Ich und Auto

To my loving car,

As we enter our final months together, the terminal stage of a seven year involvement, I find it necessary to explain myself to you. I understand that this is a wholly self-serving enterprise. You will not understand me, and my desire to confess my sins against you is a recent urge—one born from the revelation that the nature of our relationship has always been one of abuse. If I can offer you nothing else, I can at least explain myself.

Like a battered housewife, you accepted my abuses as price and proof of love. And all the while what I felt for you was anything but love, or love as it should be—that which embraces and cherishes the endness of the other. Instead, I offered you an instrumental affection—that which enjoys the fruits of the other’s efforts without acknowledging the source of those efforts. That is, you loved me as myself, and I loved you as your work.

I never sought to understand the intricacies of your mechanism, and learned only what I needed so as to fix you when I pushed your parts beyond their capacities. I will not deceive myself with the flattery that, by testing your limits, I allowed you greater understanding and a wider self-concept. You may have gained both through my tyranny, but such was never my intention. Always, I used the elasticity of your love against you. When your engine burned for oil, I did not check it and would not replace it. I knew that you would expend your entire being to take me where I wanted to go, so why bother?

Even now, your illnesses need not be terminal. Brake pads and rotors could be replaced, fuel injectors cleansed, and your engine repaired. I will, however, take no action. After seven years, my wanderlust aroused, I seek a replacement—a new victim, whose devotion and adoration I can exploit into a new decade. At best, I might keep you on in case of emergencies. You will sit, alone amid the detritus of the Collins Corner Cat Ranch, waiting for my return. In all likelihood, I will never come.

I now know what I’ve done to you. I understand the wages of an attitude that sees only means and no end in the other. Because I see my worst self mirrored so clearly in your windshield, I have rejected you. I understand these things. But understanding does not produce change. Change is an act of will, and I continue to be the weaker vessel. At best, I might share in your suffering—might attempt moments of genuine compassion when I feel your shuddering, pained vibrations, might take my turns with less force and speed, might brake with less urgency. I hope I can be gentle. I hope we can share a moment’s grace.

Perhaps more than that, I can offer you the phrase that you have always vainly longed to hear:

Allons-y,

Wes

A Good Grilled Cheese

Background. Strange as it may seem to anyone aware of my pedantry, my authority on the grilled cheese does not come from any research into its history. Too often, the satisfaction of curiosity results in a commensurate loss of enchantment. So simple and perfect a creation as the grilled cheese could be ruined forever if its origins proved unsatisfying (this is also why, despite an intense and sometimes obsessive speculation, I refuse to look up the inner workings of my Lava Lamp). Rather, my authority in this case stems from years of practical experience. I endured burnt bread and too-runny cheese with quiet tears, learning from my mistakes by years to the point that I now feel wholly confident that each attempt will yield a golden perfection. I began as a wide-eyed innocent, and have become a grizzled veteran of the craft.

On preparation. The crucial selection of an appropriate bread and cheese combination ensures a healthy foundation for the enterprise. Undoubtedly spurred by our unfortunate American predilection for the biggest possible anything, most restaurants (even, alas, Cleveland’s city-set-upon-a-hill for grilled cheese lovers, Melt Bar and Grilled) lean toward Texas Toast. I find that choice lazy and deficient. The sheer width of two Texas Toast slices invariably overshadows the cheese. Moreover, Texas Toast tends to come off of the skillet too crisp. This combination of too-thick bread and too-crisp crust renders that overwhelmingly exciting first bite overwhelmingly cumbersome. Instead, I prefer thinly sliced bread that provides just enough cushion for the cheese. Any white bread will do (wheat breads, with their unpredictable, crunchy textures, have no place here), especially a loaf toward the end of its sell-by terminus. Fresh from the package, white bread can be too soft to butter easily and becomes too fluffy in the grilling. I prefer a sourdough loaf, which has the combined benefits of an already tough texture and a slight tang that compliments most cheeses.

