tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199841252024-03-14T02:41:25.054-07:00The 25 Year PlanPerspectives, Purpose & OpinionMichael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.comBlogger680125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-8388514051732224132024-01-28T12:04:00.000-08:002024-02-19T15:51:29.755-08:00Celebration of life<p></p><p class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; animation-name: none; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; transition-property: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><div style="animation-name: none; text-align: left; transition-property: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">Yesterday we celebrated my little brother's life. It wasn't a "memorial service," it wasn't a "funeral," and "celebration of life," like it is used so much, in this case, was not a euphemism. It was exactly that - a celebration. But there were some other things it was not, and should not be confused with. It was not a party. It was not anything anyone was exactly looking forward to. It was not intended to provide any kind of closure, but it probably did do that for some. The word, "celebration," has many connotations, but in this case, we did celebrate.</span></span></div><p></p><p class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; animation-name: none; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; transition-property: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none; text-align: start; transition-property: none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcioCmk_dLJxLKDFeeK0uE9VXIC1XhKD8MRKSsm4TYZViO30bvaSVTjeaPT9IxtVBunx-pN2XfD0qPVYJI7ijayFEx77KbXp2g9VjcjKk9Vz_DMf1g2YePiX7sIo2OGj-k5EKBvptFhwe1EFVYJEP8PVYCnY6DpSqJ7M3j22jPYQt3DZFEJUuC3g/s401/David%209ers.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="386" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcioCmk_dLJxLKDFeeK0uE9VXIC1XhKD8MRKSsm4TYZViO30bvaSVTjeaPT9IxtVBunx-pN2XfD0qPVYJI7ijayFEx77KbXp2g9VjcjKk9Vz_DMf1g2YePiX7sIo2OGj-k5EKBvptFhwe1EFVYJEP8PVYCnY6DpSqJ7M3j22jPYQt3DZFEJUuC3g/s320/David%209ers.jpeg" width="308" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">There were a few tears, but more laughs. There were lots of stories, most I've heard, but a few I <br />have not, and some managed to surprise me. It was an occasion that was as unique as the person it honored. It kind of had to be. Anyone who knew <span style="animation-name: none; transition-property: none;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1fey0fg xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/daphoto2?__cft__[0]=AZXPqFzKvHiWYpou-8RtIHWisaUVh6ExRgk_cieQTwKFBnNOySw1elDZ_IZrBAaCWd5hQ7Jk19rPNuNlEsbukr-bG1-taDC9EhEjLK5in6yPcybj-kCS71rjOn5nlDsQcEVaksyvW6J4QWSBUtft6kna5UZQ88KB62jnDYeMCH2IqQ&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" style="animation-name: none; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--blue-link); cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-weight: 400; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; touch-action: manipulation; transition-property: none;" tabindex="0"><span class="xt0psk2" style="animation-name: none; display: inline; transition-property: none;"><span style="animation-name: none; transition-property: none;">Dave</span></span></a></span>, knows me and my father, likely was not surprised by the nature of the occasion. Many learned a lot about who he was from a much more intimate perspective - that was by design, but regarding what was included, and, more specifically, what was not, no one should have been at all surprised.</span></span></div><p></p><p class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; animation-name: none; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; transition-property: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none; text-align: start; transition-property: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">We are not religious people. Not remotely. Speaking for myself, it goes well beyond that, but let's just say the apple, in that respect, did not fall far from the tree. My point here is not a treatise into pro or anti religion. I don't care what anyone believes so long as it doesn't harm anyone else. Period. My brother's service did not have any trappings of any religion - it wasn't "non-denominational" or "multi-denomination" or even "all-inclusive" in that all beliefs were somehow written in. None were. No, they were not denounced, either. It wasn't an "atheistic" celebration, it was just a celebration that did not "go there." Not there, and not over there, either. All of "all that," all of it, was left out. In fact, it was never let in to be left out.</span></span></div><p></p><p class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; animation-name: none; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; transition-property: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none; text-align: start; transition-property: none;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">And it didn't need to be there. It was perfect just the way it was. We celebrated my brother and his life, and it was him - only him - that was the focus of our attention. Beliefs or lack thereof were never mentioned, never part of it, never necessary, never given a thought... never missed. And when it's my time, those in charge of whatever y'all decide to do, here are my official wishes: First, I officially don't care, I'll be dead. Second, if you do do something, do it just like David's was yesterday; I'll be cool with it.</span></span></div><p></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-60021674268884190552024-01-02T12:54:00.000-08:002024-01-02T12:54:12.814-08:00David Craig Althouse<p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">David Craig Althouse was born on November 17, 1964, at
Sequoia Hospital in Redwood City and passed quietly in his sleep at Sonora
Community Hospital on December 26, 2023. He grew up in Los Altos, CA and spent
the final 20+ years of his life living unencumbered by the trappings of the
modern world on the shores of Lake Tulloch in Copperopolis, CA.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYE27KsuiTZVSxluS-ToskbfChlkBvp3i8pRLZbQg6ik74FgxFpB05paCZhk2ES9sbIQXsw_C1K5L_q3SnOB1aIkMoVqEgZu3zxthWmIwLa8gAcHbAXD6UW0JsuZaJebrpIIi6CdBDeWW7RO8Iuovvm3k5-hjSvON_O-Os5RQPgVQqw3UXMfQVQA/s2481/David%20Camera.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2481" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYE27KsuiTZVSxluS-ToskbfChlkBvp3i8pRLZbQg6ik74FgxFpB05paCZhk2ES9sbIQXsw_C1K5L_q3SnOB1aIkMoVqEgZu3zxthWmIwLa8gAcHbAXD6UW0JsuZaJebrpIIi6CdBDeWW7RO8Iuovvm3k5-hjSvON_O-Os5RQPgVQqw3UXMfQVQA/s320/David%20Camera.jpeg" width="293" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">At just 59 years old, David lived a storied life. While
still just 17 years old, he secured a job on the Mississippi River working the
river barges up and down the river. Although he suffered an injury that
resulted in the amputation of his left leg below the knee, it did not slow him
down. He was most at home near a body of water, on a boat and, often, with a
fishing pole in his hand.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">His passion for critters was also well known. While he had
many dogs over his life, he also cared for various other exotic animals and it
was not uncommon to see him with a python draped around his neck, or, when he
was a boy, a blue belly or alligator lizard he found in the neighborhood or at
Adobe Creek, tucked away in his pocket.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">David, in a bygone time, would have been a true
frontiersman, a trailblazer, an explorer, a discoverer and an inventor. He
would make use of anything, repurpose everything; nothing, and, perhaps most
importantly, no one was worthless to him. For those he loved and cared for, his
loyalty was unmatched, and he was generous to a fault.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">He loved the Grateful Dead, Mardi Gras and, in addition to
his time working on the Mississippi River, spent much of his time in Louisiana
and Mississippi on the Gulf Coast – fishing, crabbing, and exploring.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br />David is survived by a large loving family, including his
parents, siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, cousins, friends,
neighbors, many pets over the years, and most recently by his beloved rescue dog,
Benji.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">A celebration of life will be held in the Garden House at
Shoup Park in Los Altos on January 27, 2024 at 4:30 p.m. – all are welcome. In
lieu of flowers, David would appreciate that donations at a local animal rescue
of your choice are made in his honor.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</span></font></style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-45321170674843707962023-12-26T19:20:00.000-08:002023-12-26T19:20:09.580-08:00The Last Rebel
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;">On Christmas eve, quite unplanned, my mother, father, sister, brother and
I were all at the same place, together, just like we always were when we were
all much, much younger. Because our family is not exactly large, not in an
“immediate” sense anyway, my earliest Christmas memories were just us.
Occasionally there would be the special years where one set of grandparents or
the other – or both – would make it, and sometimes we’d get together with the
very few first cousins along with the attendant aunts and uncle, but that, too,
was uncommon, for reasons I will not get into here. My earliest Christmas
memories are filled with just us. And it has been a long time since it was just
us.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;">But it wasn’t planned that way. It was supposed to be at my parents’
house a day earlier with all that has become a much larger immediate family;
with kids and grandkids and a few great grandkids, we still are not what one
might call a “big” family, but there are quite a lot more of us now, and that
is despite the fact that we have lost a few over the years. All my grandparents
have been gone for a while now, but there are others, too, some at a ripe old
age, some not. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;">All five of us would have been there on Saturday, not with all our kids,
but with a lot of them and not with all of the great grandkids, but with a few.
However, my brother was not able to make it.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;">So, the next day, Christmas eve, we came to him. As it turned, only the
five of us would be able to make it that day. And, not a moment to soon. My
little brother, two years younger than me, went into the hospital about a week
ago and his condition progressively deteriorated. While this particular series
of events that lead to his passing this morning seems to be – and is – sudden
and a shock, his health, generally, has been on the decline for some time now.
Although I was not sure if I’d ever see him again, I did know his condition was
terminal and that it would not be long. I was able to tell him I loved him one
last time while he was conscious and alert and for that, I am grateful. I was
hoping I would be able to again, but the end came very quickly.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;">I have heard folks say that they were “born in the wrong century,” or
words to that effect. I have thought that about myself. I have heard people say
that about David. While I cannot remember him saying that, exactly, he, more
than anyone I know, fits that description best. He would have thrived in Huck
Finn's or Tom Sawyer’s day. He would have found himself quite comfortable on
the frontier – any frontier. In a place and time when societal conventions,
when rules and codes, when laws restricting every little thing were not on
anyone’s agenda, he would have been okay. In the modern world with all these
norms, with all these conventions, with all these rules and customs and
protocols and with all these fucking people, he was suffocating.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;">While it is true that he fought and fought hard, and while it is also
true that the institutions and bureaucracies he fought against could not be
beaten, he fought anyway. Some might see that as futile, as foolish, as…
stupid, but I don’t think he saw it that way. I think he saw it as principled,
and he would not turn his back on what he saw as the truth of being real.
Authenticity isn’t easy and the principles that define it can (and in his case
did) conflict with modern life. He paid a price – emotionally and physically.
But he stood his ground, even though that ground disappeared 150 years ago. To
put it into context, every law he ever broke and was punished by society for –
every.single.one – did not exist a century ago. His natural state was legislated
out of existence before he was even born.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;">And now, at 59 years old, he has passed – living twice the life many at
his age ever will. It is a sad day for my family, and a very sad day for my
parents. But, for a few moments on Christmas eve, it was just the five of us.
My little sister, Leslie, noticed it. When she said it, it was, for me, like
going back in time. A flood of Christmas memories – good ones – all came back.
