gritty, untasty, add water and stir, milk. it was quite literally like drinking a lie. Don't make your family endure powdered milk. So, I said they always had oatmeal, but actually they occasionally just had generic corn flakes. I have no problem eating generic corn flakes, but when you eat them with powdered milk you expose yourself to whole discomfort of tasting the powedered milk in all it's awesome unpalatability. At least with oatmeal the filthy milky-lie does not stand out in defiance to good taste. Oatmeal consumes everything added to it and makes the whole lump a delicious vehicle for brown sugar. Let's face it, oatmeal owes a large portion of it's fame to brown sugar.

So like I said, I decided to make me a pot of oatmeal. You have to watch it so you don't burn the oats to bottom of the pot. That doesn't just make a mess; it ruins the flavor of the oatmeal. Brown sugar just can't cover the taste of charcoal in your breakfast. Once the oatmeal is done cooking you have to let it sit for a little while. It's just too darn hot straight off of the flame. Also, it's better if it has a chance to set up a bit, otherwise it's just a slimy goop. So, I took it off the heat and proceeded back to my seat to take care of some business (I'm back to the job hunt again in case anybody cares). Well, in that period I was suddenly flooded with a barrage of phone calls and business to discuss. None of this lead to a job offer yet so you can go agead and keep your fingers crossed for me. What this lead to is way too much cooling off time for my breakfast. This made it much more dificult to eject the grainy treasure from it's metallic womb. I persevered knowing that I was too hungry to start over again but fearing that my breakfast goal would be a disapointment. I managed to extract the mass of nutrition into a waiting pyrex bowl. After so much anticipation and hunger building I wasn't sure I could handle a failure. I faithlessly added brown sugar and milk (the real kind) doubting it could save this doomed masterpiece. Then I popped it into the microwave. Absently I set the timer for one human minute of time. I pretty much forgot about it for the whole breadth of that minute until the pretentious bell of the automic oven reminded me of what I now thought of as an "experiment." I plunged my spoon into the mess and began to stir it up. Then it happened . . . I heaved the spoon up towards my open mouth and consumed my first sample of this morning's endeavor. It was good. It was DAMB good. Just like oatmeal should be. I may need to do a few more experiments to confirm this theory but I am beginning to believe that oatmeal is the indomitable miracle of breakfast. At least on this day to this mortal it was and is a miracle and my belly is warm and full with it's goodness and love.

Posted by Old Prof at 12:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Last month I took a trip to Las Vegas. I was asked to speak at a Nevada Bar Association meeting honoring prominent bar members in the state who had passed away over the last year. My father was one of them and I was to give a 5 min. eulogy of sorts. This trip fell closely to the first anniversary of my father's passing. It made me think again (as i have a lot over the last year) about the relationship I had with my dad and his relationship with our whole family. I've had a lot of conflicting thoughts about my father, especially since his passing. Some anger, some empathy. I decided that I wanted to gather together things that I had written about these feelings over the last 4 or 5 years and see what it looks like all together. I thought that it might be an interesting post as well since it offers a case study of sorts into my life and my relationship with my father. I'm afraid that some of it will make sense only to me as far as some references are concerned and that some of it isn't the best of writing. That's not really the point though so be kind with your literary critique since most of these words have never been seen by others eyes. I'm just looking to share an experience and a piece of myself. These should be in chronological order beginning from before we knew my dad was sick to months after his death. He died of liver disease September 18th 2003.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

What seething evil seeps
Into the living pillars of this house
Cracks the arterial walkway
that joins this room to that
and leaves the faucets dripping
when no one is around to catch
the floors are falling beneath you
as we sleep
all this girth falls on to you
you’re falling onto me
all of us sonambulists
as the termites run their race
devouring the house around us
but leaving it in perfect face
the whole house bleeds secretly
in whispers that compare themselves
in the middle of the night
while we all pretending unaware
can feel the home begin to die

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

he burns his oil
living days without a night
to come to unsettled business
and contemplate the weight
of unsaid thoughts
that roll and repeat and burn questions into him like:

Will there be enough of me to feed the trees?

