History and Truth

History gets a bad rap. Historians these days so often encase the most fabulous of stories in the drabbest apparel possible. I believe history serves two important functions primarily: to inspire us to love who we are and to prevent us from committing the same mistakes repeatedly. Our prior days would easily succeed at these two outcomes if historians hadn’t gone to pot and the public ceased to study the subject with any intent. I have never been less enthralled by any books than by the history textbooks I was forced to consume as a high schooler. Even Hemingway, whom I abhor, could not come close to the hellish experience of wading through The Enduring Vision, my US history textbook, and the book dubbed Gertrude and Bartholomew (actually, I don’t recall the two authors’ names, so these will have to suffice) by my European history class. I have nothing against the teachers of those classes, in fact, I rather enjoyed them. But the textbooks – complete refuse. Somehow they were justified by the breadth of information made available compared to other texts. But I say, bother the dates of so-and-so’s death. If I don’t lift my eyes from the textbook feeling the importance of my own history deep in my innards, but rather let my eyelids fall in stupefied slumber and drool proceed freely from my lips because of the utter boredom cast upon me, then the book is a failure, and the author should never again be consulted.

You see, harsh though I may seem, I absolutely love history, but I was never firmly sure of this truth until I encountered historians who were willing to add a bit of opinion to their interpretations without fear of scorn. History has become so wrapped up in unbiasedness that no one is willing to make a judgment or offer deeper significance to any event. In my opinion, it is the historian’s job to offer a pattern behind history, a logical series of events that explain why things happened, not just that they happened. It should then be the duty of the reader (or professor) to assess the validity of that historian’s interpretation. And the history should be interpreted in such a way that it can be applied to the present. For as we know, those who are ignorant of the past are doomed to repeat it.

Historians today seem to think it is good to prattle on endlessly about the common man, the everyday happenings of the peasants. Forgive me, but that is so unspeakably boring – how can anyone expect to catch the interest of a young boy with talk of the attire of a tanner in Plymouth? They want stories of war and glory, of adventure and triumph, even of loss and despair. But they simply don’t care about how many ounces of bread the average man ate daily in 1702. There’s a reason myths and fairy tales from ages past are still around, and there’s a reason why they still apply to current situations. History bears equally enthralling stories and applicable lessons if only we would teach them. All this nonsense about everyone’s perspective being equally valid has sucked the merit out of history. Truth is there, but it must be sought out and applied. That is why I love historians who are willing to offer their take on a situation, even if it is dead wrong, and actually believe what they say without shame. If they are wrong, and are proven so, I believe they would recognize their failure.

Here is an example of what I mean. Suppose I were to say the following, “Just as Christians killed countless ‘heretics’ before the Reformation took hold and slowly led to more peaceful sects and the resolution of doctrinal issues with fewer deaths, so Islam needs a reformation to end its violent sectarian nature.” Whether I am right or wrong, I am still opinionated and I am actively seeking truth. If instead I add the tag “but you may disagree; what is good for you is good for you,” then I have forsaken history. History is meant to be interpreted, and there are correct interpretations as well as false ones. But it is better to take an incorrect stance and willingly accept correction than it is to take no stance at all. At least if you take a stance you encourage others to find fault in it so that by and by your stance is honed and refined into something truly meritorious. If you allow for the correctness of all vantage points, no progress is ever made and you are left ignorant. Indeed, anyone would admit that it is foolish to say that 2+2=4 but that you may have your own equally correct opinion on the matter. People believing 2+2=5 need correction, not tolerance. I would rather be wrong from time to time taking an intellectual stand for something I hold true than fail to encourage inspection of truth by my fellow man; I do not want a society full of people willing to tolerate lies as relative truth.

Michael Ramsden, a smart fellow, quoted some other smart fellow about truth and it went something like this: if someone tells you there is no such thing as truth, he is asking you not to believe him, so don’t. Obviously that first clause cannot be ‘true’ if there is no such thing as truth, so there must be truth.

I am currently reading Black Lamb and Grey Falcon by Rebecca West, a sort of historical and cultural inspection of the Balkans via travelogue. It was written just as World War II was breaking out and West’s distaste for the Germans as a result is evident. Some believe that her bias taints her work too much to be considered good history. Although I have not read the entire work yet, her perception and understanding of history’s impact on the present is astounding and clear, and I much admire it. This is how history should be. It connects Balkan history back to Roman times and shows the clear sequence of events leading to current culture and attitudes. And what I especially enjoy is that she is very matter of fact: one event led to another, combined with another event, and voilà, a plausible reason why we have the current situation. She doesn’t beat around the bush or pander to her rivals; she clearly states her opinion as fact and moves on. It is clear that she would change her mind if you offered sufficient evidence to the contrary, but given the available information, she forms a blatant hypothesis and offers it in the face of all naysayers. This is the sort of history that inspires and the sort of writing that encourages others to find truth rather than admit all suggestions as reasonable. While all men are created equal, all ideas are not.

I would feel insufficient if I did not conclude with an equally direct statement. Thus, I will be clear. There is absolute truth. Regarding all truth as relative is an excuse to hide behind, an unwillingness to search and learn, an extreme laziness of mind. It is much easier to say everyone is equally right, and that’s why so many people do it. But it is simply ridiculous to say so and it yields nothing good. If all truth is relative, then how is it that Hitler or Stalin were wrong? It also seems that the relativists often have strong political leanings, but how is any politician better than another if there is no truth? It is all absurdity. Don’t fall for it. Have an opinion.

Georgia On My Mind

May I first apologize for my overly long delay in new thoughts. Apparently, moving across the Atlantic is a bit more time consuming than I had originally anticipated. But now, five days after our arrival in Oxford, my wife and I have found a sufficient new coffee shop with internet, and I am appropriately high strung on a double espresso (after a monster latté this morning) to write again. We are yet to establish internet in our flat, so posts may be slightly sporadic for the next week or two until we have steady web access. But thank you, dear reader, for coming back despite the wait. I am much obliged.

Today my wife and I were tourists. After a few preliminary errands, we visited the Ashmolean Museum. This lovely little institution is a microcosm of England. First of all, it encases the peculiarity of English names in eternity. Elias Ashmole was the patron of the museum. His name conjures up all sorts of hideousness to my mind. Some old chap, sitting around in a parlor sipping tea with a gigantic mole on his face, the colour of ash - that is Mr. Ashmole to me. To top it off, the collection that he donated to found the museum was not actually his. He merely inherited it. But of course, that is most appropriate for this land, where inheritance has been an important segregator for centuries. I'm sure he was an excellent man, though, having donated everything to the public. And I did rather enjoy the museum, which, much to my happiness, was completely free.

Although inheritance may have served an unjust purpose for some time here, shutting worthy people out of public positions and the like, it also served admirable purposes. This town, Oxford, has inherited so much history and lore that one can hardly escape it at any turn. Even the cookers (ovens) are ancient. My wife and I have discovered that to live in Oxford is to trade history for amenities. After all, it would be rather difficult for everyone to live in houses cut from single slabs of ancient stone (well, maybe) and have central heating. I can't imagine how hard it would be to cut through all that rock and leave the buildings intact. So although the "furnished to a high standard" flat may not have met our American expectations, it is housed in a wonderfully picturesque building. In my opinion, all the history makes up for the unfortunate cooker and heating.