Selecting a cheese provides endless opportunities for experimentation and combination. Almost any sliced cheese works well, and discovering exactly which one works best for you is another longue durée pleasure of the craft. Provolone? Sure! Pepper Jack? Why not? One slice of each? To hell with caution! Although purely a matter of personal preference, I do not find all cheeses equally suited to the task. American cheese, though something of a gold-standard, bores the experienced practitioner. Swiss, another mainstay, tends to lose taste when heated. Personally, I prefer sharp cheddar (especially when bookended by zesty sourdough slices), though Colby Jack and Muenster enjoy heavy rotation from time to time. One rule, however, remains inviolate: two slices of cheese, no more or less. Even the most thinly sliced bread suffocates a single slice of cheese. Three slices, as I learned in a particularly painful experience (really, my last failure before mastery), overwhelms even a bread as hardy as Texas Toast. Two slices of cheese and two slices of bread—the divine symmetry of a sanctified sandwich.

Creating a perfect grilled cheese is not, however, simply a matter of material choice—it is a deftly honed skill. One can combine the ingredients to perfection and end up tossing a charred, obsidian monstrosity into the garbage. Economy, patience, and self-control are the hallmarks of this process, and creating a grilled cheese is an excellent method by which to cultivate these virtues. Though the sandwich’s melted-gold hue and Pavlovian scent emerge from the butter, a thick spread places an unnecessary proscenium between bread and skillet that prevents proper crisping. Conversely, buttering less than the entire slice results in a disturbing lack of color around the perimeter. When preparing the bread for grilling, therefore, one must exercise economy in the amount of butter spread to ensure appropriate grilling. The grilling itself, the crucial pivot around which success and failure turn in this endeavor, requires an almost inhuman level of patience. One simply cannot hurry this process without diminishing the final product. True, one can turn up the gas with care and come away with a sandwich that looks right and smells right—but s/he will have traded speed of grilling for a commensurate lack of melting in the cheese. Most often, the hurried sandwich simply burns itself to ruin. Low, even heat, maintained and monitored over a period of several minutes is the only method by which perfection can be attained. This requires not only patience but self-control. The temptation to turn up the heat mounts as one checks the progress and finds it lacking. The will to stand, spatula at the ready, for those final minutes may be the most difficult part of the process to learn. Early in one’s career, the practitioner is at war with her/his own basic impulse for immediate gratification. As time passes, however, the diligent among us cultivate those virtues required. The others suffer in their ignorance.

Some final words on the grilled cheese’s general pleasures. Again, its simplicity is its perfection—two slices of cheese, two slices of buttered bread, grilled on the stove. Once internalized, this process acquires an almost meditative aspect. Selecting the perfect cheese encourages creativity and risk. The low, even heat required to avoid burning the bread offers the scattered mind an opportunity for willed patience and self-control. The final product’s delicious attributes engender an eager anticipation, one made that much more special because the object of desire is the work of one’s hands. A well-made grilled cheese, in other words, improves character. The grilled cheese’s utter, even rudimentary simplicity (one can prepare a perfect example on a hot-plate in Midnight Cowboy-level living conditions) belies the beguiling pleasures that emerge in its consumption. The butter lends the bread a scent that alerts the tongue to ready itself to one-pointed concentration. The texture of the bite, firm then yielding, encourages a slow, paced enjoyment. The cheese, suspended in some alchemic stasis between liquid and solid, rewards that patience in both texture and taste. In sum, a simple, well-made grilled cheese offers pleasures that I find unmatched by any other confection. Now, to the grilling!

Fight Test

A personal anecdote that asks some larger questions about essay tests and student expectations, in churlish, passive, purple prose:

As of last week, the aforementioned ennui showed no signs of declension, despite my own Half-way Covenant to rid myself of it. Issues came to a head after I missed my last class on Paul's epistles prior to the scheduled test date.