Later holiday seasons haven’t been that for me; there have been a lot of shit
memories. Maybe that was his final Christmas present – the gift of gratitude.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: times;">Rest in Peace, Dave. Your fight is finally over. If there are riverboats
in Heaven, I am quite sure there is a spot on one just for you.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</span></font></style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-49006380400068781912023-04-23T11:47:00.006-07:002023-04-23T12:42:26.012-07:00All Bad Days<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">Six thousand, eight hundred and thirty-four days ago was a bad day. It was another in a long string of bad days that would continue for months to come. I can’t recall what, specifically happened on most of those other days that made them bad, but August 6th, 2004, was highlighted by particularly memorable moment — a bad one. It was also the first day since that past December that I had not used any drugs or alcohol. That was not my plan — my plan was to numb the badness of the day as much as possible, but my failure to do so made an already bad day worse. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAttfwAqR81owGnpFSPOThnqckx1EmZa_P4GC5iPW8ewrQskeVT-_cibY7j0DNTogS1evLz1VuEU8zKVFawPs8Y5OM6mRrl4wCdCF6xzEVbcgSrNI6mAxPSSor39gYb5RP4C91D9XlwYbR1XnU1SgI9aiN--lx_YP7EtF70v_joFlSaRvm4o/s700/bad-day.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: times; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="700" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAttfwAqR81owGnpFSPOThnqckx1EmZa_P4GC5iPW8ewrQskeVT-_cibY7j0DNTogS1evLz1VuEU8zKVFawPs8Y5OM6mRrl4wCdCF6xzEVbcgSrNI6mAxPSSor39gYb5RP4C91D9XlwYbR1XnU1SgI9aiN--lx_YP7EtF70v_joFlSaRvm4o/w330-h245/bad-day.jpg" width="330" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">In the early evening, 6,834 days ago, my middle son (who was not quite 17), his girlfriend and two puppies dropped me off at the Wayne Brown Correctional Center in Nevada City, CA. It was my second extended stay there, my first was just two years earlier. This time I would be serving 40 days (two thirds of a 60-day sentence) for a probation violation — a violation of the terms of my release two years earlier. After my release, I would spend a week free before reporting to the Calaveras County Jail to serve 60 days of a 90-day sentence — the conviction that violated me in Nevada County.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">I was lucky in that my crime was a non-violent misdemeanor and that the old Calaveras County Jail was seriously overcrowded. Every night a count was taken and every night the possibility of my release was palpable — and every night that I missed it by “that much” made that day a little worse. I was released after just eight days — a bit of goodness in what was a long stretch of only bad. Upon my ultimate release sometime in late September, I had almost 60 days “clean and sober” (I had nine months from March to December of 2003). I could not find a job and, although I did return to school in 2003 (with two semesters under my belt), by the time I was free, the fall semester was well under way. More bad days.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">Adding to my misery was a prohibition against self-medication. The judge in Nevada County told me that if I produced just one dirty drug test (they tested for alcohol, too), my next home would not be county jail, but state prison. My choices were clear — be miserable and free or miserable in prison. However, despite the clear consequences, the urge to dull the “badness” of my life was strong, and it took a village — literally. That village came from the same place it came from before, the one thing I knew worked — twelve step recovery.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">But I had a lot of issues with it, not the least of which was a “cult-like” feeling in some ways and the insistence that they are “spiritual, not religious” programs, yet there is an abundance of Judeo-Christian references throughout all of them. Some more than others, but all refer to, at the very minimum, a capital “G” god. For a non-believer like me, that is a tough hurdle to overcome — but at the time I had little choice. I also had enough prior experience that I knew there were others like me, and the program still worked for them. But… all the way through 2004 and into the beginning of 2005 I cannot remember anything but shitty days. I’m sure they were not all bad, but as a whole, as a slice of my life, there was a significant period of time that spanned the end of my using and drinking and the beginning of my sobriety that was not a good.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">One day my perspective shifted — or, probably more accurately, I became aware that my perspective had shifted. It likely happened much earlier before I even realized it, but one day I noticed that I had not been angry in a few days. In fact, I could not remember how long it had been. I knew it wasn’t weeks or months, but it was many days, and I couldn’t recall what my last “irritant” was. This was revelatory because I was pissed off almost all the time. Being angry constantly is exhausting; the other revelation I experienced soon after was that I was not tired — not in general, not of “life.” I just wasn’t all that tired. It was a new feeling. The next thought was unavoidable — this shit was working.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">By that time I was back in school, but the tail I developed from the criminal justice system along with other obstacles were still very much part of my life. I was drug testing every week, I was relying on student loans and the kindness of my family for my living expenses (and dealing with a profound loss of trust from them), and I was broke all the time. All the ingredients for bad days were there, yet I was starting to have some good days and I found myself happy from time to time. I was experiencing some success again. And, slowly, I was rebuilding the trust I lost.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">By the end of my first year clean and sober, I was done with my education at American River College and was set to transfer to California State University, Sacramento in the fall of 2005. While working toward my bachelor’s degree at Sac State I got an internship at a local newspaper. That internship became a part-time job after just a week or two and, while I was certainly not rolling in dough, I was a lot less broke. Things happened, people came and went. I continued through my BA, entered grad school at Sac State, earned an MA there and then went on to Louisiana State University to earn a PhD. And while I did advance to doctoral candidacy, I finished “ABD” (all but dissertation) and collected another MA from LSU.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">All good days? Not even. Many were bad, but there were no years or, really, even months or weeks of badness since early 2005. Shit has happened, life has come at me, I have been less a victim as I have been a volunteer, but not everything was due to my choices — chance is still chance and life is not fair. That is not to say “most” have been good days , either— most are just days. And most days I am content — not “happy” — but content. I do not believe the state of happiness is sustainable. It is and should be fleeting, but serenity, contentedness, peace — those can be sustained.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">Usually “we” (those in the so-called “recovery community”) reminisce like this on our sobriety or clean dates, birthdays, or anniversaries. Some are looking for congratulatory pats on the back from those in society who are not alcoholics or addicts, many of whom have paid a price for loving one, or, worse, been victimized by one in his or her quest to get “well.” I do not see it that way; we do and should congratulate each other (that’s part of what the “village” does), but society has every right to say, “great, good job, it’s about fucking time. That’s what you were supposed to be doing all along.” It is not my anniversary — it is not August yet, but I see no reason to keep these stories to ourselves when they can reach those who are not necessarily the rest of society and not necessarily “us,” but, rather, those who are not us — yet. Or, maybe those who are and might just not be feeling it.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">There can be peace. For many days in a row — and for the vast majority of my 6,834 days of sobriety — that is what I have, peace. One day at a time.<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></span></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-78227787529831258572023-04-09T10:44:00.004-07:002023-04-09T10:48:40.784-07:00Decisions, Decisions<p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span>Nine years ago today, I was experiencing an existential crisis. Not in terms of my physical existence, but in terms of that which made me who I am. I had embarked on a particular (and particularly difficult) path and I was wholly unsure of my ability to succeed. Today, nine years later, I can report that I was both able to succeed and that I did not succeed - not entirely. However, I did not quit, not then, anyway. There would come a time when I would have to make a decision to end the quest for a PhD, but that would be down the road another couple of years.</span><br /><br /><span>I wrote about it and posted it on Facebook. It wasn't the first time I became vulnerable on Facebook, but it was significant. It felt, to me, like so much whining, but I knew it went way deeper and I was literally out of answers. I needed release even if it was a virtual tantrum (don't bother looking for it - it is filtered to "just me" now). I posted it and then went for a ride, neglecting the mountain of work I had to do. My mantra was then as it is now, when in doubt - motorcycle.</span><br /><br /><span>By the time I got back, there were more than 100 comments from both real and Facebook friends expressing support - all kinds of support. Some had real-world, similar experience that I could wrap my head around, others said shit like (and this could only come from someone I respect), "Are you fucking crazy, look how far you've come?" Because, among the viable options I laid out, quitting grad school was one of them. In the end I decided I really had little choice but to push on. But it is important to note that had I not vented as I did, leaving it to marinate while I took a ride and then coming back to read what everyone wrote, I very well could have imploded.</span><br /><br /><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi47GGDlpU6G-pJOx2aeiod3KT0JpSpOBnZcKqRb136MEmhRMD8bPLlYywcKEkzM_w1qhuHnRippyN_sJTpZqwPSnCMuuSQO0K9mQZ7Z8DavhLpy0Vnw6hrkv_DkLAQZ2-INa0knncMSwQLDm35x0B0JyHXr8FBzDyU0klkutUBgYupulTTPr0" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1951" data-original-width="2626" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi47GGDlpU6G-pJOx2aeiod3KT0JpSpOBnZcKqRb136MEmhRMD8bPLlYywcKEkzM_w1qhuHnRippyN_sJTpZqwPSnCMuuSQO0K9mQZ7Z8DavhLpy0Vnw6hrkv_DkLAQZ2-INa0knncMSwQLDm35x0B0JyHXr8FBzDyU0klkutUBgYupulTTPr0" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">What ended up happening, a couple of years later, is that I did quit (sort of), but not in a knee-jerk way that it would have been if I just threw up my arms in frustration and split. And, although I "quit" the PhD (I made it as far as candidacy, what they call ABD - "all but dissertation"), I did have more than enough coursework and other requirements completed for another MA degree - this one from LSU (my first was from Sac State). I also have a shit-ton of experience in a PhD program at an R1 university, went to and taught at an SEC school and I lived in Baton Rouge for almost four years. None of that is nothing. But it's not a PhD. For 360 or so days of the year, I do not regret that decision, but it's a decision I might not have been able to make had I not "whined" to Facebook nine years ago. As far as "who I am?" I'm pretty good with that, too.<br /><br /><br /></span><p></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-8527834422778151232023-03-21T10:18:00.004-07:002023-03-21T10:35:45.671-07:00Knowhere(ish)<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEji-SJofLurA-tqxb4IA74Z5q8jWKgh1XiwAkuaERx9uALqA_eYpXr1ttDjexADYId2LC2YocSaN12V46pdn-Og0roE3x-j1BpTrlOZWJOHs7lv6wwkoj4dMCA0BY1Lkuce6YYHfOSdQjruAp39wRRD5A4asegKQq5NtO-dw1PZUo9nXQTjngw" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEji-SJofLurA-tqxb4IA74Z5q8jWKgh1XiwAkuaERx9uALqA_eYpXr1ttDjexADYId2LC2YocSaN12V46pdn-Og0roE3x-j1BpTrlOZWJOHs7lv6wwkoj4dMCA0BY1Lkuce6YYHfOSdQjruAp39wRRD5A4asegKQq5NtO-dw1PZUo9nXQTjngw=w326-h244" width="326" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">This week is Spring Break at California State University,
Sacramento. For whatever reason, Sac State “celebrates,” or places Spring Break
on a different week than most other schools in the area (most others’ are next
week). Be that as it may, this week, for me, has developed a little history and
a tradition that also celebrates the coming of spring. It even has a name that
MCU fans should recognize – the “Knowhere Ride.” It is the first long,
multi-day motorcycle ride of the year and usually consists of at least three
days (and could be up to as many as six or seven) and several hundred to more
than 1,000 miles. The destination is always the same – Knowhere.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-DqkUYfIvXsQZX46fwpYTZalVPfgm1GErCUGDeiBgZGsKDzUC61vNGRI3D_ogyk_7Ie55FoFM9JBDFCEiMAgQ80kglfiyx32KekRolwHwFH-Oug66lqYgrV5U38GrbWFtiBYm89udWinhHgUsrFmU8YWD1E4sc5lfBGFYqiwcGLUNojzZrhM" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-DqkUYfIvXsQZX46fwpYTZalVPfgm1GErCUGDeiBgZGsKDzUC61vNGRI3D_ogyk_7Ie55FoFM9JBDFCEiMAgQ80kglfiyx32KekRolwHwFH-Oug66lqYgrV5U38GrbWFtiBYm89udWinhHgUsrFmU8YWD1E4sc5lfBGFYqiwcGLUNojzZrhM" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">The first Knowhere Ride was in 2016. It wasn’t named that
yet and it was way more planned than the ride would become – and it was not
solo. They do not have to be, it’s not a “rule” (that’s kind of a thing, there
are no rules), but it is better that way. That time was with a friend, and it
was very much planned; it was a good ride that included the best parts of the PCH.