But to live anywhere, one must have friends. We have realized this to an absurd degree this week. Having arrived earlier than most students, we have hardly met anyone this entire week and feel the dearth of society keenly. Hopefully this will change as the term starts and we get more involved with my college. And we can tell that the people are friendly - café owners and store clerks have all been most eager to help. But it is nonetheless lonely.

I imagine that this feeling would accompany anyone moving to an unknown city, even within their native land. But to cross an ocean and enter a completely different land is slightly more daunting, I believe. Travel writers seem to have neglected these feelings, perhaps because they never intend to stay. At times it feels like we are visitors, but we have no homey hearth awaiting us after checking out from the local hotel. We actually go home to that old victorian building that looked so nice for our pictures. What was so lovely and romantic suddenly becomes a bit less than accomodating. The culture that was so quaint and historic, the same one we would marvel at as a short-term traveler, suddenly becomes a wall setting us apart as outsiders.

A year ago, my then fiancée and I had lunch with a couple who had lived in Budapest for four years and then come back to the states permanently. One thing they said is that if we lived in a foreign land, no matter how long, we would never quite fit in as locals. There would always be something setting us apart and keeping us from completely assimilating into the local life. But then, on returning to our native land, we would find that something was different. Our perspective was changed so that we could not lead the same life we had before. We would be people without a country - always endeared to our homeland, but feeling a bit of nostalgia for our adoptive country elsewhere. I don't know if that will be quite the same for us as it was for them, as Britain and Hungary are rather different places, but the idea of home is certainly a tough one, and I imagine it will become more complicated when we grow more comfortable here.

I have always been enamored with terms often used by Europeans like homeland, heartland, fatherland, motherland, native country, etc. Americans don't seem to use them as often for some reason, perhaps because it is so easy to never leave America. It would be difficult to be born in Slovakia and never leave, and upon leaving, the nostalgia of the homeland is quickly noticeable. Particularly among Eastern Europeans, the idea of a homeland seems especially powerful, producing such famous pieces of music like Finlandia (Sibelius), Ma Vlast (Smetena), Romanian Rhapsody (Enescu), and many others. And now I begin to feel the emotion that runs through all these pieces, of nationalistic pride and the glory of the native country. To leave your country, especially knowing you will not be back any time soon, is to understand how deeply you love your country. No matter how much I grow to love Oxford, Georgia will always be my homeland. Nothing could ever destroy my affection for the brief drive to Athens from Atlanta, of the beauty of Savannah, of the North Georgia mountains. So from Oxford to Budapest, from Oslo to Istanbul, wherever I go on this adventure, Georgia will be on my mind.

The Big Move

Welle, the daye ha∫ finally comme, after many month∫ of preparation. To-morrow, my wiffe and I leave for England. In honour of the momentou∫ daye, I leave you with a poem by one, John Donne, in who∫e spellinge I hope these fir∫t few sentences have been rendered. Though thi∫ poeme i∫ intended for Donne'∫ wiffe (I believe), not familye and friende∫, it i∫ ∫till a marvelous poeme. Hope you enjoye it. Check back soone!


"A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" by John Donne

As virtuous men passe mildly away,
And whisper to their soules, to goe,
Whilst some of their sad friends doe say,
The breath goes now, and some say, no:

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
T'were prophanation of our joyes
To tell the layetie our love.

Moving of th'earth brings harmes and feares,
Men reckon what it did and meant,
But trepidation of the spheares,
Though greater farre, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers love
(Whose soule is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love, so much refin'd.
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care lesse, eyes, lips, and hands to misse.

Our two soules therefore, which are one,
Though I must goe, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiffe twin compasses are two,
Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the'other doe.

And though it in the center sit,
Yet when the other far doth rome,
It leanes, and hearkens after it,
And growes erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to mee, who must
Like th'other foot, obliquely runne;
Thy firmnes drawes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begunne.

The Battle of LeChèque

A few days ago I went to Macaroni Grill with a most venerable man, the BM Joe (best man, that is). We had a fine time eating and chatting and whatnot and then our server, named Justin, came to ask us about our checks. I of course told him we would like separate checks, as is the usual custom. Then however, Joe leapt in his seat and said "Forsooth, no! I shall only accept it, which having been summed together, is contained solely in a single bill. Neither two nor three shall do, saving they are all given to me; nay, neither four nor five shall be the counting. Only one, prohibiting procession thereafter, and it shall be produced to me, and myself singly." After such graceful verbage, I could hardly refuse his generous offer; of course, I put up a very minor skirmish, but it was obvious there would be no victory on my part. However, on the occasion of our next dinner, I will be better prepared for battle.

So we played out yet another instance of the ongoing, glorious struggle for control over one's restaurant bill. For years I have been an onlooker: my father is constantly laying siege to my grandparents' established control of the check, and although he does win out from time to time, he seldom gains the upper hand for long. It has all the makings of a real war, complete with flanking tactics, sneak attacks, and full frontal assaults. There's the classic, approach-the-waiter-ahead-of-time ploy, which can be successful if properly executed. Then you can always leave cash in some inconspicuous location that the host will only find after you have left the state. Or you can blatantly shove money into the purse, pocket, or hands of whoever you battle and refuse to take it back, simply leaving it on the couch if it is subsequently thrust back at you.

There are all sorts of understood rules also. Once the money has touched another person, it becomes their possession, and we all know that if the payback-er can manage to get the money onto the living room floor and sneak out the door, the resident will pick it up at some point and use it. However, there are special ops moves that can prevent the efficacy of such tactics. My father-in-law, for instance, with his military background, is an expert in covert attacks. More than once my wife and I have found money tucked away in some place we only check a few times a month, like the small storage space underneath the armrest in the car, or perhaps the drawer containing my toothbrush. Mighty clever, if I do say so myself. Or sometimes it works best to place money in such an obvious spot that the person is unlikely to realize it for a bit, even though frequently seeing it. For example, I have known my father to leave money on the mantle over my grandmother's fireplace as we head out the door.

To top it off, home-field advantage is definitely a factor. My grandparents nearly always succeed in paying when we are visiting them, but my parents are much more likely to win the check when their parents visit here in Georgia. And just as in 18th century warfare, battlefield etiquette plays a powerful role. There is a point where one must give up, specifically after three no-you-mustn't-s, two sighs of dismay, a stern warning that you will be paying next time, and of course, profuse gratitude, though Mesdames Post and Vanderbilt are shockingly silent about the precise number of thank yous required.

In a day when duels are frowned upon and we no longer have the good sense to take turns exchanging salvos with the enemy in war, the Battle of LeChèque, as I call it, is one of few remaining vestiges of decorous struggle. And continue it must! It is a great tradition, full of vague truisms and beautiful formalism, wrapped up with the human need to display one's independence and ability to provide. One could not ask for a more telling image of the relationship between generosity and self-sufficiency. And best of all, everyone seems to end out on top: either your meal is graciously paid for, or you have been given the opportunity to display your generous nature and your goodwill toward the other. Since the paying hand seems to balance out with time, both parties are able to experience each sentiment equally and everyone wins.