Now, my idiot, poker-savant colocataire (actually one of the most genuine and nice people I know) is in the same class, and told me that he was "pretty sure" Dr. Barr had pushed the test forward to Thursday, offering Tuesday as a review session. Since Dr. Barr has yet to diverge from the syllabus (no small accomplishment), I was skeptical. And yet, despite my own reservations and Tyler's chronic tardiness, I chose not to study. I was depressed and did not care. And so the ominous Bernard Hermann strings.

On Tuesday I arrived in class to find (oh! the muffled shock of expectation) the assembled class furiously pouring over their notes. Just to be certain of my own failures, I asked a guy with an annoyingly pointless goatee if the test was, in fact, today. His disdainful, "yeah" cemented my pre-ordained doom. I muttered "Son of a bitch..." and open my notebook. Having missed several classes (I'm foolishly close to approaching Freshman-year levels of absenteeism this quarter), I was able to read through my notes without difficulty.

The test format was as follows: a Blue Book exam, divided into two sections. The first consisted of ten term IDs out from a possible fifteen; the second was one major essay from (I think) four possibilities. As per the usual, I began by circling each of the IDs I felt in any way secure of answering, which came to four out of the ten required. Aw, shucks. For the Major Essay I took the path of least resistance, also as per the usual; call me an underachiever, but I am not one to stretch myself on a test (much less get into a battle of wits against a Sicilian when death is on the line).

After finishing, I felt that I had not done quite as poorly as one could assume. I expected high marks on most of the IDs, and something approaching half-credit on the Major Essay, which which stretched just over two Blue Book pages. I understood my Pauline examples (essential for success) to be facile, and had been confused as to what epistle some of my examples had come from. As always, Father Rationalization soothed me with whispered songs with such titles as "An A on the Final and the Paper Will Make You Smile" and "Who Fucking Cares Anyway When You're Born to Failure?" Fickle bastard.

At any rate, Dr. Barr had the exams graded by Thursday, a legitimate feat, given the difficulty of the task and the--sometimes admitted--general laziness of PhDs. As he passed them out (with grades on the front--a faux pas that I did not appreciate), he gave us the stats. The average score was 78, with a high of 94. Before I had much time to wonder what the low score had been, I received my exam.

I got the 94.

Now, while you can imagine my excitement and brief sense of grandiosity at seeing this information, the whole affair begs several questions, both of the test and the taker. Taking the latter first, I can identify three major reasons for my unwarranted success:

1. I came into this class with a decent amount of prior knowledge. My almost total disinterest in the Antique World (outside the realms of art history and the history of science) aside, I am reasonably conversant in Christian history. I took the overview class on Western Religions, and any course dealing with American religious history needs must provide some back story. Therefore, I could have identified the Septuagint had I not read a single word of Dr. Barr's book.

2. Possibly more important, then, is that I had read all of the material. One of the goals that I have not lost in all this horseshit ennui business is my desire to become better acquainted with the Bible, which is after all the primary text upon which everything I study was based. With that in mind (and, really, my absenteeism as well), I diligently read through the textbook and its associated biblical passages chapter and verse (if the Reader will excuse a horrible, but oh so intentional, pun). Since those examples from Paul were so integral to the exam, had I not done this, I would have failed. Period.

3. I am uncommonly good taker of essay exams. As Dr. Dorn says, "Good writing will always make up for mediocre content." Not quite as much words to live by, as words to get-by by. And yet, this might as well be my defining motto. I bring to essay exams a skill in writing and argument that most of my peers in these classes simply won't match. This is not self-aggrandizement (well, maybe just a little). My terrible handwriting notwithstanding, reading some of my answers on these sorts of exams has to be a breath of fresh air to instructors. I can't explain my success on the Major essay otherwise. It was short, but well-organized. Dr. Barr actually mentioned the importance of organized argument in his postmortem.

My genius established (ho ho ho), however, questions still remain.

