Yes, you too can exsponge your Criminal Record. I received this flier in my email box at work. The subject line was from the sponsoring organization, but thankfully it was spelled correctly (flier below).EVERYONE IS WELCOMED TO BE A PART OF
{name changed to protect the innocent} COLLEGE
A PRESENTATION ON
“HOW TO EXPUNGE YOUR
CRIMINAL RECORD”
HUMAN SERVICE CLUB
OUR NEXT POTLUCK MEETING WILL BE
FRIDAY FEBRUARY 9, 2007
2:00-4:00
IN THE
CAMPUS CENTER
FEATURED GUEST SPEAKER
SUSANNE PASTUSCHEK
WITH A PRESENTATION ON
“HOW TO EXPUNGE YOUR
CRIMINAL RECORD”
THE HUMAN SERVICE CLUB IS ONE OF THE MOST ACTIVE CLUBS ON CAMPUS AND WE WOULD LIKE TO INVITE EVERYONE WHO IS INTERESTED IN SOME FUN TO BRING A DISH AND JOIN US. THANK YOUFOR ANY QUESTIONS PLEASE CALL @ (xxx) xxx-xxxx
Lots and lots of fun especially for us un-exsponged criminals.
Quilt DetailWhile driving home on Monday, I noticed a whole row of rose-lavender cacti, colored that way from the recent cold snap. On some you can see the burnt edges, etched by the freeze.
Today I was bored with my work, so I started clicking the "next blog" button at the top of this blog to see who was on the other side of my site. Thought you'd like to know who the neighbors are on my Blog Block.
First up, Mari from some cold Scandinavian place. (We have an international community here on my street--you ought to see our potlucks!)
Nannette, with some sort of appendage on her name. Nannette-icle, like Chron-icle? She's from LA and imparts counsel like "Everyone needs improvements on themselves." She shares a house with Drama Queen (below), and brought a plastic clamshell container of Five-spice Chicken from the local Chinese takeout to the potluck, althought she did make the sticky rice herself.
Ellen Sofie Hetta is out of town right now, serving as a missionary in Bangkok. If I could lay on the beach and talk on the cell phone with friends like Lise, I'd sign up too. Her cousin's staying there while she's gone, but I don't see her at all.
As it is, I'm a missionary for the English language here in my hometown. A sample from a recent (unedited) email homework: "Your wearing blue and i found the picture in the staff information. I work at redlands Security Company I work 40 hr a week. I taken english class before. My major is busnises manegment. My intrest is my new born son born this year on new years day."
Thanks for writing!
Speaking of writers, on the other side of me is Virgil. Every morning he picks up his paper off the driveway in his blue terrycloth bathrobe, his pipe already firmly clenched between his teeth. When I go on my walks, I hear him banging away at his manual typewriter--no keyboard for him, please. Today's musing details a list of what writers do: "Writers write, for one."
Well, some do. Others blog. I never see Virgil again until the evening, when he goes out to get the mail, dressed in a worn flannel shirt, faded olive cords, and (dare I say it?) penny loafers. He brought Doritos and Safeway brand guacamole to the potluck.
Next to him is the retired doctor, who always forgets to encrypt his wireless, so that Virgil, when he forgets to pay his bills because he's on deadline, can still access the internet from his upstairs study window. (He confessed this when the power went out one summer and we all sat around on the doctor's driveway, shooting the breeze until we could escape back into our re-electrified, re-air-conditioned houses.)
Shortly after posting "How much does your heart cost?" the doctor (never did catch his name), died of complications from his plastic surgery. His wife and son haven't kept up his posts, so I don't really know what's going on with them, or how much my heart does cost. I just know a broken one is way more costly that you think. We still talk about the bacon-wrapped scallops they grilled on their barbeque for the potluck. (Turns out they were from Costco, but who cares?)
Finally there's a young woman who lives in the red one-story stucco across the street. She tends to drive like she's always late and while talking on her cell phone. She has the biggest sunglasses you ever saw and last week ran into her own mailbox. We wait until she's gone for the morning before pulling out. We never see her come in at night, but occasionally in the wee hours, there's a lot of laughing that echoes out from her backyard. I don't know how Nannette stands it, as she looks like a very sensible young woman. I do know Drama's a good cook--she brought a huge chocoloate cake topped with fresh raspberries to last year's 4th of July potluck. Nannette confirmed it was homemade ("You should see the kitchen!"). We didn't pursue the topic.
And that's the neighborhood--at least the only ones I come in contact with.
UPDATE from the future: When my father read this, he thought they were real neighbors, not recognizing that I'd made everything up. That was in the days when he used to read my blog.
The most excitement we've had around here for a long time was
It could have been this slide, but it wasn't. Right there, we have a dichotomy: do we lecture in a "non-active" approach (static podium approach with lecture, Powerpoint) to get the idea of "active" learning (aka, Ditch the Lecturing) across? I focused on the free sandwiches with the crunchy bean sprouts while he went through a few more slides.
It was getting worse. I remembered the class where I had the students read Edward Tufte's thoughts (no, actually, it's a diatribe) against Powerpoint, and contrasted it with David Byrne's views (he's the lead singer in the Talking Heads).
In it, Tufte makes the point that most Powerpoint charts are "chartjunk" (nice example above from the web) and that content per slide is very low. (Do a search for Lincoln's Gettysburg Address in slideware.) What Powerpoint (or other slideware) is good for is managing slides, that it to say images, etc. I see it used in its best way when I go with Dave to his scientific conferences. Content per slide is extremely high and the best presenters rarely read their slides, but instead reference them. My sister uses slideware in teaching her history classes, where the presentation of images would be a natural fit.
Where I was supposed to be internalizing something like the chart above (Convert! Convert!), the whole evening felt like this:
. . . a bunch of carefully prepared slides that I had to wade through,
Jello Girl shows us the way to have a happy and healthy new year, not only by exercising, but by eating lots and lots and artificially colored and flavored gelatin with no known food value. But to look on the bright side (Jello Girls always look on the bright side in their strawberry bubble dresses), it's low-fat!
Since the holiday crush is now behind us, and I no longer have to pay homage to the clock with it's unvarying measures of time, I can wake when I'm ready, sleep when I want. The fudge disappears at irregular intervals alternating with good leftovers, sweet oranges from a friend's tree. I awoke this morning later than usual, and worried, briefly, about being this far "off the clock." I should be up at 6:00 a.m., I thought, exercising, thinking, working, even writing. I could see the trees moving in great dark shadows beyond the drawn curtain, bobbing and weaving in the winds. I closed my eyes. It's a nice illusion to feel free of the "ratchets and gears" that measure out my life.
I have remarkable parents who celebrate occasions well. As the birthday girl, my mother would prepare my favorite dinner, made sure I had a few presents and a double-layer cake after the meal with just the right amount of candles. When I went through the terrible birthday adjustment from child to adult, that is to say, when I realized that I would have to make my own cake and probably shop for my own presents, and it was likely that most people would have no clue it was my birthday, my parents always came through with an individualized birthday card and a heartfelt sentiment in bold angular or neat looping writing on the inside.
These memories still stream from the annual card like the wispy tails of a sky-slicing jet. And just when this Christmas season has seemed so distant, they have rekindled that most delicious part of childhood: wanting to peek.
Winter Light, Night