In these last pre-Oxford days, friends and family have been exceedingly generous with my wife and me, and we are most grateful. Many say that Europe is quite different from the US, pointing to a lack of joy and happiness, and I think if this is true, it is a direct outcome of their lack of potluck dinners. Maybe potlucks have become the rage in Europe since my last visit, but even if not, we can show our munificence in the restaurant. We must continue to show ourselves capable, both of provision and of generosity, for in my opinion, these two causes are chiefly why we labor. I may not be able to duel with the likes of Aaron Burr, but I nonetheless know the meaning of honor. So both in Oxford and back in the US afterward, I hope to be a frequent wager of the Battle of LeChèque.

Saying Goodbye

Don't get too excited. Despite this post's title (and your soul's deepest desire, no doubt) I am not terminating this blog. You're still stuck with me.

Righto - let's begin shall we:

I find it unfortunate that English has failed to keep the distinctions that are availed to speakers of many other languages in saying goodbye. Although we can say bye, goodbye, see you later, farewell, until we meet again, etc., and they do all have slightly different connotations, I believe the general public does not clearly distinguish between which phrases should be used when. For instance, in French, you simply do not say adieu unless you do not know when you will next see the person with whom you speak. You literally entrust the person "to God" because only he could know what happens next. In German, I believe you would use auf Wiedersehen for the long-term goodbye, meaning roughly "until we meet again" (lit. "until next seeing"). I particularly like this one because of how vague it is. Until we meet again...I will think of you every night? Or perhaps, until we meet again, I will eat three meals daily? And then what if your implied promise is broken? It adequately captures the uncertainty - who knows what I'll be doing, but I'll be doing it, and I hope I'll see you again sometime thereafter. I find it extremely appropriate.

But for English speakers, particularly in America, saying goodbye can be awkward and embarassing if not properly thought out. I don't mean this to be harsh, but it doesn't really work to say see you later when it is very likely that you won't ever see the person again. It implies a complete lack of concern and understanding of the fact that the person is really leaving. And therein lies the issue. Although farewell carries a bit more finality than the others, it would not be unusual to hear someone using any of the other forms in both short-term and long-term settings. I think it would be best if until we meet again and farewell were reserved for long-term goodbyes to preserve their emotional connotation. Frankly, it is nice to feel like someone really does want you to "fare well," not merely be seen later. Likewise, it would be terrific to hold out hope that you would "meet again" with someone you believed was hoping the same. But see you later is naive and unrealistic, as if the speaker is sure he will see you later and thus is not required to feel any emotion at your departure. Nothing has changed - you'll see each other in a week or two, maybe do lunch. Then when that lunch never occurs, the speaker pleads ignorance. His plea is correct.

I realize, though, that sometimes people can have completely proper motives and are just awkward. I know this because I am definitely one of those people. In important final moments, I lose my ability to reason and just blurt out what I'm used to saying, which is normally "see ya later." And after that, it's either deal with it, or try to correct the blunder and become even more awkward in the process. So generally I opt for the former. You see, my problem is that I have never really had to say goodbye like this before. It was traumatizing enough for me to move from private middle school into a public high school where few of my friends were continuing their education. But we all still lived in the same places. Then there was high school to college, which was not very difficult because I could come home whenever I wanted.

That leaves now, and this time it's for real. If I'm going to see anyone, it will require an eight hour flight and an hour in a train. And although I have tried to adequately say farewell to various people in the past month, I think a piece of music sums it up better than I was ever able to communicate with speech. Beethoven's Les Adieux Sonata (No. 26) for piano opens with a movement called "Das Lebewohl," roughly translated to "the farewell," though Germans would say it means much more than that and cannot really be translated. I have only heard the entire sonata a handful of times, but I often play the first three chords because they express what I feel better than I am otherwise able. For those of you who play the piano, here is the beginning of the piece (sorry it's so small):
The first time I heard the piece I was truly struck by how well the opening chords perfectly sum up what it is to say goodbye, permanently. Although the progression is not unique, there is something painfully fitting about the transition from the simple major chords in the first measure, to the unfortunate, minor chord in the second. It feels like Beethoven is watching his lifelong love leaving in a carriage - I'm ok; I'm still ok; I'm definitely not ok. And in this case, the composer really spells it out for us: you will notice that above the first three chords he writes "Le-be-wohl," as if he specifically intended those three chords to signify everything that farewell connotes. Although Beethoven goes on to develop his notion of farewell throughout the piece, I feel sufficiently moved after the opening chords that I normally stop and soak it up. He must have had a very moving farewell at some point in his life - there is no other way he could so perfectly infuse three, elementary chords with such an effect.

So some of you reading this may have received a farewell from me that was lacking in appropriateness, and I do hope you will overlook my awkwardness. I assure you that any "see you laters" and "ciaos" were entirely a result of my inexperience in such times. (I do hope to be better the next time I leave some place for a long period). So to all my friends and family, I will miss you much and think of you often. It is difficult to leave despite the excitement, and I know I will have some "I'm definitely not ok" moments before settling into my new life. But life goes on, and I know eventually we get passed those first three chords and into the rest of the music. And there sure is a lot of music after that introduction.

There will always be vacancies on our floor for your sleeping bags.

Farewell.

To Be Thrown Out a Window

Of all the ridiculous things that have happened in history, the Second Defenestration of Prague is probably my favorite. The Czechs have a long legacy of throwing people out of windows (defenestrate: de - out of, fenestra - window), as they rightly should. I have heard rumors that defenestration was a semi-common form of punishment/rebellion in Europe, but that will require further investigation. It makes sense, though. I can just imagine the rich establishment, hanging out in their penthouses. What better way to make a point than to invade those upper reaches and toss out the denizens - a literal and figurative fall from power.

The first Prague window tossing goes all the way back to 1419. In this instance, a group of Hussites stormed the city hall over a dispute involving prisoners and chucked six or seven fellows out the window to their death below. This included some city council members and the burgomeister (aka, the mayor). Too bad. The Czech king at the time, Wenceslaus, supposedly died of the shocking news. And although you may be exclaiming at this very moment, "Ah yes! Good old King Wenceslaus! Poor chap!" don't get too excited. The king of Christmas fame lived quite awhile earlier - this one was known as "The Drunkard."

Then in 1483, the Praguians were at it again. Shockingly, it was another rebellion. This time, though, they killed most of the folks before flinging them out - a nice courtesy. Only one of them meritted live launching. For some reason, this defenestration is mostly forgotten and does not earn an official numbering. I sometimes feel bad for those rebels, going to all the trouble to cast people out a window and barely getting any credit. So although this was the second group of balcony ballast, the official Second defenestration came later.

For the next century and a quarter, there was a noticeable dearth of banister flipping. I imagine the Czechs were a bit put off by the lack of rebellion labeling. I mean really, what is the point of going to all that trouble if you aren't properly recognized? I would certainly be upset. But after a few generations, the offense was forgotten and the Praguians got back to it.