Granting the importance of organized argument in such tests, what about a poorly organized essay that featured more and better information? In other words, why isn't the corollary to Dorn's stricture true? Why doesn't excellent content make up for poor writing? Most of the students in these classes will not go on to careers in the academy (nor, for that matter, will many driven hopefuls...a frightening prospect). A great many will go into jobs that require very little writing of any kind, and most likely what writing there is will be (the horror, the horror) Business English. Of course, constructing an argument in such a situation is important, but good academic writing it ain't.

Furthermore, I'm curious as to the exact rubric by which Dr. Barr graded the exam. He said, for instance, that if one wrote that the Septuagint was the translation of the Hebrew Scriptures (or Old Testament) into Greek, that person automatically received a 7 out of 10. That's fine, but were there penalties for inaccuracy. Consider my own answer, which received a 10: "The Septuagint was a Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures (the Hebrew cannon had not yet been defined and closed at this point). This is the Bible from which Paul and his followers would have read, which is of course quite different from the Bible that Jesus and his followers would have known from." Obviously my parenthetical bullshit on the establishment of the Hebrew cannon (which, by the way, happened centuries later) is a bald attempt to impress the instructor with the breadth of my acumen on at least something. I wonder, however, if I would have been docked points if, at the end of this pristine bit of cloying, I had appended the sentence "Septuagint was also the name of Paul's trusty steed, upon which he road across the Gentile world." Here something accurate and import is combined with something false and stupid, and while Barr would undoubtedly have circled and questioned it, I do not think points would have been docked. The answer does, after all, contain all of the relevant information.

So the question then becomes, should students be penalized f0r inaccuracy? Though the above example is purposefully silly, the issue may be important. What if some of my "10" answers contained subtle inaccuracies? A few quarters ago, I got top marks on an essay exam that contained any number of minor inaccuracies. The fact remains that most of the students in these classes will not be historians, and therefore these subtle untruths may be forgiven as slips of mind. This is not wrong, and yet as one of those ambitious and foolish few who do intend a career in the academy, am I being undeserved by the glossing over of errors which will be of tremendous importance later on?

Well, the answer must be that neither party can have its needs wholly served. To demand Chicago Style rigor on exams would be foolish in any case, but especially when most students will have no future cause to care--even if such rigor proved beneficial to the future academician. Aristotle, the old queen, might have been onto something with the whole "Golden Mean" concept.Teachers of any stripe have an obligation to create exams that best bring out the knowledge obtained in class and in the text. This cannot be easy.

And for chrissakes! You got a ninety-fucking-four and the highest score in the class! Quit bitching and get back to work.

Saw a UFO

How appropriate (and, to be fair, how planned) that my first update in a year coincides almost exactly with the date of the previous one, and that I posted said entry a day before my first date with my most recent girlfriend, the illustrious Sara Valek.

That relationship was more important to our man's psyche than I'm willing to discuss, and the prospect of singlehood under the circumstances is too odd to describe. Or I'm just lazy.

Suffice it to say that, here's our man, all grown up and goin' nowhere. I'm close (enough) to finally finishing my bachelor's degree, but still may have to wait another year for graduate school. That sad possibility (nay, call it a fact at this point), combined with the premature ellipses of my relationship, has created an almost impenetrable (and possibly destructive) ennui! Oh the horror. Freethought WSU Check Us Out On Facebook has checked-out into permanent hiatus for the fall (stay tuned for our triumphant return to campus in the winter--when chalking is less than applicable, but whatever). Prospects for romance are dim, and barely desired. Too many gen-ed classes loom on the horizon, laughing their wheezy, skeletal laugh. The Obama administration has failed to provide change and all but crushed hope. My aversion to getting a real job borders on the absurd. The new Doctor Who logo is beyond silly. Dogs and cats, living together; mass hysteria!