I did PCH the opposite direction again in June, alone. I did not plan to go as
far or be gone as long as I was – but I definitely needed some escape. The ride
was piggybacked on a trip to Southern California for a friend’s wedding and a
visit to my sons’ family to see my grandkids. After that, no plans.<br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioTQhwMJvkm40esg7O6iqtFzXydSWtzjPEGSEqRQujkMFo_g9BUfED3tW3dxUYUrNuP-4bvQ09IPlJfMqvGzNRNHfNtOqcmFNcV-Ds18j6UtLuUS0wvpjG2bBj5SyIr3aiLQH8oig5XPkO4Z0g_oBNa4Eo9BG6-tB1c1tYukwQw4DGvJW0hFg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioTQhwMJvkm40esg7O6iqtFzXydSWtzjPEGSEqRQujkMFo_g9BUfED3tW3dxUYUrNuP-4bvQ09IPlJfMqvGzNRNHfNtOqcmFNcV-Ds18j6UtLuUS0wvpjG2bBj5SyIr3aiLQH8oig5XPkO4Z0g_oBNa4Eo9BG6-tB1c1tYukwQw4DGvJW0hFg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">That was when the magic happened. That was when the Knowhere
Ride was born. It doesn’t have to be during Spring Break, but that is usually
the first opportunity. It doesn’t have to be solo, but it is best that way. Once
it was a group ride – a “shake-down” ride for those who were going to Sturgis
that year. While that was called the Knowhere Ride, too, there wasn’t much knowherey
about it. And not every ride that is a solo ride into the spiritual oneness
that is the coming together of my bike, the road, and my mind is necessarily a ride
to “Knowhere,” either. The ride is at once difficult to define but, at the same
time, impossible to miss when upon me.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">What is true is that there will be no Spring Break Knowhere Ride
this year. It was planned (which means only a departure date was planned) but
scrubbed a couple of days ago due to a number of factors – and the weather was
not the only one. The weather would only delay my departure, there are other
factors that made the postponement of the ride a good idea. The next available
time is in the latter part of May. That’s okay and there is no sense in making
any plans for a thing that defies planning anyway.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0iUAtjaMW4nOZ5RNbnTTNLUiBezAJQoqsjpXL6iF4-1jdfgxsRno95qM2j9GD-CkalzDDy6A4KVU2OaOtoeGWhu1TLXBTKGRKrltICM2K33cAAyPfVzgcsUHpXyAtiE3IMzZrnxigx7w36I6WnUODcmcJ8HNYZ2WqZD7Ornt_IjlMlElDipk" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0iUAtjaMW4nOZ5RNbnTTNLUiBezAJQoqsjpXL6iF4-1jdfgxsRno95qM2j9GD-CkalzDDy6A4KVU2OaOtoeGWhu1TLXBTKGRKrltICM2K33cAAyPfVzgcsUHpXyAtiE3IMzZrnxigx7w36I6WnUODcmcJ8HNYZ2WqZD7Ornt_IjlMlElDipk" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">What will be happening is still motorcycle stuff. I have two
motorcycle projects that are waiting to become full-fledged, roadworthy motorcycles.
One is and has been in the mock-up stage and the other needs to be torn down
for painting. But before that can happen my garage needs a major overhaul. That’s
what will be happening this week -that and other stuff I’ve been neglecting
that needs attention. While all that stuff is decidedly Somewhere (here), it
all contributes to getting somewhere else – Knowhere.</span><p></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-32295971268049558152022-10-23T11:55:00.005-07:002022-10-24T19:01:01.241-07:00The Eagles<p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The last time I saw the Eagles, I told myself it would be the last time. They put on an excellent show, they are one of my favorite bands, but I've seen them a few times over the years, and they are expensive. But that was before the show. After the show - the first of two nights at the COVID rescheduled shows at Chase Center in San Francisco, I posted the following to my Fakebook timeline:</span></p><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a" style="animation-name: none; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMl-HAaRxPdPGAbmREEKy1PLmKQcnODNNHa7N01MgPfWEAjZnv395kHegHwq3WdNQDkaHAwzZcn1XcWkH6ukRl6JrM5xu58YK2IveBphZcDbegDx7tTLcNDd6kngq7wGCHSvIGvrlD4iMZXg-m0UEqflN34-Rv2QLePzX8PJzAuq9enW7o88g/s4032/2CB443B4-7712-435D-9C71-543F9FE02145_1_201_a.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMl-HAaRxPdPGAbmREEKy1PLmKQcnODNNHa7N01MgPfWEAjZnv395kHegHwq3WdNQDkaHAwzZcn1XcWkH6ukRl6JrM5xu58YK2IveBphZcDbegDx7tTLcNDd6kngq7wGCHSvIGvrlD4iMZXg-m0UEqflN34-Rv2QLePzX8PJzAuq9enW7o88g/s320/2CB443B4-7712-435D-9C71-543F9FE02145_1_201_a.jpeg" width="320" /></a><i>This post is a departure from dogs, motorcycles and cigars, not the first one and not that last, but it is does run along the same theme of innocuousness. There is nothing disagreeable, controversial, adversarial, or, in the grander scheme of things, particularly important contained here. On the other hand, one could argue (I would) that nothing is more important than these small day-to-day </i><i>, pleasures, victories, connections and the like. So, that’s a lot to set <span style="animation-name: none; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none;"><a style="animation-name: none; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>up this. If you’re still with me, cool. If you’re not, you have probably just skipped down to the pretty pictures and “liked” away. Also, cool. </i></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="animation-name: none; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none;"><i>Last night, the Eagles performed the first of their two nights at the Chase Center in San Francisco. This is the Hotel California/Greatest Hits Tour that was postponed for more than a year because of COVID. I’ll cut right to the, um… “chase” and go ahead and say that it was worth the wait. Since reforming after Glenn Frey’s passing, I’ve seen them three times - their first show in LA at the Classic West in 2017, again on their next tour in Sacramento at the G1C in 2018 and last night. All were quintessential Eagles performances, but last night was easily their best - before or after Glenn Frey’s untimely death, and prior, I’d say their best tour was their last with him, the “History of the </i><i> Tour.”</i></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="animation-name: none; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJkBgmqm4Ha2mlvRzXsxOVWxQrKvOCIhRA2on0SX6GtZAgx-loRSp4jCAAcAEMNNPIeA3iFz0wf18UAJ9BeIygJ58tRQw3PgIfDZ7H6taz7ExgVQLUdzsKBkNGmmCKikVWVYi1FeaxgiYZ5pSzKks0EZGCiaogb39jLMdxSqKK5eJWMApkLw/s2778/B23F57DC-6520-43C7-A7A2-3D84B7F8907C_1_201_a.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2778" data-original-width="2753" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJkBgmqm4Ha2mlvRzXsxOVWxQrKvOCIhRA2on0SX6GtZAgx-loRSp4jCAAcAEMNNPIeA3iFz0wf18UAJ9BeIygJ58tRQw3PgIfDZ7H6taz7ExgVQLUdzsKBkNGmmCKikVWVYi1FeaxgiYZ5pSzKks0EZGCiaogb39jLMdxSqKK5eJWMApkLw/s320/B23F57DC-6520-43C7-A7A2-3D84B7F8907C_1_201_a.jpeg" width="317" /></a><i>Between Vince Gill and Frey’s son, Deacon, the elder Frey’s role is not recreated, it is reinvented, but in a way that pays homage to his legacy and, through his son, absolutely in his image. Yet, it was last night that the entire band, as good as it was right from the start, really came together in “that” way that few groups ever do, in the way the Eagles (almost) always have - and now they have again. There was magic on that stage. There was chemistry. Maybe it was alchemy, but whatever you want to call it, this band was truly enjoying their night, and their genuine appreciation for their fans’ </i><i> - not just last night, but for more than 50 years - revealed an authenticity that cannot be faked. </i></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="animation-name: none; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none;"><i>I told myself this would be my last Eagles concert. While they are one of my favorite groups, I’ve seen them a lot - enough, I figured - and they are an expensive production. However, maybe this was not my last Eagles concert. At the conclusion of the fourth encore song (that’s right, Sacramento, we got four - Henley’s “Boys of Summer” was included in the SF encore set), I toyed, briefly, with the idea of going back tonight. I won’t, but when the next tour comes around - because I seriously doubt they are done - you might just find me back in the stands. </i></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="animation-name: none; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none;"><i>Cue the music…</i></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="animation-name: none; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none;"><i><span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od" style="animation-name: none; display: inline-flex; font-family: inherit; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; transition-property: none; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;"><img alt="🎶" height="16" referrerpolicy="origin-when-cross-origin" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/t1f/1/16/1f3b6.png" style="animation-name: none; border: 0px none; transition-property: none;" width="16" /></span> I’m already gone… <span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od" style="animation-name: none; display: inline-flex; font-family: inherit; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; transition-property: none; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;"><img alt="🎸" height="16" referrerpolicy="origin-when-cross-origin" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/t21/1/16/1f3b8.png" style="animation-name: none; border: 0px none; transition-property: none;" width="16" /></span></i></div></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2oxeJV3HQ397e8YFGmdg_YNNDvYO0RAnaJcFb7ccsYRYD1rHfp1k-lRI0KbvZRiEmVaP28VyQO5-DCXJKozIytuGxrT5ydxRqsuxYC-OA5T7xZaIGQfqvQwMv_hvUh2ffVAZs2d0EkGWWTK23JMAI70fX98XZAqiMKSyjJMODioS1SoybtM/s470/C32B1B74-0648-4CDF-AA82-9B7985CECE98_4_5005_c.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="349" data-original-width="470" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2oxeJV3HQ397e8YFGmdg_YNNDvYO0RAnaJcFb7ccsYRYD1rHfp1k-lRI0KbvZRiEmVaP28VyQO5-DCXJKozIytuGxrT5ydxRqsuxYC-OA5T7xZaIGQfqvQwMv_hvUh2ffVAZs2d0EkGWWTK23JMAI70fX98XZAqiMKSyjJMODioS1SoybtM/s320/C32B1B74-0648-4CDF-AA82-9B7985CECE98_4_5005_c.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I have tickets right smack-dab in the center of the 202 section in the new 4,500 seat venue (named, originally enough, "The Venue") at the Thunder Valley Casino in Lincoln, CA. They are in the center of the center and close, closer than I was at the Chase, at The Golden 1 Center in Sacramento in 2018 and way closer than the band's resurrection after the passing of Glenn Frey for the Classic West festival at Dodger Stadium in 2017 or the seats I had as a broke-ass grad student in Louisiana when I saw them in New Orleans for the "History of" tour in 2014.<br /><br />These tickets were close to $500 each (including all the bullshit Ticketmaster fees), comparable to the price of the seats I bought for both the Chase Center show last year and the G1C show in 2018. Were they "worth it?" That's a tough question to answer. If I had to put it on a credit card and I was paying those tickets off over the next few months (been there, done that - never again), then, no, it's not. But If I have disposable cash, then I decide what to dispose it on - sometimes I might "waste it" on motorcycle parts, others it might be an Eagles concert. <br /><br />None of this means I will for sure use these tickets. I bought them because I could, knowing the investment is safe (-ish; I thought that about the pre-Covid Chase Center purchase, too - then Covid happened and I lost money on my "investment" extra tickets). They made selling the tickets a little more difficult by sending out actual, physical tickets in the mail - if I sell, it will be a real, not virtual, transaction. But that is only stupid Ticketmaster bullshit, not an insurmountable problem. And at least Ticketmaster won't get a double-cut that way. But I didn't "need" the money I spent and I don't "need" to double or triple it, either. However, I will get that if I sell them as a pair (no "friend deals," don't ask), that's the payoff for the investment and the risk I took.<br /><br />But I also might go. What I wrote a year ago - combined with the fact that seeing the Eagles in a one-off small venue setting is not likely to happen again soon - is pretty compelling. I mean, I can be pretty convincing. If I do go, that will leave open one important question. Fortunately, I have, literally, months to decide.</span></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-19541380843263773622022-08-30T06:38:00.005-07:002022-08-30T06:54:56.071-07:00Back to School<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">It’s early – way earlier than I need to be up and way