Will my sons cradle me and lay me in my grave?

Will they hold their mother’s hand and heart like the debt of their regret?

These thoughts and memories melt like lampwicks
And he struggles to close his eyes

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i turned the green pages of a book
and saw them turning brown behind me.
has it been so long a spring and summer
that i should find myself already in a fall?
so much so that i see the impending winter
clearly from where i stand.
i remember trying to skip ahead
to see how it would end, but
i would always end up just in the middle of things.
i drew out memories from the withered pages
(in attempt to block the wind)
as the still green pages quickly
peeled away before me
and i could see the chaos in the calm
and the steady in the tempest.
i read, at last, an address
in the handscript of a child
familiar somehow;
more than i expected, except
the illustrations ran wet with ink
and i could not read the end.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I left my bed stained by gravity
Waiting for my return
to spread out on it like a condiment
And I couldn’t fill the dent I left
Or say exactly how it was made
and the ink, wait . . . blood
Ran waterthin along the creases
And I was a conduit, wait . . . capillary
of mistrust and bitterness
Watching your limbs swell with shame and anger
Disease bled into disease, wait . . . desire
Blowing out of proportion
Sucking wind from a chair
Breeding sores, bleeding sores
I can’t find the creases anymore and
“they’ve” used up any meaningfull rebellion
and the forms have lost their teeth
on top of this, you’re dying
and I can’t hate or forgive you enough to be satisfied
I’m sorry dad

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So, this is culmination
This is denouement
Is diminuendo
Buzzing satellites retrieve your vital signs
And buzz in my left pocket
So, mom says your awake
I take it as a sign of no emergency
While my foot throbs and swells
You’re dying this time
With spectators
And none of this feels real to me

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If I had known you’d have to die
for me to learn this lesson
I may have tried harder

300 channels and only one big enough
to plug your sucking mouth
what a thing to be denied
what an unfortunate priority
but all the time you were pricing pine
and tacks and plots
we were watching clocks and calendars
but it feels so very different now
so much resolution with you gone
I almost wish you were here

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

These bones used to ring
Like they were answering something
And now I don’t feel anything
My eyes ache like travelers
Blood shot and far from home
My head doesn’t matter
It’s only good Tupperware
for memory and matter
and it’s failed to keep me satisfied
or even the least bit happy for very long
I wish I didn’t understand
Why my father wanted to die

Posted by Old Prof at 04:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Last month I took a trip to Las Vegas. I was asked to speak at a Nevada Bar Association meeting honoring prominent bar members in the state who had passed away over the last year. My father was one of them and I was to give a 5 min. eulogy of sorts. This trip fell closely to the first anniversary of my father's passing. It made me think again (as i have a lot over the last year) about the relationship I had with my dad and his relationship with our whole family. I've had a lot of conflicting thoughts about my father, especially since his passing. Some anger, some empathy. I decided that I wanted to gather together things that I had written about these feelings over the last 4 or 5 years and see what it looks like all together. I thought that it might be an interesting post as well since it offers a case study of sorts into my life and my relationship with my father. I'm afraid that some of it will make sense only to me as far as some references are concerned and that some of it isn't the best of writing. That's not really the point though so be kind with your literary critique since most of these words have never been seen by others eyes. I'm just looking to share an experience and a piece of myself. These should be in chronological order beginning from before we knew my dad was sick to months after his death. He died of liver disease September 18th 2003.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

What seething evil seeps
Into the living pillars of this house
Cracks the arterial walkway
that joins this room to that
and leaves the faucets dripping
when no one is around to catch
the floors are falling beneath you
as we sleep
all this girth falls on to you
you’re falling onto me
all of us sonambulists
as the termites run their race
devouring the house around us
but leaving it in perfect face
the whole house bleeds secretly
in whispers that compare themselves
in the middle of the night
while we all pretending unaware
can feel the home begin to die

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

he burns his oil
living days without a night
to come to unsettled business
and contemplate the weight
of unsaid thoughts
that roll and repeat and burn questions into him like:

Will there be enough of me to feed the trees?