The year was 1618, Sir Walter Raleigh was busy with his hair gel, preparing to be beheaded, when the latest installment of Prague's greatest tradition went down. This time, it was much more serious, but nonetheless comic. Lending credence to the idea of being a common form of punishment, the victims were tried, and then calmly (well, maybe) found guilty and tossed. Luckily for them, a large pile of manure was waiting; justice was foiled by a heap of dung. Even though they didn't die, it still seems appropriate as a symbolic gesture. And it was of infinite importance, possibly inspiring one of the opening scenes of Aladdin, one of the most influential movies of the 20th century. As a side note, it also began the Thirty Years War (a few minor skirmishes between Catholics and Protestants, leading to the death of 15-20% of Germany - trifles really), whose most important historical consequence was the addition of Swedish king Gustavus Adolphus into western history textbooks. What a terrific name!

As you can see, defenestration is important. It starts wars, it's imaginative, and it makes a point. As a tribute to its historic glory, I have a plan to stage a dramatic reenactment during my European roamings with my wife. Prague is one of our must-see stops, and we will ensure a first floor hotel room; obviously, safety is a priority this time around. So basically, my wife is going to defenestrate me. It's simple and beautiful. We will be sure to record it, in video if possible but at least pictures, and post it for your enjoyment.

I hope you have enjoyed this brief look at one of the most important events in all of history. As a final note, the word defenestration was coined as a result of our Praguian friends' commitment to inventive punishment. So if you have any unique traditions (hopefully less harmful ones) that catch on, maybe you will have a Latin-based word coined on your behalf as well. Be sure to mention defenestration in your acceptance speech.

Ah, words!

Some old guy, Poe or Shelley or someone, said that cellar door was the most beautiful word in the English language. I have two problems with that. First of all, it's two words. Secondly, although it is evocative of darkness and mystery and fear, all of which I find exciting in a literary sense, I believe it to be, at best, the penultimate in terms of beauty. In my opinion, the most beautiful of words must be medieval. Then perhaps cellar door, and then the antepenultimate might be defenestration. But penultimate and antepenultimate seem deserving as well. So many words, so few top three rankings.

Medieval is such a terrific word to me because of all its connotative desserts which I have enjoyed from an early age. Obviously, I hadn't the slightest idea of how to spell it as a child, so I naturally assumed it was mid-evil, in the middle of evil. Those were trying times, as we all know, so my spelling made sense - evil days deserve evil spellings. Eventually I learned how to spell it properly, but the dark, foreboding sense of the earlier spelling lingered on. Even now the correct spelling conjures up images of magic, fairy tales, and perpetual night. And that is what I love about the word. The Middle Ages (medium - middle, ævum - era, age) were saturated in myth and legend of such diversity and scope that no one could ever know them all. But they were all astonishingly real to the listeners. There really were underwater kingdoms, wailing banshees, and thundering gods in the storm. And being the romantic that I am, these are all wonderful things. Even today I firmly believe myth provides deep insight into the nature of man (see "On Fairy Stories," available in the book Tree and Leaf by JRR Tolkien, for one exceptional explanation) and is a worthwhile study for the classroom, despite our greater understanding of the world around us. So what is there not to love about medieval? It is a perfect word.

But the multitude of striking words in the English language is fabulous. Penultimate and antepenultimate, meaning second-to-last and third-to-last respectively, are great words too, but for a completely different reason. I learned these words in the context of music, where they are used to describe the few closing measures of a piece, since the end is often of special importance. They are completely unnecessary, and that's why I love them. Even with hyphens, third-to-last has fewer letters than antepenultimate, and it has the added benefit of preventing embarassment when the author realizes too late that he actually published antipenultimate. So instead of occuring in the third-to-last measure, the noted feature is very obviously anti the penultimate measure, truly at war with it. Music scholars may note that the occasional belligerence of the misspelled term does not detract from the correct term's precision. But in music, you can also always just provide the exact measure number. I suppose it is exciting, though, when a composer's music goes off to war against itself. So despite the possible confusion and snobbish air of the word, or rather, because of those very traits which render the words so silly, I love them.

English does not only provide its speakers with scholarly words that are absurd and marvelous, it also provides the rare gift of everyday words with special twists. Take for example, the instance pointed out to me by my good friend Paul. In reading my earlier blog about pop singers rhyming thing with thing and minute with minute, he suggested that artists are allowed to rhyme a small subset of words with themselves. And he is absolutely correct. One such example is the word orange, which has no rhyming words in English. So obviously if you want to rhyme it, it must rhyme with itself. I had previously heard that silver and purple also fall into this category and began to think that maybe there was some sort of color monopoly on anti-rhyme. But after some research, I discovered that silver rhymes with chilver (a female lamb) and purple with curple (a horse's hindquarters) and hirple (to walk lamely - whatever that means). Try using one of those in conversation at work on Monday and see what sort of looks you get! There are a few others too, and I will now attempt a sentence with as many as possible:

The plankton-eating sasquatch, upon finding yttrium on his uvula, stood from the toilet on the plinth to seek the sacred ninja penguin's advice on whether, as a bachelor, he should vacuum his home to avoid allowing jejune protists from spoiling the celestial syzygy that evening.

I simply do not think I can continue - that was way to much fun. Defenestration will have to wait until next time. Until then, beware of bulbous chimneys!

Hamburgers, Soap Operas, and Community

When I think of a good hamburger, my mind instantly goes to Rhea's. There are two things that make the city of Roswell known to the world: aliens and the Rhea's special. Granted, Roswell, GA is not the supposed landing site of ET, but no one forgets us because of our chance affiliation. Then there's Rhea's (pronounced rays), the best burger in town. Sure, you may not have heard of it, but everyone in Roswell has, and in our eyes, that makes it great.

Today I paid a visit to Rhea's III, the latest and largest of the Rhea's locations. Jimmy Rhea, of Pakistan, started the burger joint in the back of a corner grocery barely large enough to contain two or three small tables and a bench area. Apparently living in Pakistan is excellent preparation for making tasty burgers, and other Pakistanis now run the newer Rhea's III location scrumptiously. (They might be family of Jimmy's, but it doesn't seem like it). They're good people; always waving at you like you're their best friend even if you have never been there before.

It was a bit nostalgic for me today, as it was probably my last visit before leaving. All the sights and sounds were there just like usual. There was hardly a soul there when I arrived, opting for an early lunch. So instead of the chitter chatter of burger munching patrons, I was greated with the breathy sighs and overdramatic gesturing of Spanish soap operas playing on the TV. Although sometimes tuned elsewhere, the employees often have these telenovelas on when I dine there. Apparently Spanish soaps are wildly popular in many third and second world countries. In his book Snow, describing the conflicting traditional values and secularism of Turkey, nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk makes a central feature of this point. Work and play in the small town of Kars cease every evening to watch the latest installment of "Mariana;" indeed, the show is a unifying piece of secularism in the town torn by islamist politics. Perhaps it is a form of wishful thinking: if only the drama of our lives could be so trivial; if only hunger and poverty were replaced by upper class intrigue and scandal.