earlier than I would ever wake up if given a choice. There are a number of
reasons why I might get up this early, but not ever for no reason, yet here we
are. It happens once in a while, and there probably is a reason, but fuck if I
know what it is. I guess I do have a lot on my mind, but that’s not exactly
new, or exactly out of the ordinary. In fact, it would be more curious if there
wasn’t much on my mind. There was also once a time when I would use these “awakenings”
(makes it sound more mystic that way) to pound the keyboard, to let the muse
speak though my fingers and, usually, come up with something… some thing.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">But it’s been a while. Not just since an early morning
up-for-no-reason writing session, but since I’ve done any real writing at all.
Oh, sure, I’ve done the shit for work – syllabus writing, assignment writing, emails
and even a handful of letters of recommendation – but not this. And when I say
it’s been a while, we are not talking about days or weeks – it’s been months.
This is the end of August and I have not written anything besides a few longish
Facebook posts this entire year. And now, all of a sudden, I wake up before four
o’clock in the fucking morning and the words want to come out. Okay…</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidujz-UwGnMqgJ_B86Q8iVT1hGyfbcsdiL7rmtPbx1TsnNxXvFdcZDmxh2_04Q73yJ-5qnqs7KL8qgENYK6l6L2AxjyIy_ULxj6L559ATU22LOlDvTVCwu82mzQUnnzb9Yqe5hZpOeOlWDD2CTQ6sQwxPCBqE8JWAdbjUfFCghkc4MTKxP9fk/s598/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-30%20at%206.36.26%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="199" data-original-width="598" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidujz-UwGnMqgJ_B86Q8iVT1hGyfbcsdiL7rmtPbx1TsnNxXvFdcZDmxh2_04Q73yJ-5qnqs7KL8qgENYK6l6L2AxjyIy_ULxj6L559ATU22LOlDvTVCwu82mzQUnnzb9Yqe5hZpOeOlWDD2CTQ6sQwxPCBqE8JWAdbjUfFCghkc4MTKxP9fk/w465-h156/Screen%20Shot%202022-08-30%20at%206.36.26%20AM.png" width="465" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">Speaking of work, yesterday was the first day of instruction
for the fall 2022 semester at California State University, Sacramento. The
official beginning of the academic year was last week, but the first day of
school was yesterday and campus was packed. It was packed like it hasn’t been
in a long time. It was packed in a way that I used to hate - the monumental
hassle of the first week or two of school, the traffic, the parking, the
students adding and dropping classes – all stuff that is part of doing my job
but not part of the job. Yesterday I didn’t feel any of that frustration, any
of that hassle, any of that over-peopledness. What I felt was gratitude even
though I was stuck in a monumental traffic jam trying to get to the faculty lot
that would likely not have any parking spaces available. I didn’t care.</span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHpnQZDynEK94ZEfgvS7K5QUUU7BjgV5zCnAnRc4qDtzZFYYAbVn5WEPg8WkwCDPmbBv17RSmOu4rzjVrDGEF9mJS7XrmsPCBVBnSscVeLIH7KKgcwgVICwSaPPAdIEvHJBVtFdYDC4rvTID_NhVwq7-tYm8ZERImasuk-QnnnkIYTzuH1fs/s4032/F21426A3-F1EB-4705-B90B-A82028E935E9_1_201_a.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHpnQZDynEK94ZEfgvS7K5QUUU7BjgV5zCnAnRc4qDtzZFYYAbVn5WEPg8WkwCDPmbBv17RSmOu4rzjVrDGEF9mJS7XrmsPCBVBnSscVeLIH7KKgcwgVICwSaPPAdIEvHJBVtFdYDC4rvTID_NhVwq7-tYm8ZERImasuk-QnnnkIYTzuH1fs/s320/F21426A3-F1EB-4705-B90B-A82028E935E9_1_201_a.jpeg" width="180" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">I didn’t even have to be there yesterday. I have classes on
Mondays and Wednesdays, but not on the main campus. I went because I needed to
pick up a couple of things, but I really didn’t – that was an excuse. But I
didn’t even understand that until much later, after I got home last night. In
my reflection of why I was feeling the way I was, processing it, I came back
around to what in the actual fuck did I need to be there for. I didn’t. I was
curious. And I could have just waited until today when I will be on campus
virtually all day. And perhaps that is what woke me up. Don’t know. Don’t care.
Doesn’t matter.</span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">I’m entering my eighth year of teaching at Sac State and, if
I include the teaching I did as a grad student, first at Sac State and then at
Louisiana State University, my 15<sup>th</sup> year of teaching undergraduate university
students. I started in 2008 at Sac State, continued in 2011 at LSU and in the
fall of 2015, it became my full-time job back at Sac State. Prior to 2008, I was
a full-time student for all but one semester from fall of 2003 until I received
my BA in late 2007 – from Sac State. That’s a lot of time in the same area for
someone who historically gets bored with not just his job, but with his entire
career every five to seven years. In fact, I am in record territory for
remaining with the same employer, never mind the same career.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">But COVID nearly changed all that. I do not like people (as
a collection, as groups, in general), but I love being on campus, in the
classroom and amongst students and colleagues. It seems to be the only kind of peopling
I can tolerate. When COVID hit, it reduced the one form of interaction with
people that I actually like to little black squares on a monitor. The classroom
collaboration and cooperation were all but eliminated and only those who were
already naturally predisposed to engaging with their peers would do so – the rest
(which was most) of them were content with Zoom anonymity. And it was like that
for more than two years. The switch was turned almost overnight, but it took a
long time – maybe as much as an entire semester or more – for it to get turned
back. And, while it appears to be more or less back to the way things were
pre-COVID, I am sure there are many nuances that remain, many of which will
show themselves today in my three sections and one office hours session – on campus.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">But I will be on campus, and so will they. And that is good,
despite the monumental cluster-fuck it’s going to be. I have never looked
forward to a traffic jam or a crowd or students jostling for a seat in one of
my classes or any of the other first day/first week trials and tribulations
like I am this week. I remember all too clearly venturing onto a virtually deserted
campus on the first day of school not very long ago. This is so much better.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><style><font size="5"><span style="font-family: times;">@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</span></font></style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-2507142086265972972021-12-30T13:19:00.003-08:002022-06-28T07:59:14.027-07:00Dog People<p class="hw hx fy hy b hz ia ib ic id ie if ig ih ii ij ik il im in io ip dn gv" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="1188"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">One of the great injustices in life is that the average human lifespan is so much longer than that o<span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm">f</span></span></span></span>
the average dog. For those of us who cherish our canine companions,
that means we will not only have to endure their passing, but also that
we go into the relationship knowing that will eventually come to pass.
They don’t, they live each day as though it is their only day — not like
it might be their last, but like it’s the only day there is — the only
one that matters. It is among the most profound gifts they give us, but
it is among many, many others. If we, the so-called “dog-people,” are
lucky, we will experience a few dogs who both grace our lives… and
depart from them. Luck, however, is a two-edged sword, both edges are
razor sharp. One side cuts deeply into our hearts, our souls and our
lives, filling us with unequivocal, unconditional love; the other leaves
the pain of their passing so unique it is difficult to describe. The
sting of loss will fade over time, but their love never does.</span></span></p><p class="hw hx fy hy b hz ms ia ib ic mt id ie if mu ig ih ii mv ij ik il mw im in ip dn gv" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="8bda"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">“But what is grief, if not the perseverance of love.”</span></span></p><p class="hw hx fy hy b hz ms ia ib ic mt id ie if mu ig ih ii mv ij ik il mw im in ip dn gv" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="58fc"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">~ Vision, from Marvel’<i class="jw">s WandaVision</i></span></span></p><p class="hw hx fy hy b hz ms ia ib ic mt id ie if mu ig ih ii mv ij ik il mw im in ip dn gv" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="4efa"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">Facebook,
as much evil as it sews, is remarkably efficient in cataloguing my
activity and recalling it as “memories” on a daily basis. In that
respect, it only reproduces what I have put in, and much of that is
absolutely worth remembering. Sometimes what is worth remembering is the
“perseverance of love.” There have been a handful of really special
dogs in my life, all lived out what would be considered long lives — for
dogs. Facebook reminded me of two today. One passed on this day
peacefully in her sleep nine years ago at the age of 15. Her name was
Magic, a pound rescue black lab/Australian shepherd mix whose name fit
her perfectly. The other, Bella, in this <a class="dy mx" href="https://www.facebook.com/michaelalthouse/videos/551495401893" rel="noopener ugc nofollow" target="_blank">Facebook video</a>,
was just a pup 12 years ago today. She passed less than a year ago.