And yet. And yet...I do have prospects. The quarter is only half over, and midterms will bring me back to form. I'm working on an independent study (to be discussed later) that may well overcome my inevitably lackluster GPA (I will never get past 3.6, and may not get there) and, as a writing sample on grad-school applications, put me over the edge of seemingly better applicants. I've begun managing my calories (just when does caloric management become anorexia is an open question--though one I'll likely never face), and have finally decided to make exercise a regular part of my life. Already the endorphins have done me a solid.

So, yeah, the adventure continues. And if the gap between aspiration and reality seems a bit wider than before, then I alone can work to close it. Just gotta keep on pushin'.More entertaining entries to follow.

Red Right Hand

(The title refers to the soreness of my--get it?!--right hand after filling a bluebook for Dr. Dorn's HST 485 exam with horseshit about the Puritans, the Great Awakening, and that lovable German rabble-rouser Theodore Frelinghuysen that proabably has the merit of a low-B; also the Nick Cave song.)

Well, having been told as recently as yesterday (right before the elevator doors shut poor Dr. Dorn away) that I'm "well on your way to a PhD," I thought it might be time to update this blog (for the first time in a month!).

I don't want to sound as though I'm blowing my own Wise Wesley or anything (those not in the know will have to figure that one out for themselves), but it's sometimes nice to hear something that stems (however briefly) the perennial tide of my self-doubt.

And lord knows I do doubt myself on all self-related subjects, but especially (for some reason I hate that word, but am using it anyway; sounds like a Judy Blume word, or something--not that I hate Judy Blume or anything, I mean come on; Romana Forever!) those subjects involving my decision and ability not only to eneter a PhD program, but to successfully complete it.

Indeed, much like the tall, grey-haired woman in the khaki pants and blazer who keeps walking by my computer, I sometimes feel utterly incapable of the task to which I've set myself. It's bad enough that I judge every paper I write from the benchmark of writing by the greatest work of historians well out of the PhDs (and often well into their graves; RIP Perry Miller, you drunken contrarian you...). This is, of course, far too high a standard by which to evaluate the work of an undergrad almost two academic years from his fucking BA. Certainly my professors don't use that benchmark, and even the most demanding of them rarely give me anything less than ringing praise.

That praise is one of the few salves I have, school-wise. My grades mean little to me; I've seen people in secondary school and college who maintain grades while posessing less true intelligence than god gave R.L. Stein (not sure what the YA authors kick is all about, though I am more comfortable insulting the author of the Night of the Living Dummy Saga). And even the true (enough) joy I get from the praise is tempered by the nagging surmise that I'm only being judged by the benchmark of the shitty papers they endure from students in Gen-Ed horrorshows like HST 212. Pity the boy who can't take a compliment, right?

I do have to admit that (much like Billy, the jackass defender of all things Augustinian, and would-be skinny jeans wearing theologian, who just walked by my computer) I do have bouts of an almost Stuff White People Like level of intellectual arrogance, at which times I believe myself to be superior not only to all engineers, but to anyone not getting (at least!) two liberal arts degrees. I am a Great Historian in Training, I tell myself; one who will rewrite the face of early American historiography with the grace of his prose and the sheer depth of his accumen.

Even less-often, I find a mean between those extremes, in which I imagine myself to be an intelligent and capable young person, still in the earliest stages of the training that will result in a rewarding career. This, of course, should be my prevalent attitude.

As much as I hate to admit it (as I hate to admit to any change for the better), I think I'm getting there; and while I understand the need for self-reliance in this sort of thing, having a seasoned old professor tell me how bright I am, or ask me what I would have added to his lecture never hurts. Plus I should always be thankful that, apparently like that tall woman in the khaki, I've found what I need.

Do the Ewe!

Well, friends and neighbors, I think it's almost time I explain my agnosticism to a world ready to condemn it as either hell-bent sacrilege or pissy prevarication, depending on which side of the atheism-religion devide the complaintant sits. But not yet, because...