My friend at Rhea's III told me today that business had been really slow lately. Summer is over - no more bored high schoolers stopping in all the time for lunch. And soon they will be losing me to school as well. Whatever will become of Rhea's in this sluggish economy? This is particularly worrisome to me because of what Rhea's represents. Roswell used to be a small little town with lots of trees, green space, and the like. Now, the horse farm is gone, replaced by a bevy of stores and restaurants, most of them chains. But Rhea's stands as a beacon of local uniqueness amidst the international businesses. With its homey atmosphere, its rabbit ear TV that gets horrible reception, its telenovelas, and the occasional greasy spot on the table from the last guest, Rhea's is the sort of place the helps distinguish Roswell as a community within the endless Atlanta suburbs. In this age when neighbors often don't recognize each other in the grocery store, we need a little dose of goodwill towards our fellow man, and local burger joints are a prime place to cultivate that.

Americans traveling to poorer countries often note how friendly everyone is, how generous and caring about neighbors and strangers alike. Perhaps if we knew our neighbors, we would be nice to them in public. But in America it does not surprise me to hear of a neighbor cussing out another neighbor while progressing through traffic some morning. In fact, I personally have been flicked off and yelled at by a neighbor passing on the road, although he surely had no idea I lived just a bit down the road from him. We can do things like that because local community has broken down so much - there is so little social pressure and shame to stop irate neighbors from pouring out obscenity on each other. It is easy to yell and scream at someone you don't know, someone you don't have to deal with at the weekend pool party. But these days, we hardly have to deal with anyone (unfortunately, even sometimes including family in this new era of ipods, the great intra-automobile isolator). In less developed countries, community is still an important facet of society, and forms the backbone of survival in many places. So what is commonplace in poorer regions (civility toward your neighbor), is becoming exceptional here.

So here we are, talking about how great our developments are, telling other countries to be more like us. And they want to. With the exception of countries on par with us economically, much of the world would kill for the American way of life. Understandably so - we have comforts galore, all the food we need (too much sometimes), tv, music, cars - you name it. But they have something many of us don't - a bond with their neighbors. They watch "Mariana," quietly hoping for a better life, dreaming about the riches and comfort they see. After all, even Spanish soap operas aspire to American pomp. But when they do climb up the economic ladder a little more, will they end up like many of us, not knowing what it is to be a neighbor, caring only for self? I hope not.

Don't get me wrong - America is great, and we truly are blessed who live here. And there are certainly still good neighbors out there. But it seems like we have begun to confuse materialism with the American dream. We forget the joy of giving and even forget the fun of kinship. If we were just a little less concerned about getting everything we can as fast as we can, perhaps then we would realize that no slight traffic delay is worth the bird, and the time it takes to befriend neighbors is well worth it. Of everyone I know, my sister is best at loving her neighbor. In fact, the one time I remember participating in the greeting of new neighbors was when she suggested we take them some cookies and coke for a break as they moved in. Little did I know that they would be the best neighbors we would ever have, friends for years to come. Who knows what course our friendship would have taken if my sister had not suggested we do something so foreign to me, but common to many less fortunate than I. So maybe stop by Rhea's as a refresher on friendliness - be sure to say hi to the cook - and make a friend. Know your neighbor.

Zap!

I lower the barrel of my weapon, poised for ambush on the unsuspecting adversary. I fire! A ray of light blasts past the adversary, alerting him of my presence - I have lost the element of surprise. From then on it's a grueling fight to the death; one moment I gain the upper hand, the next, my adversary has evaded my grasp and taken control. But after attacking from all conceivable angles, finally I am rewarded: "Beep." The item is added to the wedding registry.

So goes the grim battle, fought by many a brave husband-to-be in the glittery aisles of Bed, Bath, and Beyond, Macy's, and Target. For some of us, the registry scanner may be the only weapon we ever handle for more than an hour, so better enjoy it. Filling the wedding registry with superfluous kitchen gadgets, oversized hatchets, and sporting ware is what we do best. This is also our chance to get back in touch with nature, procuring all our camping needs, and to build the perfect home entertainment system, complete with surround sound. After all, it's not every day a young boy (no man with a registry scanner can contain his inner child for very long) gets to run around stores zapping things. It's like free laser tag, perhaps with slightly less vigorous foes, but who notices? Some may call it heaven. I call it....heaven.

Unfortunately, it seems technology has surpassed us menfolk with a nifty little thing called the "internet." Within this wily invisible realm the women are really in control. Sure, we men like to shoot all the stuff in the store, but after that, we forget about that registry thing until we get to unholster our weapon once more. Meanwhile, the prudent womenfolk have logged onto the "internet" and swiftly pruned away the circular saws and automatic barbeque sauce dispensers, leaving us utterly disappointed and distraught when we are forced to apply our barbeque sauce manually. Blast you "internet!"

So here I am, a married man, sans hacksaw, but still happily connected to all ten of my fingers. I haven't been married even three months yet, but I can tell you now that my wife is definitely the brains of the operation. It was apparent from our time in the trenches of Target; I may have rashly acted on my boyish yearnings, but she had the big picture under control. In fact, she probably expected that I would run around like a hooligan, zapping things left and right, and just calmly took it in stride. She knew I would never need or even want half of the things I might zap, so she wisely eliminated them.

Later, post-wedding, we had a number of gift cards to help finish off our registry needs. One Saturday we headed over to the local BB&B (that, I must say, is managed by a buffoon, but I shan't name names or places), to buy some random necessities, including some bed linens. I wandered around the section, appalled by the prices that this store was asking for a few pieces of cloth and almost jumped out of my skin when my wife pointed out a set of sheets for $60. $60!!!! That can buy at least three books, and maybe a latté to add to the ambience. There was no way in Burkina Faso that I was going to spend $60 on some bed stuff manufactured for 42 cents in Thailand. Thus, in my frugal wisdom, I suggested some other sheets, topping out at only $40 (I would have preferred even cheaper ones, but there simply weren't any). By that point I was ready to befriend Oscar the Grouch and take up residence in a trash can, permanently misanthropic and anti-expensive sheets. So, in my one flash of inspiration for the day, I suggested that maybe I should go down a few stores to Borders and let my wife finish up with the purchases here. Of course, she was more than willing for me to leave.

Well, it turns out that $40 set of sheets was actually just one sheet, and the whole set would have cost upwards of $120. The $60 set was one of the cheapest options, but I obviously wouldn't have noticed. Needless to say, that's what we ended up purchasing. Hopefully I will learn early to heed my wife's advice, especially when I am flustered by frugal frustration. In my own defense, though, I think my judgment of math textbooks and my knowledge of a certain octopus, genus Vampyroteuthis, may be superior to hers. Maybe.

So to all you fiancés out there, don't worry; your over-enthusiastic zapping will not lead to a home filled with horseshoes and combination water purifier/bear trap/zip line harnesses. And have fun! You may never be able to zap to your heart's content at any other time in your life. So take advantage of the fact that you are encouraged to zap, and you have wise oversight (probably much better than the oversight afforded by the most powerful, wealthy government in the world). If your wife-to-be is anything like mine, the situation is under control.

Is it cheaper in Kamchatka?

When something good appears as a possibility on the horizon, I seldom accept its reality until the very last minute. There are too many things that could go wrong, too many plans that could change. Some might call me a pessimist, though I think anyone who knows me would deny this claim. Rather, I simply do not wish to get overly excited only to be let down if it doesn't work out. Well, today I received a 220 dollar sticker, and now I'm pretty sure I'll actually be going to Oxford.