Both of these dogs left paw prints in my heart; I feel them, still,
persevering. The sting of their loss has faded, but their love remains —
unequivocal, unconditional, eternal.</span></span></p><figure class="mz na nb nc nd ne fj nf bu ng nh ni nj nk cf nl nm nn no np nq paragraph-image"><div class="nr ns ap nt w nu" role="button" tabindex="0"><div class="fg fh my" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><img alt="" class="w nv nw" height="400" role="presentation" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/500/1*3GIpZIBSMDZDyzlytQ5Glw.jpeg" width="243" /></span></span></div></div></figure><p class="hw hx fy hy b hz ms ia ib ic mt id ie if mu ig ih ii mv ij ik il mw im in ip dn gv" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="fb96"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">Now
I have Möbius. He has not replaced Magic or Bella or any of the other
dogs who have graced my life over my 59 years on this planet. He has
added to them, he is among them, he is part of their pack. He lives
every day like it’s the only day there is. He loves me unconditionally,
he is always happy, his word is always full of optimism. However, the
odds are that I will outlive him and one day, he, too, will have to
leave me. He doesn’t know it, but I do. He still has a lesson for me —
he has the tools to deal with that reality, to deal with all future
possible calamity, uncertainty, whatever life might throw at me: Live
today like it’s the only day — not like it’s my last, not like there is
no tomorrow, and not like a dog without any need to plan for the future,
but to enjoy what time I have and just live. Today. And love — like
today is the only day there is.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-53918547437084576582021-12-12T10:54:00.004-08:002021-12-12T10:54:58.472-08:00The Script, Pt. 2<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">The Eric Rood Administrative Center is the main government
building complex for Nevada County, a rural county in the Sierra foothills just
east of Sacramento, California. There are two main buildings – one holds all of
the main county governmental machinery and the other is the Wayne Brown
Correctional Facility (WBCF) – the Nevada County jail. Yesterday, the 30<sup>th</sup>
Annual Nevada County Toy Run once again attracted in the neighborhood of 1,000
motorcycles with various toys lashed to them. They were all gathered in the parking
lot outside of the jail for their annual pilgrimage to the fairgrounds. For 30
years, the toy run has provided toys, clothes and food to the less fortunate residents
of Nevada and Placer counties. For me, it is also sort of a homecoming.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfg1SQGKdMih-R-VHzcTTnUzRnsKdOashv7x2xBROCzwaydQt5h_g_HdZ72SvUCMH6JKvXc2nj3G82IL1lNoOA_1BEHstJX9Z3-X9YS1GmVgC6cbODtGPcuubhkhcEK59GbtPfqznETyp9ne5W_uR7RIJm68sQxRAbIPrHkVWkNA4zZvoVblA=s960" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfg1SQGKdMih-R-VHzcTTnUzRnsKdOashv7x2xBROCzwaydQt5h_g_HdZ72SvUCMH6JKvXc2nj3G82IL1lNoOA_1BEHstJX9Z3-X9YS1GmVgC6cbODtGPcuubhkhcEK59GbtPfqznETyp9ne5W_uR7RIJm68sQxRAbIPrHkVWkNA4zZvoVblA=s320" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">In the summer of 2002 and again in 2004, the WBCF was my
home for a while. For 78 days in the summer of 2002, I would pay my debt to
society and, because I am not very good at following directions, I returned for
another 40 days on August 6<sup>th</sup> of 2004. In 2002, although it was not
my first time in jail, it was my first extended sentence; it was more than just
a day or two, or four or five – it was weeks. I was tired, I was becoming
compliant, I experienced some moments of what we call “surrender,” but I was
still fighting, still a “victim,” and still way smarter than virtually everyone
else. And I had my rights, dammit! I was convicted of a non-violent felony
(since then, after a few years, reduced to a misdemeanor) and sentenced to the
relatively cushy trustee “N Section” of the jail. I felt I could improve upon
my situation and worked myself right into the much less cushy general
population “A-pod,” where I served out most of my sentence.</span><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">Every year that I ride in the toy run – and on the other
occasions I happen to be on my bike at or around WBCF (it’s located right on
CA-49 near CA-20 in Nevada City, an absolutely beautiful place to ride a
motorcycle) – it takes me back to a little rectangular window on the second
floor, right on the corner of the jail, in A-pod. That was my cell. I used to
stare out that window and watch the Harleys and other motorcycles riding up
Highway 49, pissed off, at first, but eventually just sad. Sad because at some
point while I was there I had an epiphany. One day – and I will never forget it
– I realized why I was there. It was not because of the cops, or the judge, or
my idiot “friends,” or my parents or anyone else. It was because of me. It was
like lightning struck me. That day, I stopped fighting.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">Until I got out. I was going to follow the script. I had
every intention of cleaning up, of getting into a 12-step program, of following
through with the second part of my sentence – three months of residential
treatment – and starting a new, drug-free life. But withing six hours I was
right back where I was when I went in, and I had no ability to turn it off. It’s
not the first time I was going to “quit” and meant it. It’s not the first time
that I connected the dots, saw where they led and said to myself, <i>“enough!” </i>I’ve
had these “moments of clarity” before – and as recently as less than two years
previously when my behavior almost killed me.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">A little more than 21 years ago, on October 17<sup>th</sup>,
2000, I was living the life of a “non-conformist,” of a “renegade,” of a “freedom-loving
American,” or whatever other euphemism I would come up with to defend my “right”
to put whatever drugs into my body I saw fit. I would say things like it no one
else’s business, that the only person I’m harming is myself (and I didn’t
believe I was, anyway) and that if it bothers you, that’s your problem, not
mine. I bought into all of that bullshit in order to do what I wanted to do,
when I wanted to do it. That morning, due to the drugs I was consuming, I fell
asleep at the wheel while driving my then 13- year-old son to school. I drifted
into the oncoming lane and hit an approaching logging truck almost head-on. My
son escape major physical injuries (however, non-physical injuries are serious,
too), as did the logging truck driver, but my injuries damned near killed me.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">I don’t remember almost all of it, and what I do remember is
seriously clouded by shock, pain medication and a medically induced coma. I “woke
up” five weeks later. Within a day or two, by the time the fog cleared, I knew
exactly what happened. I knew this wasn’t a “close-call,” it wasn’t a “near-miss,”
this was a direct hit and, of all the times in my life that I “could have died,”
this time I should have. They thought I would. They didn’t think I was going to
make it. And I knew why, even though it was determined that “drugs and alcohol were
not a factor,” (I have no idea how or why, but that’s what the police report
said).</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">I’m not stupid. I almost killed myself, I could have killed
my kid. I put my parents and everyone else who cared about me though literal
hell. It was <i>everyone else’s</i> business. I was <i>never going to do that
again. </i>But I did, not long after I got out of the hospital three months
later – still with metal and tubes sticking out of me. I rationalized that now that
I knew what could happen, I could prevent catastrophe, but that was yet another
lie. Law enforcement came into my life in a big way and by 2002, I found myself
looking out that little window longing to be part of that world, wishing I could
have followed the script that would get me there.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">I finally got into residential treatment in March of 2003
and stayed for six months. I gained a lot of clarity, participated in 12-step
recovery, tried to work with the “god” thing – something that took a lot of
work, because there is no old man with a beard living in the sky in my world.
But there was a path around it. In the fall of 2003 I returned to school and
thrived like never before. The success I had there was a two-edged sword,
however. It bred an arrogance that would soon be dealt with at the end of 2003
with a relapse, a probation violation in 2004 and a return to WBCF on August 6<sup>th</sup>,
2004. Since that day, I have not found it necessary to use any drugs or alcohol.
I have found that following that script is working for me.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">But it wasn’t easy. And it wasn’t just the drugs. I had to
swallow years and years of pride, a world-view that had me at its center without
a concern about how my actions affect others. I had to take all of that back –
in a very real, personal and direct way. Do I follow all of the rules? That’s
not a simple question. There are rules and then there are rules. Some conventions
I do not follow – but they do not affect others. My tattoos, my long hair do
not. That really is your problem, not mine. My motorcycles? That’s a much
tougher question. If I were to be seriously injured or killed on my bike, that
would absolutely affect those I care about – those who love me. But that is a
little different, the same can be said for simply walking out my front door –
it is a dangerous world. Drugs, at least those that defy “recreational use,”
have no redeeming features – they lead to destruction, despair, dereliction
and, often, death. The script I have followed for the past 17-plus years absolutely,
100 percent prevents all of that. It has a proven track record. </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-31077693904149421462021-10-13T09:50:00.005-07:002021-10-13T09:55:15.238-07:00The Script, Pt. 1<div class="separator" style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span>Just to be
able to remember “what it was like 21 years ago,” we must be considerably older
than 21 years of age. My first memories are from the age of maybe four or five –
perhaps a little younger, but they are so sketchy that I hesitate to qualify
them as full-fledged “memories.” Those are more ephemeral, ghostlike, perhaps
dreamlike images that I cannot really contextualize. But from the age of about
five, they become much more concrete. That means I had to be at least 26 before
I could say things like, “Twenty-one years ago, we didn’t have…” However, I can
remember what life was like when I was 26, and I wasn’t thinking about shit
like that. I wasn’t really thinking much at all.</span> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span>Twenty-one
years, in the context of a human life, is a long time. It is almost one third
of the average human life expectancy, worldwide. It was, and still is for
certain things, the arbitrary number of years it takes for a child to reach “adulthood.”