Will my sons cradle me and lay me in my grave?

Will they hold their mother’s hand and heart like the debt of their regret?

These thoughts and memories melt like lampwicks
And he struggles to close his eyes

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i turned the green pages of a book
and saw them turning brown behind me.
has it been so long a spring and summer
that i should find myself already in a fall?
so much so that i see the impending winter
clearly from where i stand.
i remember trying to skip ahead
to see how it would end, but
i would always end up just in the middle of things.
i drew out memories from the withered pages
(in attempt to block the wind)
as the still green pages quickly
peeled away before me
and i could see the chaos in the calm
and the steady in the tempest.
i read, at last, an address
in the handscript of a child
familiar somehow;
more than i expected, except
the illustrations ran wet with ink
and i could not read the end.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I left my bed stained by gravity
Waiting for my return
to spread out on it like a condiment
And I couldn’t fill the dent I left
Or say exactly how it was made
and the ink, wait . . . blood
Ran waterthin along the creases
And I was a conduit, wait . . . capillary
of mistrust and bitterness
Watching your limbs swell with shame and anger
Disease bled into disease, wait . . . desire
Blowing out of proportion
Sucking wind from a chair
Breeding sores, bleeding sores
I can’t find the creases anymore and
“they’ve” used up any meaningfull rebellion
and the forms have lost their teeth
on top of this, you’re dying
and I can’t hate or forgive you enough to be satisfied
I’m sorry dad

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So, this is culmination
This is denouement
Is diminuendo
Buzzing satellites retrieve your vital signs
And buzz in my left pocket
So, mom says your awake
I take it as a sign of no emergency
While my foot throbs and swells
You’re dying this time
With spectators
And none of this feels real to me

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If I had known you’d have to die
for me to learn this lesson
I may have tried harder

300 channels and only one big enough
to plug your sucking mouth
what a thing to be denied
what an unfortunate priority
but all the time you were pricing pine
and tacks and plots
we were watching clocks and calendars
but it feels so very different now
so much resolution with you gone
I almost wish you were here

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

These bones used to ring
Like they were answering something
And now I don’t feel anything
My eyes ache like travelers
Blood shot and far from home
My head doesn’t matter
It’s only good Tupperware
for memory and matter
and it’s failed to keep me satisfied
or even the least bit happy for very long
I wish I didn’t understand
Why my father wanted to die

Posted by Old Prof at 04:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

I saw a sign in my neighborhood attached to some scaffolding over the sidewalk where workers were repainting an old building. At first glance it appeared to be your average "wet paint" sign, but I was mistaken. This wasn't just any paint. Were you to glide up against the freshly covered wall you would not soil your best britches with some bottom rung or common paint. You would find on your new hip velvet sportcoat or your poodle skirt (or whatever you wear when you look your best) "High Quality Wet Paint." You spend too much time and money to look so good only to have your duds spoiled by some cut rate average paint. Before you walk anywhere near wet paint check the sign. You deserve the best.

Posted by Old Prof at 12:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I saw a sign in my neighborhood attached to some scaffolding over the sidewalk where workers were repainting an old building. At first glance it appeared to be your average "wet paint" sign, but I was mistaken. This wasn't just any paint. Were you to glide up against the freshly covered wall you would not soil your best britches with some bottom rung or common paint. You would find on your new hip velvet sportcoat or your poodle skirt (or whatever you wear when you look your best) "High Quality Wet Paint." You spend too much time and money to look so good only to have your duds spoiled by some cut rate average paint. Before you walk anywhere near wet paint check the sign. You deserve the best.

Posted by Old Prof at 12:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I know everybody expects me to keep them on the forefront of awesome. I don't want to let you down cause I know if you're not getting it from me you'll look elsewhere. I feel a duty to preotect you from lesser sources that you may encounter out there on the interweb superdriveway.