That pricey scrap of adhesive paper was my student visa for the UK. After many months of the opportunity on the horizon, I can now be fairly certain it will really happen. But it was no walk in the park. There were so many stages of clearance that I was nearly overwhelmed - acceptance to Oxford, acceptance to a particular college (a subunit of the university), loan clearance from the feds, financial clearance from my college, and finally, the grand-daddy of them all - visas.

The visa application process is the bureaucratic equivalent of Chinese water torture. After already having presented mountains of financial evidence to my college in order to be fully accepted, the UK government suddenly wanted me to do it all over again, and they wanted even more evidence than my college. It wasn't entirely logical to me - I know that the UK does not want me showing up on the doorstep of Parliament asking for welfare, but really, they should not be so concerned. After all, Oxford wouldn't let me come if they thought I would be unable to pay. But that doesn't seem to make much difference to the government.

What made the process particularly bothersome, though, was the lack of clarity about details of the application. They do have a good overview of how to apply for a visa on their website, but when a particular question was left unanswered, you were left with very few options. Hmm, shall I call the visa info service line that is $3 per minute, or should I go for the more egalitarian $12 flat fee? The variety was staggering. Then I realized that the $3 option was only available to me if I lived in Fiji, Azerbaijan, or the northwestern corner of Cheyenne, Wyoming, and then only on Tuesday evenings after 9:27.

Regardless, I called because I had important questions. While talking to the friendly telephonist in Bangladesh, hearing all of my words quickly echoed back to me at about twice their issued volume, I discovered that since the info services were not actually part of the British government (obviously having been outsourced), they could tell me nothing more than what was already on the UK website. But they would happily tell me what I already knew with plenty of static for only $12 flat fee (or $3 a minute from southern Waziristan province). Lovely.

Thus, after not having my questions answered, I just gathered what I thought important and prepared to send it off. After delving into the bowels of the earth to find all the necessary documents, my wife and I sent off more than 70 pages for our visa applications. I can't imagine how big the application would have been if I were not a resident of the United States, being on quite perky terms with our British brethren. Then the pain mounted even further.

I am normally the poster child of patience, as my family will surely attest. I never had to have anything RIGHT NOW as a kid. Take, for example, the time when I was at Disney World and waited easily a minute and a half after arriving to start begging for Dad to buy me that awesome invisible dog leash - easily. But when it comes to waiting for a visa for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study at Oxford, I'm toast. I simply can't take the pressure. A week and a day after the British Consulate received our application (confirmed by UPS), we got an email telling us they had received it. You may think that is good, but the email was so vague about processing times that it appeared we might not get the visas back in time to fly out if they had really just received the application. And we had sent it to them with double the amount of time they said that would be required to process the application. Not only would our overnight mailing a week earlier have been fruitless, but our super cheap non-refundable, non-changeable student airfare would also be flushed down the tube. All was clearly lost.

But then today, several days before we expected the visas to return even under good conditions, they showed up. It was a relief, to say the least. All of my fretting was for naught and we're going to England. I probably should have seen it coming. During the clearance process with Oxford this summer, the admissions contact at my college told me that Econ students from the US often worry excessively about getting everything worked out. I think she was just being nice, trying to make me feel like I was one of many. Whether or not there are many like me, and whether or not I am a pessimist, I surely caused myself more pain than necessary by worrying. We can do our best and that's it - nothing is going to change by worrying about it. And apparently, even the most obnoxious of bureaucratic processes can work out better than expected. I suppose the British government is not so bad after all.

So, here's to another notch in the belt of obvious lessons from (hopefully) comical stories. Maybe one of these days I'll come up with some idea that's not at least 5000 years old. Or maybe it's better to just heed the old ideas in the first place.

But hey, I'm going to England!

Anticipation

I picture it like this: a small alleyway of cobblestone curving out of sight just ahead, warm light from a lantern cast against the heavy blue of dusk, and an a cappella choir singing soothing carols as I sip on tea at a café with my wife. I will often ramble through the streets and glimpse a group of children skipping around and singing in Old English, as is proper for any young Brit. Likewise on my daily horse rides through the countryside, I will happen upon many peasant farmers, plowing the land with mules and whistling folk tunes. Around the bend will be their lord's castle, all abustle with activity - bakers and vendors and cobblers and whatnot. And I will return at night to my humble abode where I shall sit and read my correspondence from the far reaches of Tartary, having been sent nearly three months earlier. Yes, this is surely the life that awaits me in England.

Then I shall realize, whilst drinking my tea, that the urge has arisen and will enquire the butler as to the whereabouts of the watercloset: "Where be-ist the WC, good fellow?"
"Se brim banhus?"
Stunned by this man's audacity whereby he shuns my question, I retort, "Heavens! Shame upon your family, and where ever is your lord with whom I shall lodge formal complaint regarding your impunity?"
"Se domne?"
After which I give up and go searching myself, only to realize that there is no WC, nor in fact any closets, and indeed no water running anywhere within the block. And I realize I can really go on no longer in this daydream without proper sanitation; hence, I vacate the premises until my mind has had the chance to sufficiently forget my dependence on modernity.

I have never been to Oxford, so I only have my daydreams and the various pictures I have seen to help me anticipate life there. Unfortunately, in my saner moments, I know it will be nothing like I have imagined - for one thing, those knightly chaps in the fringes of my mind's eye probably won't be around, nor will horses occasionally plod into the scene obscuring my view of the choir. And I suppose I won't be wearing something akin to a friar's cloak. Details, details.

What matters, of course, is that the sentiment will be completely as I have imagined, 100 percent. Oxford oozes romance, it simply must, for that is how I see it. Every picture I have seen, adequately staged by photographers or tourists alike, screams "OLD," which is naturally all I want it to be. Everything old is good, and Oxford is very old, so it must be very good. At least, that's what my stare-off-into-nowhere moments tell me. Life there will be perfect. And I have good reason to believe it will be. After all, wasn't Edinburgh perfect, just as I thought it would be...except for the drunk Irishmen in the room next door at three in the morning. And wasn't Paris bliss...minus the psycho-grumpy concierge. In reality, they were both wonderful, but not at all what I expected.

This time, in Oxford, everything will be completely different. I am married, I will be in school, and I will actually be living there, not just visiting. I simply cannot wait. This is the chance for my most ridiculous medieval romantic daydreams to actually occur. I will be daily walking a city laden with history, they say you can almost breathe it in, perhaps like Georgia's humidity. My college is situated in a fairly new building, as they describe it, only dating from the 1800s - practically newborn. Although America is wonderful, there is something intensely invigorating about going to live among, between, next to, around, on top of, and inside really old stuff. But if experience is any guide, it will be nothing like I expect. After all, I am going to be working on a master's degree, and most grad students I have known were feverishly busy with school all the time. And given the cost of living in England, I will probably not be able to ring Alfred for tea in the afternoon. I might actually have to get it myself (heaven forbid!). And I admit, my daydreams are an absurd mixture of eras, squelching all of the past fourteen centuries into a single picture. Oh, I forgot to tell you - Beowulf leaps across rooftops battling Grendel in the background of my cobblestone scene.