For many species, 21 years is more than enough time to come into existence,
live, procreate and die without a trace. When looking at recent technological
advancements, the past 21 years has been nothing short of amazing, although 500
years ago, a 21 years span might have looked no different at either end. Still,
for people, generally, 21 years is a good long time.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span> </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span> </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6C-TZ6uOT94/YWcOQcZa5KI/AAAAAAAALWs/nVedrgOSjbQN7owG2Jc6giG-PTbH3MbHwCNcBGAsYHQ/s960/screenplay.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="191" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6C-TZ6uOT94/YWcOQcZa5KI/AAAAAAAALWs/nVedrgOSjbQN7owG2Jc6giG-PTbH3MbHwCNcBGAsYHQ/w287-h191/screenplay.jpg" width="287" /></a></span></span></p></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">And that
went on for many years. I did some things. I had some success. I had a family,
a home, a white picket fence and a mini-van… a wife and a career. But all of it,
in retrospect, felt like I was living by someone else’s script and all the
while I was “ad-libbing.” What did the ad-libbing look like? It was the epitome
of not thinking. Following the “establishment script,” the rules, the norms,
the conventions, the “way we are supposed to live life,” would have served me
well and kept me out of trouble, but for some reason I just could not keep on
that track (I have some ideas why now, but at the time I had no clue). The “left
turns” were minor in terms of adding, for lack of better words, excitement,
entertainment or recreation to my life – through chemistry - and the related
larger “left turns” that manifested in major life changes. The minor, over
time, often led to the major because there is no such thing as recreational
substance abuse, better known as addiction. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span>At 26
years old, I was still largely a responsible(ish) young adult with a promising
future ahead. All I needed to do was follow the script that remained ahead of
me. While I did need some cooperation (the dissolution of my short-lived
marriage was not in the script and, while my wife and I going off-script
contributed, there is a divorced, single father responsible adult script left),
it was still in my hands, if I could do it. I could not, and playing the victim
was particularly helpful in my justification to take my character into new and uncharted
waters. The twelve years between my 26<sup>th</sup> and 38<sup>th</sup>
birthday, in retrospect, was not a long time, but so much happened. The
successes were still there, but they were fewer, farther between and shorter. And
the trouble mounted, slowly at first, but it grew by orders of magnitude. I finally
got a handle on all of it in 2003 and again, for good, in 2004, buy by then a
lot of damage was already done.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span> </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span>Twenty-one
years ago today, my life was chaotic, and my two youngest sons were along for
the ride. They might have said that they were living a good life (they have
said so before), but they were not aware of everything going on and, despite
living in what many refer to as “paradise” in the mountains, there was plenty
of trouble in paradise. In just four days, all hell would break loose. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span> </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span>We were
all, of course, blissfully oblivious to what was on the horizon, but it was all
part of the script I was living – it was not a preordained conclusion, but is
was certainly in the cards. On October 17<sup>th</sup>, 2000 – not quite 21
years ago, everything would change. For me and my family, it was the beginning
of the end – not quite the end yet, that was still coming, but it was the
beginning. The beginning of the beginning would not come until 2002, but the
actually new life I enjoy today took another two years to come to pass. Ironically
enough, I am following my heart <i>and</i> following the rules, conventions and
norms of civilized society – the <i>script</i> I fought against so hard for so
long.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span> </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span>To be
continued…</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></span></span></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-38831283497098666812021-09-17T14:20:00.002-07:002021-09-17T14:27:26.402-07:00Of Lights and Tunnels<p class="hz ia hi ib b ic hk id ie hn if ig ih ii ij ik il im in io kc iq do ec" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="2468"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">About 17 years ago, I was in between the Wayne Brown Correctional Facility (Nevada County Jail) serv<span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm">i</span></span></span>ng
40 days of a 60 day sentence for a probation violation and the
Calaveras County Jail for a 90 sentence on the charge that got me
violated in Nevada County. I was coming off a six or seven months
relapse after being clean (or sober, depending on one’s brand of
recovery) for a little more than nine months after all the original
trouble that got me on probation in the first place. Another violation
would send me to state prison. I was again clean/sober — both by force
because I was in jail and by choice because I didn’t want to go to
prison, but I wasn’t happy about any of it. Those were not good days.</span></span></p><figure class="ga ri rj rk rl rm nq rn ev ro rp rq rr rs bl rt ru rv rw rx ry paragraph-image"><div class="rz sa ao sb v sc" role="button" tabindex="0"><div class="gf gg rh" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="" class="v gx sd" height="448" role="presentation" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/500/1*93C7gLQTpH_KHB8m05eYVg.png" width="314" /></span></span></div></div></figure><p class="hz ia hi ib b ic se hk id ie sf hn if ig sg ih ii ij sh ik il im si in io iq do ec" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="4229"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At
the end of 2003, at about nine months of staying out of trouble, of
staying straight, of “doing recovery,” I thought I had it going on. In
some respects, I did. I went back to school and attained the kind of
success that far surpassed anything I ever experienced academically
prior. I regained the trust of my family. I felt better — physically and
mentally — I had a clarity I could not remember ever feeling. But I
also felt a power over myself, my own wants and desires that was wholly
unfounded. I felt “in control” of much that I was not and, I believe,
will never be in control of. I felt that I could use drugs, and the drug
alcohol (although, for me it was primarily other drugs),
“recreationally.” That turned out to be absolutely false, but I not only
didn’t know it, I didn’t even consider it — I probably didn’t want to
know it.</span></span></p><p class="hz ia hi ib b ic se hk id ie sf hn if ig sg ih ii ij sh ik il im si in io iq do ec" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="66ec"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
also wanted it all — all that stuff, not just the material stuff, but
the status and the stature, the standing and the prominence, and, of
course, I wanted the material things, too. I wanted what I saw others
had, but I didn’t want to wait for it. It’s important to understand that
these concrete thoughts were not bouncing around in my head, I was not
saying these things to myself, but in retrospect, the thing the drugs
always gave me — instant gratification — was still driving me. I wanted
it all and I wanted it now.</span></span></p><p class="hz ia hi ib b ic se hk id ie sf hn if ig sg ih ii ij sh ik il im si in io iq do ec" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="852c"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That
week in between jails was difficult. I had 40 days clean and all the
motivation in the world to stay clean, but despite that, I wanted an
escape. I didn’t “want it all right now,” I just “wanted it all to end.”
I was pissed off all the time — nothing, it seemed, was going right. I
knew where I could find instant gratification, I knew where I could get
instant relief, but I also knew where that would get me. I also knew, by
then, with a clear, albeit angry, mind, that instant gratification only
lasts for an instant. But I just could not see any light at the end of
any tunnel. All I could focus on was staying out of prison and to do
that I had to stay clean. But that was not at all easy. Fortunately, I
would be locked up again soon before I could make another fateful
decision.</span></span></p><p class="hz ia hi ib b ic se hk id ie sf hn if ig sg ih ii ij sh ik il im si in io iq do ec" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="c850"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
old Calaveras Jail was a miserable place. It has since been replaced
with a new, modern facility (so I hear), but at the time it was an
ancient, overcrowded hell-hole. However, the fact that it was
overcrowded worked to my advantage. Where I would have had to serve 60
days of that 90 day sentence, I was released after only eight days. And
eight days was enough. By the time I got home I was still angry (and, to
be clear about that, although I had plenty of anger to go around, and
many undeserving people got the brunt of it, I was really pissed off at
myself), but I had around 60 days clean and a bit of a foothold in
recovery once again.</span></span></p><p class="hz ia hi ib b ic se hk id ie sf hn if ig sg ih ii ij sh ik il im si in io iq do ec" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="b35d"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But
the light was still nowhere to be found. I saw that others who were
doing this recovery thing had found something, and I saw that. Over
time, many had achieved big, fulfilling lives. I wanted that, too, but I
just could not see it for me. It was just too far away. I just needed
to stay out of prison — and that turned out to be challenging enough.
There were a couple of days when it was close, but I made it. I finally
made my way back to school at the local junior college and, as time went
on, things gradually got better. It was somewhere around six months
clean that a revelation washed over me — I’ll never forget it. It’s as
simple as it is powerful: I realized that I had gone a few days, maybe
several, without any anger. It might not seem like a big deal, but being
pissed off all the time is fucking exhausting and to realize, in
retrospect, that I was free from it for a sustained period of time —
and, also, not even knowing, specifically, that was what was draining me
until then — was like a wave crashing over me.</span></span></p><p class="hz ia hi ib b ic se hk id ie sf hn if ig sg ih ii ij sh ik il im si in io iq do ec" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="5e72"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of
course it didn’t last, but the anger, over time, continued to diminish
and the peace and serenity in my life began to increase. I continued
with my education, transferring to California State University,
Sacramento where I earned my BA, with honors. I then enrolled in the
communication studies MA program at CSUS earning a master’s degree. I
then applied to and was accepted into a Ph.D. program at Louisiana State
University where I advanced to doctoral candidacy before settling on
another master’s degree. During all that time, I stayed clean, stayed
“in recovery” and dealt with life as it came — not all good, not all
bad. I didn’t always handle every situation perfectly or even “well,”
but I also didn’t ever self-destruct over anything, either. The success
that eluded me my entire life — the bottom that <i class="kr">always</i> fell out eventually — still hasn’t, for 17 years now. And that light? It’s as bright as the sun now.</span></span></p><p class="hz ia hi ib b ic se hk id ie sf hn if ig sg ih ii ij sh ik il im si in io iq do ec" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="6a3f"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In
the last few years, my focus has been not so much all that “stuff” —
both material and status — that I so desperately wanted (or, thought I
wanted) all those years ago, but rather, it’s peace. It’s serenity. I
know that conflict is part of life, I know that it is unrealistic to
think that I can totally avoid it, but I can do quite a lot to mitigate
it, to moderate it, to not invite it and, where it comes to my own
domain, to show it the door. I have come to a place that probably has to
do with not just the years of recovery from addiction — which includes
but is not limited to just the complete abstinence from all mind and
mood altering drugs — but also an age where I simply do not feel like
wasting my time with bullshit. I will not tolerate drama, I do not do
passive-aggressive, if you ask me what I think, be prepared for the
truth.</span></span></p><p class="hz ia hi ib b ic se hk id ie sf hn if ig sg ih ii ij sh ik il im si in io iq do ec" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="90b8"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All
those years ago, I wanted the things I have now. The money, the nice
house, the motorcycles (yes, plural, and I can’t even begin to say how
excited I am about the one I’m picking up tomorrow), the ability to not
worry about paying my bills and living paycheck to paycheck. I thought
that’s all I wanted; I thought that would make me “happy” (a misnomer;
what I want is contentedness, satisfaction, peace — happiness is and
must be fleeting). It turns out that those things are a result of all
else. I enjoy the “things,” I like my stuff, but that stuff absent the
intangible peace and peace of mind it took, literally, all those years
to attain, would be meaningless. I know, because I’ve had “stuff” before
and it never gave me what I really sought. But, I never really knew
what I was looking for. It took 17 years to get here, there is no way I
could have seen that 17 years ago.</span></span></p><p class="hz ia hi ib b ic se hk id ie sf hn if ig sg ih ii ij sh ik il im si in io iq do ec" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="2794"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">#peace</span></span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></span>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-67838924362697241102021-08-17T12:21:00.005-07:002021-08-17T18:15:36.809-07:00Unconditionally<p class="hl hm fn hn b ho hp hq hr hs ht hu hv hw hx hy hz ia ib ic id ie dn gj" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="4422">I usually have some “big” thoughts on my annual ride to Sturgis. This year, my eighth consecutive pi<span id="rmm"><span id="rmm">l</span></span>grimage
to the Mecca of all the motorcycle things (my seventh consecutive
actual ride there) is no different, but I have not dwelt on it much nor
does it have to do much with the adventure itself. It was, like all the
previous seven excursions, not a “vacation” as commonly defined, even
though for vast numbers of attendees it is that, it was once again about
the journey. It is a three part deal — the getting there, the being
there and the getting back, each full of trials, tribulations and
triumphs — challenges to be met and overcome, expecting the unexpected
and dealing with it all. Along the way, there is a complete immersion in
the experience one can only gain from being in close contact with and
in some control of the actual travel on two wheels, completely exposed
to the elements, the atmosphere and in being an integral part of all of
it. That all happened this year, but I’m not going to go into any detail
about it. It was different this year, but the overall theme is the same
— and that theme is that the experience is never the same.</p><p class="hl hm fn hn b ho lx hp hq hr ly hs ht hu lz hv hw hx ma hy hz ia mb ib ic ie dn gj" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="8724">The
difference this year, for me, had nothing to do with Sturgis. It had to
do with love, unconditional love. People put conditions on everything.