Well, there's a hot new roast out there. In fact you are the first people I have told about this and it will spread fast. The word:

ASS-CENTAUR

I was reading "The Name of the Rose" by Umberto Eco last night when I came accross the term. It is literally a centaur where that back half is that of an ass. You are basically telling someone that they have the ass of an ass. I have a hunch that this one will take off, and my hunches are never wrong.

Possibly uses:

"What's this ass-centaur doing in the fast lane?"

"Hey, ass-centaur, your an ass-centaur."

"I can't believe you said that in front of my parents! You're such an ass-centaur!"

"I'm sorry but I don't date ass-centaurs."

I suggest that you use this as soon as possible so you can say you were one of the first and so it doesn't get used on you first. Good luck and godspeed you ass-centaurs.

Posted by Old Prof at 12:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I know everybody expects me to keep them on the forefront of awesome. I don't want to let you down cause I know if you're not getting it from me you'll look elsewhere. I feel a duty to preotect you from lesser sources that you may encounter out there on the interweb superdriveway.

Well, there's a hot new roast out there. In fact you are the first people I have told about this and it will spread fast. The word:

ASS-CENTAUR

I was reading "The Name of the Rose" by Umberto Eco last night when I came accross the term. It is literally a centaur where that back half is that of an ass. You are basically telling someone that they have the ass of an ass. I have a hunch that this one will take off, and my hunches are never wrong.

Possibly uses:

"What's this ass-centaur doing in the fast lane?"

"Hey, ass-centaur, your an ass-centaur."

"I can't believe you said that in front of my parents! You're such an ass-centaur!"

"I'm sorry but I don't date ass-centaurs."

I suggest that you use this as soon as possible so you can say you were one of the first and so it doesn't get used on you first. Good luck and godspeed you ass-centaurs.

Posted by Old Prof at 12:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

This is sort of pathetic but I've recently discovered (or admitted maybe) that even in my dreams I am totally lame.

The other night I had a dream about going back to college. So I was taking a campus tour and I noticed this kid wearing a T-shirt or a button that said Utah in big letters. I was not in Utah in my dream so it stuck out to me. I asked the kid about it and he said that it was actually the name of a band he liked and it was called "hot weather in Utah." That's weird enough but here's where I get lame.

I said, thinking this to be quite funny, "I've lived in Las Vegas and in Utah and Utah just isn't that hot." You see, this was supposed to be funny I guess cause it was just the name of a band but I was calling them out on it as a statement. Of course i wasn't even considering St. George, which can get quite hot. Probably just as hot as Vegas.

Either way, it was a stupid thing to say and not at all funny. Furthermore it forced upon me the realization that even in my dreams this is as cool as I get. I think everyone expects to be cooler in their dreams than they are in real life, but I am just turning into my Dad, one lame joke at a time. Even worse, what if I am still cooler in my dreams than in real life? Pathetic.

Posted by Old Prof at 11:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

This is sort of pathetic but I've recently discovered (or admitted maybe) that even in my dreams I am totally lame.

The other night I had a dream about going back to college. So I was taking a campus tour and I noticed this kid wearing a T-shirt or a button that said Utah in big letters. I was not in Utah in my dream so it stuck out to me. I asked the kid about it and he said that it was actually the name of a band he liked and it was called "hot weather in Utah." That's weird enough but here's where I get lame.

I said, thinking this to be quite funny, "I've lived in Las Vegas and in Utah and Utah just isn't that hot." You see, this was supposed to be funny I guess cause it was just the name of a band but I was calling them out on it as a statement. Of course i wasn't even considering St. George, which can get quite hot. Probably just as hot as Vegas.

Either way, it was a stupid thing to say and not at all funny. Furthermore it forced upon me the realization that even in my dreams this is as cool as I get. I think everyone expects to be cooler in their dreams than they are in real life, but I am just turning into my Dad, one lame joke at a time. Even worse, what if I am still cooler in my dreams than in real life? Pathetic.

Posted by Old Prof at 11:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)