Speaking of "sides" reminds me of a Freethought anecdote. As anyone who reads this is undoubtedly aware, I've recently co-founded a student org at Wright State for secular students, called Freethought WSU Check Us Out On Facebook. Well, sort of. Anyway, last Friday we officially kicked off our first year with an appearance at Do the U! For those living it up in the SUNY loop, Do the U! is an absurd event designed to keep incoming, on-campus freshmen from either getting illegally drunk or clawing their eyes out from boredom for a few hours in their first weekend. Its features are almost wholly rediculous, including such hits as horrendous raffles, music, soda, some strange in-place cycling contest, &c. Do the U!'s least appalling secondary feature is to provide booth space to whatever student orgs care to introduce themselves to the soon-to-be alcohol poisoned minds of the new students. So, of course, Freethought WSU Check Us Out On Facebook was eager to be there.

By our own accounts, the event was a success. We hit a few preparedness snags, but improvised well. We featured flyers and free assorted Wonka candy, which could be seen scattered pointlessly accross the table itself, or more appropriately in the lovely pot the immortal Serpent Queen herself, Lori Davis, made for us. A common scene was for a Wide-Eyed Innocent to approach the booth (manned at various times by myself, Aaron, Allison, Justin--way to volunteer!--and Lori, in a welcome cameo appearance for which she was paid Marlon Brando prices), frown at the Bertrand Russel quote on our super-expensive white board, ask "so.......what are you guys about?" At this point, one of us would give a (by evening's end) Stock Speel about the group, followed by an apathetic/slightly offended "oh..." from the Wide-Eyed Innocent in question, capped off with a walking-away, halfway-to-dumbfounded sneer. We expect and appreciate this kind of non-agressive response, I suppose; though it can be disenheartening.

Nearly as often, however, we had some people show up with genuine interest, a few with real excitement at the prospect. We collected about a dozen names and emails, with most people opting to Chek Us Out On Facebook when we informed them of our presence there. We really didn't have any particularly negative exchanges, and no one tried to kill us, so I'm willing to call it a success.

But anyway, back to the whole "sides" thing. Probably the most negative reaction we had (in my presence, at least) came from a mother and daughter pair. Honestly, I felt for the poor girl (the freshmen had moved in the day before, and who on god's earth wants her/his mother around?). Her mother, who looked as though she'd put on her Neil Young halloween costume a month and a half early, did the talking, asking Aaron if ours is a Christian group. To be fair, we are currently (and deliciously) listed on the Religious Life page, with no weblink; so her misunderstanding was fair enough, though her sanctimonious condescension when asking was uncalled for. Aaron, the Friendly Face of Freethought, replied in sunny tones that "No, actually. We're kind of the opposite!" Before he could get fully into the Stock Speel, Southern Man Fan cut him off with a perfectly dismissive "Well we aren't on your side." In a spectacular display of diplomatic bravado, which I doubt I could have equaled, Aaron responded: "Well, we're not about sides."

This was so perfect because he synthesized quite a bit of what the group is about. We aren't about to hide from our secularism; I mean, good lord, that's the whole point. We're trying to promote secularism as a positive and meaningful alternative to religion, available to anyone. Conversely, we mean to be (as Allison puts it) "an alternative in every sense," in that we (unlike our fellow Religious Life orgs) have no interest in proslytizing or preaching. We aren't out to save souls--hell, most of us don't believe they even exist--but neither are we out to preach the Unholy Writ of Richard Dawkins or Dan "what's a bright???" Dennet.

So no, Neil, we aren't about sides. We see nothing wrong whatever about any Christian organization, nor would we ever seek to eliminate it. We three founders, at least, believe that Wright State is large enough to contain student-communities of all stripes: religious and not, gay and straight, &c. Even engineers. And that's the key word, kids: COMMUNITY. As much as they exist to save the immortal souls of all us sinners, our Christian orgs exist just as much to create a safe and welcoming community for people who share their values. Freethought seeks to do nothing so much as that.

Well, jesus, I seem to be preaching. Hopefully to the choir.

Oh, and Sarah Palin is the Devil.

To Be Continued

Presently....