There is always an unspoken agreement, always lines that cannot be
crossed. Often they are not known until they are crossed, but they are,
for lack of a better word, “conditions.” Even the most noble among us,
the most saintly, have our limits. While “love” might always exist, the
nature of relationships amongst humans is complicated and they can be
altered, sometimes irrevocably. The same is not true of “man’s best
friend,” our canine companions, dogs. I suppose there are those who
would say the same of other pets, but I have not found this quality of
complete, unadulterated, unconditional, reciprocal love more pure than
between a human and his or her dog.</p><figure class="md me mf mg mh mi ex mj bu mk ml mm mn mo cf mp mq mr ms mt mu paragraph-image"><div class="mv mw ap mx w my" role="button" tabindex="0"><div class="eu ev mc" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" class="w mz na" height="208" role="presentation" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/500/1*uUvu5Y0G7odpx2iMlNTC5A.jpeg" width="369" /></div></div></figure><p class="hl hm fn hn b ho lx hp hq hr ly hs ht hu lz hv hw hx ma hy hz ia mb ib ic ie dn gj" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="c975">I have had a few dogs in my life, a few who have claimed me as their human. Most recently, <a class="dt nb" href="https://www.facebook.com/bella.mocha.39?__cft__[0]=AZX2fyLWTgJVnT67s8NWtiIhh9cWU95mTE4IfJtz1fm3-03uBUexzfgwYQp91eJT-1i4yZsnWgP5A29rZmv5CfmAUub0dHXk8fr5gZaYVo0-3bVQpSylqQoWu7nf31gGoQecdstFBTcuqmLciJ1-fbGl&__tn__=-]K-R" rel="noopener nofollow">Bella</a>,
an 11 and a half year old chocolate lab who was my son’s dog for the
first half of her life, came into my home in her later years and claimed
me as her own. She was my everything, but passed way too soon from
cancer last March. Her loss devastated me like none before or since; it
caught me off guard. I am not made of stone, but I tend to be somewhat
philosophical about such things — life and death — I do not “not” feel
it, but I tend to be rather emotionally stoic. Not so with Bella. Her
loss has weighed heavily on me since she left — it still does.</p><p class="hl hm fn hn b ho lx hp hq hr ly hs ht hu lz hv hw hx ma hy hz ia mb ib ic ie dn gj" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="6d62">I
knew I would be getting another dog eventually, but I wasn’t sure when.
I planned to be out riding my motorcycle most of the summer, including
my ride to Sturgis. That did not come to pass. Although I did take one
other shorter ride earlier in the summer, I was home most of the summer.
However, I was not ready and I wanted to be home when I brought a new
dog into my home, and I knew I’d be gone the two weeks for my Sturgis
ride. I figured I’d begin my quest when I returned. But the planets
aligned, my friends had a litter of golden retrievers in June and, as
fate would have it, one of them would become mine. He picked me before
he was fully weaned and I know who would be coming home with me when I
returned. I thought about him every day I was gone.</p><figure class="md me mf mg mh mi ex mj bu mk ml mm mn mo cf mp mq mr ms mt mu paragraph-image"><div class="mv mw ap mx w my" role="button" tabindex="0"><div class="eu ev mc"><div class="nf s ap ng"><div class="nh ni s" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><div class="eg nc fd ej ef eo w kp nd ne"><br /></div><img alt="" class="iv rn fd ej ef eo w c" height="225" role="presentation" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/500/1*i4MwD7vxZgwKWRjFie7UxQ.jpeg" width="398" /></div></div></div></div></figure><p class="hl hm fn hn b ho lx hp hq hr ly hs ht hu lz hv hw hx ma hy hz ia mb ib ic ie dn gj" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="3b94">The
ride home from Sturgis was actually one of the best. I rode with three
others, two of whom were new to the entire experience. Most of the route
was old hat for me, but the roads were iconic and ones I was glad to
ride again (still am). There was even a stretch of new stuff that proved
to be absolutely magic (ironically, the name of a dog I had years ago).
But as good as all that was, I could not wait to get home. I’ve been
home for four days now and the unconditional love I missed from Bella is
back in my life. It is not Bella, Möbius did not and cannot replace
her, but he has filled a void that she left, and I know she is smiling
down upon us. Because she loved me, unconditionally. Always.</p><p> </p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-14062567972093261102021-07-23T12:04:00.006-07:002021-07-23T12:12:22.824-07:00Fake Sincerity<p>
</p><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Six day
ago, I posted a quote from ski film maker/documentarian Warren Miller to my “timeline”
on Facebook.<span> </span>It was, in true Miller
fashion, clever, sarcastic and said more about a lot of shit than a paragraph
or more ever could. Two days before that, I posted a screenshot of my last text
message and a memory of my last conversation with one of my closest friends –
ever – Art Werstler. It was one year ago, but he did not pass until September, however,
COVID incapacitated him to the point that he was unable to communicated much,
and then, only at the end, with his family. I also added on some thoughts
regarding the medium I referred to as “Fakebook,” a much more fitting name for
this platform that makes distortions of reality so common it appears normal –
that distorted reality actually <i>is</i> reality.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Since posting
that Warren Miller quote (don’t worry, I didn’t forget – I’ll get to it), I
have not interacted with Fakebook via my own timeline/profile/page/whatever except
to post links to stuff I’ve published elsewhere – stuff like this – usually to
my spot in the online magazine, <i><a href="https://mkalthouse.medium.com/">The Medium</a>.</i> But it could also come from
my personal blog and I could, in the future, post other creative works using
other media, such as video, as well. The key distinction is that nothing is
being produced for Fakebook (the Miller quote was, despite it being properly
attributed and clearly not my words, it was placed on my timeline – only). Although
I have interacted with the few commenters from those two posts, I am still on
the fence about whether I will continue to do so. At the moment, there are very
few; this is no surprise considering the average Fakebook user’s attention span
is less than a paragraph, never mind five or more woven together in a well-spun
tapestry. However, I’d prefer that those “conversations” occur in the areas
provided in the original publications. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That
quote? I posted it because I found it smart, clever, witty, and everything I said
about it above. I figured my Facebook “friends” would see it and find the same
in it that I did. And for some, I knew it would have a time-delayed element,
that it would hit them a second, a few seconds or even moments later. And, the
truth? I wanted that to be a reflection on me. I post the smart shit, I make
those bold statements on society and the particular topic of this quote – sincerity
– is one I’ve spoken about many times before. Posting the quote from an icon of
the stature of Warren Miller <i>validates</i> me and my position on it. That quote
is, “<span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #050505;">The secret to being a good [ski]
instructor is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you’ve got it made” (Miller,
1982). The paradox of faking sincerity is, of course, what sends this quote
into the stratosphere, but it begs the question: Why did I feel compelled to
post it, especially after I “swore off” Fakebook?</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #050505;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #050505;">It’s a good question and one
that I didn’t really consider until recently. As it turns out, in light of the
conflicts I was having with Fakebook, the post felt rather empty. It became a
microcosm of so much of what I would put out into the Fakebook “environsphere.”
It was almost, but not exactly, a passive-aggressive declaration of who-I-am.
And while it is certainly true that I am partly about what that quote denotes,
at least as far as I perceive it, there is so much more to me than that. I
realize that I could be over-analyzing myself (not that I <i>ever</i> do that…),
but the mindlessness of the things we place into the world simply because we
can, <i>sans</i> any kind of reflection as to why, could be a big part of what
makes Fakebook fake.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #050505;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #050505;">The two things that have
appeared on my timeline since are like this – much more detailed, explorative,
nuanced and rich. They require more than two seconds to consume and will only
be consumed by those who are truly interested. They are not “drive-by” posts on
someone’s news feed and, when they do generate comments, those comments are typically
not of the drive-by variety, either. For those who want to come to my “home” on
Facebook to see what I am up to, they will no longer find the Reader’s Digest
version of me, but, rather, if interested enough, they will find some reading
to do. If you want to know who-I-am, it will require the commitment to find
out. Unfortunately, the quickie Fakebook post standard has been pretty well
established, I do not expect many to make the effort. But that is not my
concern – my concern is authenticity. And… sincerity, not faking it.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #050505;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BXUDqOej4BY/YPsSFoufAkI/AAAAAAAALTg/Y6KnU6M53Sc65D_uSypgbbHRHtFcz4SlACNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/SPP%2B-%2BLOGO.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="370" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BXUDqOej4BY/YPsSFoufAkI/AAAAAAAALTg/Y6KnU6M53Sc65D_uSypgbbHRHtFcz4SlACNcBGAsYHQ/w278-h370/SPP%2B-%2BLOGO.jpg" width="278" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #050505;">I have not completely
extracted myself from other aspects of the Fakebook ecosphere. I still read
other’s posts, I still comment from time-to-time, I still administer a couple
of interest groups and participate in </span><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #050505;">several others and I still own my page,
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/shirtpocketproductionsv2.1">ShirtPocket Productions</a> (and its version on Instagram - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/shirtpocket_productions/">@shirtpocket_productions</a>
and YouTube - <a href="http://www.shirtpocketproductions.com/">ShirtPocket Productions</a>). All of those things have some
value to me, but not in the creation or maintenance of some online or real
persona – a distinction that Facebook has blurred to be almost one and the
same. Perhaps, through my alter-ego plural first-person “good folks” at
ShirtPocket Productions, I do speak in an institutional, almost Warren
Miller-esque voice. As “the good folks,” I do play around with persona
alteration, however, I am clear that they and I are all me and that “we” are
about getting out into the world and doing things – or, as the good folks at
SPP say, “Go out and do shit!”</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #050505;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%; color: #050505;">Since leaving the inane shit
off my Fakebook timeline, my writing output immediately increased. It seems I
need a creative outlet, but Fakebook was the junk food equivalent substitution for
nutritionally balanced meals. I wrote a lot of longer, original posts for Facebook,
but, with rare exception, they were short by literary standards, but still long
by Fakebook standards a very unhappy medium. This is the third substantive work
I’ve written in the last week, an output in frequency the likes of which I
haven’t seen <i>since</i> I began using Facebook regularly many years ago.