As our departure nears, reality sets in. We will have to pay bills and cook and work and all the usual things we would do here, and we probably will not witness legend in the making. But it will still be glorious, even if it isn't what I expect. It's not every day I get the chance to live in England, and I intend to enjoy it, down to the very last scone.

Of Sweat and Stinginess

Some call it the "slick," others the "slice;" I prefer "slizzle." But by whatever name, the Student Learning Center, or SLC, is at the heart of UGA and near to the heart of most students. Being quite new, it has the latest in technology (including floppy drives, eight track players, and VCRs), a student-friendly staff, and air conditioning, which is of course the most important. I have always been extremely fond of the SLC from the first time I saw it. It is a beacon of traditional architecture, in stark contrast to the hideous Caldwell Hall and the old Ag Hill buildings. In those days, it seems it was chic to be ugly. And I will never forget pulling all-nighters in the SLC during finals season with many other students, all hoping that cramming might work this time.

But truly, it's the air conditioning that makes it. Unlike some places, Georgia is still obscenely hot when college gets under way - in fact, the last dying breath of summer may not come until two or three months after arriving in Athens. And summer comes early every year too. Come April, the heat is on. So as a perpetually perspiring male, and might I add that I perspire profusely even for those of the male persuasion, pacifying my pores is no perfunctory point, but is rather of particular importance. (But I do love alliteration!) Hence, my affinity for the SLC, one of very few buildings on campus guaranteed to be sufficiently frosty to assuage my heat-laden body on a toasty day in Georgia.

On one such day I found myself slogging to the SLC from Myers Hall, not too far really, but it was crazy hot. I stumbled into the SLC, steam rising from my body as from a manhole after a storm. But I had reached my sanctuary, my igloo of paradise, so all was well. Or so I thought. On this day, as I often did on hot days, I arrived to class early to provide a buffer of cool-down time. So I walked to the central staircase and began a slow ascent to my third floor recuperation area. After the first turn I started having this nagging feeling; maybe I had forgotten my homework. Or maybe I had forgotten to brush my teeth - unlikely. (I am a colossus of dental hygiene...sort of.) After a brief pause to consider, I continued on, unaware of my impending doom.

Rounding the next turn, I knew something was wrong. The uncertain feeling had started in my feet, promising to climb as soon as my memory kicked in. (Did I leave the coffee pot on?) But strangely, the hint of oddity just lingered at my toes, growing stronger by the moment. Then suddenly, with only one step to the third floor landing, the cheapo flip-flop on my right foot exploded, the button shooting off into oblivion. As I stumbled over myself, my left foot followed suit, launching pseudo-plastic down the hallway towards unexpecting passersby. So there I was, sprawled on the ground, awkward as a platypus, and worst of all, I had no footwear! I sat there thinking about how to fix this awful predicament, completely stupefied. My fellow students walked by, shaking their heads, knowing the terrible shame I bore - the shame of three dollar flip-flops.

Eventually, I had the good sense to try stapling my fallen comrades back together - bad idea. I ended up walking home barefoot after class. And to think this could have been prevented had I not been quite so stingy. Now don't get me wrong, I am a staunch supporter of the bargain bin, and the paparazzi often catch me peeking at the clearance rack. But this was not my first bargain flip-flop mishap. To be honest, it was the fifth or sixth such accessory death in the prior six months. It was like I kept retelling that bad joke that no one laughs at. Over and over. And over. Again.

Well, after hearing of my plight, a few of my friends decided it would be wise to help me change my stingy ways. That Christmas, I received my first pair of real flip flops - Reefs. These actually had a sole, a novel idea indeed, and they were so comfortable, almost as good as the refreshing climate control of the SLC. And what was really amazing - they lasted me almost two years! Yes, you heard me right, two years. I normally started bruising my feet on stones by just walking around after about three weeks in clearance flip flops, and holes shortly followed.

So let's do some math, shall we? I paid $3-5 for bargain flip flops about once a month (and I wear flip flops year round) - that's around $50 a year. My friends got my $30 Reefs that lasted almost two years. The choice is easy my friends. Since then I have stepped one notch higher to Chacos - the king of sandals. I can hike in them, raft in them, run in them if I wanted, and they are about 378,091 times more comfortable than any other shoe I've ever owned. All this, and they last forever. I wear mine almost every day of the year, and after a year and a half, I cannot notice any major signs of wear yet! Unbelievable. They are kind of steep (anywhere from $60-100, depending on sales), but they last forever and put you in shoe heaven.

Cheap shoes had been just one part of my frugal way of life. I grew up with the mentality that cheap equals good. Saving money is what it's all about - splurging is discouraged, discounts and coupons are the proper way to shop. And for the most part, that's true. Living frugally encourages responsibility and good decision-making. And despite my occassionally over-eager spending, I still maintain a general caution with my money. But at some point, frugality enters the realm of stinginess. Then, the merits of more expensive items (or of being generous with others) are neglected simply to spend less. Many people who grew up like me don't realize that sometimes it actually saves (both money and face) to spend a little more now on the good stuff rather than buying the cheap stuff five hundred times separately. And generosity must never be forgotten - we are nothing if we are unwilling to share our bounty with family, friends, and those in need. But even if you had no companions with whom to share, you could still avoid an SLC faceplant and be more comfortable, all while saving money. I'm never going back. Thank God I have friends who buy me flip flops.

Where's Georgia again?

A few months ago on a flight back home from the Caribbean, I sat next to a nice gentleman who we will call Elmer. Elmer had a family with him, a wife and a few young kids who sat in the row in front of us. They were all quite nice and I enjoyed our conversation - it is always pleasant to have a few words with a fellow comrade while sealed in a metal cylinder hurtling through the air faster than the speed of sound.

Well, as we were on an international voyage (to be fair, it wasn't really international coming back from Puerto Rico, a commonwealth of the US), we naturally talked about where else in the world we had been. Elmer had been a place or two, mostly in and around the US though. And I told him of my two trips to Europe and the upcoming move to Oxford. Whenever I talk about travel with anyone, I like to emphasize how wonderful Scotland is, because truly, it is amazing. I love everything about that country, so verdant, such fantastic history mixed with modern comforts; you should go, dear reader. So I rambled on a bit about the glory of Scotland and Elmer seemed at least nominally interested. Then came that fateful moment, the point of no return after which our conversation had an undeniably different tone. "Scotland, that's up there near New Zealand, right?" asked a curious Elmer. Now I admit that I sometimes assume certain things to be common knowledge which just aren't; some friendly readers may recall incidents involving the Bikini Atoll and the Simon and Garfunkel song "Scarborough Fair." But generally I can chalk those up to the eclectic conversations I had in my family growing up (and still have to this day) where dinner time topics could range from the doctrine of predestination to the theory of relativity and back all before I finished my mashed potatoes. This time, though, I knew he must surely jest - "Ha ha!" I laughed, expecting his face to light with the knowing glow of a joke well-placed. But Elmer did not reciprocate, and within a second I knew I had taken the bait for a joke that did not exist. I tried to recover, "Oh, ya know, they're not too close really...." Awkward silence. Poor Elmer - I think I could probably work on my tact some more.

Well, I hope you, dear reader, are aware that New Zealand is possibly the very farthest away on this Earth that you can get from Scotland. Perhaps Australia is more directly opposite, or maybe somewhere in the ocean, but the two nations are surely not neighborly. I felt bad for Elmer, really, and for some time to come I wondered if this was another mashed-potato moment. Maybe no one really knows where New Zealand is - I mean, who really keeps up with our antipodean cousins anyway (more to come on this in a future blog)? But since then, I have been assured by many diverse friends that most people at least know that Scots and Kiwis (as New Zealanders call themselves) inhabit very different, distant lands.

This unfortunate occurence came to mind recently with the onset of the Russo-Georgian conflict. Although I never encountered anyone in recent weeks who admitted a lack of knowledge of Georgian geography, I read many news articles that mentioned the general American unawareness of where in the world Georgia was, the country, that is. I probably would not have known either had it not been for a recent fascination with central Asia and the Caucasus region (and it didn't hurt that many James Bond and other spy video games involve post-Soviet states). Now I understand that people didn't know where Georgia is - not many of us will ever go there and it would not have much impact on the US in normal circumstances. But our lack of geographic knowledge in this instance and in the case of Elmer betray a general ignorance in the field among Americans. To be frank, it is really sad that so much of the world can name the US capital and many of our important cities, knowing fairly accurately where each of them is, when most Americans don't know even half of our own country's state capitals. There is no hope for world geography if we can't even master the domestic realm.

Now forgive me, dear reader, if you indeed have a strong grasp of world geography; in fact, I applaud you. I do not mean to say that all Americans fall short in this area; I do mean to point out that in general, we fail to teach geography adequately in our schools. In high school, I was not required to take a class in geography, nor in college; in fact, when I went through high school, geography carried the connotation of a low-level class, the sort of course that you exempt if you are "smart enough," to be blunt, though I know that is not the case in all schools. But no one ever tested me in geographic knowledge; for all they knew, I could have graduated high school thinking New Zealand and Scotland were landlocked neighbors in western Africa. Likewise, perhaps I still think that Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Chicago, and Philadelphia are the capitals of Washington, Oregon, California, Illinois, and Pennsylvania, respectively. (The true capitals are Olympia, Salem, Sacramento, Springfield, and Harrisburg.) I know of many, including myself at times, who think the capitals are simply the largest cities around. In college, geography seemed to be so focused on human migrations and anthropology that students still did not learn where anything was. Why does it matter where people groups ended up in Europe if we could not locate them now based on current landmarks?

Unfortunately, I don't presume to have the readership or the influence to spawn a new day in geography education in America. But truly, this is one field in which we are woefully ignorant. So next time you find yourself or a friend asking "Where's Georgia again?", pull out an atlas and have a look around.

Play It Again Sam

Music has always been one of the most emotive forces in my life, especially classical music. I began listening to Baroque music after my oldest brother bought a CD with Bach, Pachelbel, Vivaldi and the like - I think he wanted mood music to play in the car for a big date. But regardless, he was the cool, older brother in high school, and what he did, I did. So I checked it out. Somehow, certain pieces got into me enough to cause interest, even though I found most of the tracks entirely too boring. Harpsichords - I don't think so.

Shortly thereafter my brother graduated from high school and I was left without any classical influence at home. So like any middle schooler without a good influence, I experimented. I tried out all sorts of exotic and tempting composers: Beethoven, Brahms, Rachmaninoff - even those sensuous Impressionists. I was lost forever to the temptations of the Romantic era and beyond.

Obviously, this wasn't quite a tragedy, and I remember with fondness my middle school and high school musical discoveries. But among all the variety, one composer, and one piece, clearly towered above the rest: Rachmaninoff and his second Piano Concerto. I listened to this powerful piece over and over one winter in middle school; its melancholy melodies are forever molded together with the overcast skies of that season. To this day, when I hear any portion of that beautiful creation, I am transported back to my bedroom where I would sit and stare out the window upon the gray skies and listen. I could never listen too much because the emotion was intensely mournful, though somehow pleasing. At the end of many other pieces, the listener feels a sense of completion and is ready to move on to the next moment in time, but Rachmaninoff always left me feeling slightly unfulfilled, as if he beckoned for me to return at some later date to relive the whole experience just one more time. And I kept coming back, not because I wanted to catch a glimpse of completion, but because I knew this sense of incompletion in mourning was proper to our existence. I could not have placed the feeling at the time, but it resonated deep within me - unfinished work is profoundly human.

Whether or not musicologists would agree with me, death and mourning seem to be wrapped up in the essence of Russian music. In fact, all of Russian society seems to reflect that connection: alcoholism is rampant, violence and corruption are mainstays, and the arts simply interpret this fog over Russian life. The brutal winters probably do not help the mood in Moscow and St Petersburg either. But in a way, the harsh setting has allowed some of their great artists like Rachmaninoff to present a kind of prophetic vision of life near death. And this is why their music can be so powerful.

It is human nature that when someone is nearing death, he begins to realize that often what he has striven for is fruitless and what is worthwhile he has left unfinished. Who among us, dear reader, has not witnessed personally or heard witness of a relative on his death bed telling posterity to love their family and spend time with them, to come home early from the office to play ball with the kids, to keep the lower paying job in place of the more lucrative one that demands working nights and weekends? Everything is put in its proper place when the trappings of this life no longer matter, when the Rolls Royce and the Saturn are both sitting in the hospital parking lot side by side, empty. And I have never known a more poignant representation of this reality than in Rachmaninoff. It does not matter what came before the end because you want more regardless. But it's over - there is no more. This feeling of emptiness, of unfinished finality everlasting that I heard in Rachmaninoff was ruthless like the Russian winter.

No wonder I can still recreate the mournful skies out my window and the feeling of solitude in my bedroom as I replayed the tracks. What the Russian great had captured in his music was a feeling built into humanity; I was simply encountering it early and I didn't know how to escape it.

Obviously, I am still with you to this day and I have not suffered irreparable damage from my first real encounter with the prospect of my life's end. We all face it at some point, often more than once before we return to the dust. But my perspective has changed since my younger years. Now when I hear Rachmaninoff, I can remember what it thrust before me in yesteryear and remain unmoved. There is something more, dear reader. We are not meant to live as if we could never finish; when we come to the end, we do not have to leave begging for another playback.

Among my generation, thoughts of death seem to be few and far between. Occasionally an elderly relative will pass away or a tragic accident will end the life of a peer, but after a short period, death recedes, along with all of its troubling issues. To be frank, we often forsake those things we know to be most valuable because there are no ubiquitous reminders. Everything tells us to push the difficult issues to the side and face them only when you must. But then, when face them we must, we are too often unready.

Life at its best is joyful, and we should strive to live joyful lives, but we all need reminders about what lies ahead. Rachmaninoff was the first of many such reminders that caused me to reevaluate what I value most. These reminders can come in many forms, and heed them we must. For there are many questions of import in this life that we all must face, and as I learned in middle school, procrastinating never makes them easier.