Coincidence? Partly, maybe; I’m sure there are other factors at play, but the evidence
that posting stupid, fast (even if they were “important”) things to Facebook
seemed to satisfy any desire to do the real work it takes to do this. And <i>this</i>
is who-I-am.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span></div>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-88864849988876210022021-07-21T10:14:00.002-07:002021-07-21T10:36:51.803-07:00More Than 150 Thousand Miles Later<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">I’m not exactly sure how many lifetime motorcycle miles I’ve
ridden. I can make a pretty good guess how many I have rolled up in the past 10+
or so years, however. The miles logged from the time I bought my first bike
when I was 18 years-old (a Honda CB 550 – the venerable 550 Four) in 1981,
through the 80s and the 90s until I went through my non-motorcycle years up
until my first Harley in 2005, I really have no idea. But, I didn’t go on the
multi-day, super long distance rides I do now, every year. However, I rode a
lot and, depending on the era, every day – I racked up a lot of miles.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cu0URHWSKs0/YPhUlsFFQyI/AAAAAAAALR8/85v_Y9G87-svaF5xtdAGeJFytX8-Fn1AgCNcBGAsYHQ/38510_575786617103_3120260_n_575786617103.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cu0URHWSKs0/YPhUlsFFQyI/AAAAAAAALR8/85v_Y9G87-svaF5xtdAGeJFytX8-Fn1AgCNcBGAsYHQ/38510_575786617103_3120260_n_575786617103.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">At this time 11 years ago, my friend, Steve, and I embarked
on our first extended motorcycle road trip. It was to span almost two weeks and
covered, ultimately, almost 5,000 miles. At the time, I owned a 2007
Harley-Davidson Road King – a “bagger,” and an excellent<br /> choice for such a
ride. Steve had an older Harley, but it, too, was well suited for the ride –
both bikes are big, burly and formidable machines. The ride began to take shape
months earlier – a “bucket list” thing that not just the two of us, but a few
of our friends who ride were all going to do. It was originally going to be a guys
thing, but after some pressure the guys relented and allowed gals to come, too.
The decision turned out to be moot – one by one, everyone dropped out except me
and Steve.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PDSoNIFJF4s/YPhU1POokAI/AAAAAAAALSA/zCBfdCzBslklUXQJ-aGrjVB2aiHLbXoJwCNcBGAsYHQ/38671_575265346733_6920005_n_575265346733.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-bbGa596mX2w/YPhVSW4J_VI/AAAAAAAALSQ/iYxVRDNpkEQtlACC6E2de5gWQ4fYbJbHwCNcBGAsYHQ/38671_575265351723_8295535_n_575265351723.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-bbGa596mX2w/YPhVSW4J_VI/AAAAAAAALSQ/iYxVRDNpkEQtlACC6E2de5gWQ4fYbJbHwCNcBGAsYHQ/38671_575265351723_8295535_n_575265351723.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">And we almost did, too. There is strength in numbers and the
confidence and security we once felt with a group of five, eight or more was
gone when we were faced with the reality that it would be just us two. None of
us – any of us – had any experience with that kind of riding. We would be going
hundreds of miles every day, several days in a row without a whole lot of
planning regarding route or, except for our ultimate destination (Butte, Montana),
any of our overnight stops along the way. What if something went wrong? What if
we couldn’t handle<br /> it? Those and a hundred other forms of fear almost stopped
us dead in our tracks.</span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nMpeT6jkXLo/YPhVISp0pAI/AAAAAAAALSM/7Sly-xxBIck6QyObV0ERcB9DBKeP_V1fQCNcBGAsYHQ/38811_575787046243_1480832_n_575787046243.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="720" height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nMpeT6jkXLo/YPhVISp0pAI/AAAAAAAALSM/7Sly-xxBIck6QyObV0ERcB9DBKeP_V1fQCNcBGAsYHQ/38811_575787046243_1480832_n_575787046243.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">But we decided to go anyway and we did so because we both
had sons deployed in Afghanistan at the time. If we could not muster the
courage needed to take a fucking motorcycle ride, how could we even face them?
Seriously. And that really was the tipping point – so we rode. And it was
magic. There were times we had to adapt and overcome; there were times when
luck smiled upon us and it was not always glamorous, easy or like we imagined. Indeed,
it was way more than all that. And it was worth every inch of every mile.</span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-uA3gJ8gsrbw/YPhVrFRJYTI/AAAAAAAALSg/uVPwp5asgLEaPusD8OrlfqYVq7oq574ugCNcBGAsYHQ/37480_575262717003_2617026_n_575262717003.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="720" height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-uA3gJ8gsrbw/YPhVrFRJYTI/AAAAAAAALSg/uVPwp5asgLEaPusD8OrlfqYVq7oq574ugCNcBGAsYHQ/37480_575262717003_2617026_n_575262717003.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">Since then, I have ridden either that motorcycle or one of
its successors a total of more (much more) than 150,000 miles through most of
the western and gulf states and two Canadian provinces. I have ridden in
temperatures as high as 120 degrees and as low as the 30s, in rain, hail, sleet
and even a little snow. I have ridden at altitudes above 10,000 feet and lower
than 200 feet below sea level. I have ridden solo (a lot), with one or two
others and, more recently, a few others. Soon, it will be eight others on a
five state ride from Sacramento, CA to Sturgis, SD – maybe <i>that</i> ride,
like it didn’t happen all those years ago. All of it started 11 years ago – in fact,
at this very moment 11 years ago, Steve and I were riding along the base of the
Sawtooth Mountains on our way to Jackson Hole, WY.</span></span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-T8Xx83yhMI4/YPhTtIfTzmI/AAAAAAAALR0/sh7ze4_azwA8KvyMb3LIJzQFslGSTvnywCNcBGAsYHQ/38586_576200382913_6724672_n_576200382913.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="536" data-original-width="720" height="238" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-T8Xx83yhMI4/YPhTtIfTzmI/AAAAAAAALR0/sh7ze4_azwA8KvyMb3LIJzQFslGSTvnywCNcBGAsYHQ/w320-h238/38586_576200382913_6724672_n_576200382913.jpg" width="320" /></a>I have been known to show some disdain for sharing “vacation
pics” just for the sake of showing them. It reminds me of the days when, upon
being invited to someone’s house for dinner, the “after dinner activity” involves
the host breaking out the slide projector and sharing his or her recent family
vacation photos to Wally World. Yawn. I will quite often not even stop to take
that breathtaking shot, instead committing it to memory, sharing it with
myself, at will, when I please. However, when I do shoot ride video and photos –
and I do, with some degree of passion – I will often include my mantra. It is
my go-to for my life and what I hope my adventures inspire in others: Go out
and do shit! Go get your own pictures; go see this shit with your own eyes; go
ride the miles to that faraway place and experience the entire scene, not
vicariously through my words and pictures (or anyone else’s)... make your own.
It doesn’t have to be a motorcycle, but it can’t be through a fucking screen.
Go out and do shit.</span></span><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">Eleven years ago, I went out and did some shit. I haven’t
looked back since.</span></span></p>
<br /><br /><br /><div><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p></div>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-31621451569541140302021-07-20T09:38:00.009-07:002021-07-21T09:52:52.384-07:00Facebook Zombies<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">This is the beginning. Actually, this is the documented beginning,
the real beginning began, probably, when this whole social media morass did. The
end began when it started. But, for all intents and purposes, as a practical
matter, this is the start of a process in which I extract my<i>self</i> from
social media, specifically from Fakebook (yes, I know that is a denigration of our
social media lord, but it is a much more accurate name). I am not deleting or
deactivating my account (I have deactivated a handful of times in the past, for
as long as a few weeks) because I have, unfortunately, a couple of commitments that
are inextricably tied to the platform. However, those commitments do not
require any involvement from me personally on my personal timeline (page,
profile, whatever the fuck they are calling it at the moment). It is not as
easy as it appears or (and this bothers me), as easy as it should be.</p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U3I4ZIzF3Lo/YPb79v8uPXI/AAAAAAAALRQ/bQGBIW30xcENL0LFD3K9QaJ0lJ3nm8vowCNcBGAsYHQ/s1079/FB%2Bzombie.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="1079" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U3I4ZIzF3Lo/YPb79v8uPXI/AAAAAAAALRQ/bQGBIW30xcENL0LFD3K9QaJ0lJ3nm8vowCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/FB%2Bzombie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">bulentgultek / Getty / The Atlantic</td></tr></tbody></table>Okay, here we go. Introduction written, it’s good, it should
have taken a curious reader to this point. Now what? This is a violation; a
peak behind the curtain, a look into the writer’s mind. This paragraph can be
where the heavy lifting begins. It’s not always the case, sometimes the words just
flow as if they have a will of their own – they seemingly <i>want</i> to exist.
These are not those. I’m going to go smoke a cigar, I’ll be back. This is
important, but I have not yet assembled all the words…<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s been a couple of days, a few cups of coffee and at
least a couple of cigars. In those days I have not added to my Facebook
profile, have not added to my “timeline,” and where I have interacted, it has
been mostly in respect to specific groups I am either a member of or the
administrator of. I have also “allowed” my Facebook page, “ShirtPocket
Productions,” to be cross-posted by posts made from my “ShirtPocket Productions”
Instagram account. I realize that that sounds like a fairly intricate level of involvement,
but in reality – and especially compared to maintaining a personal presence via
my own timeline, it is not – not even close.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, one of the things I actually do like about
Facebook – something I’ve written about before – will eventually be bookended.
In fact, if I stay committed, it already has. The history feature, “Memories,”
will no longer be replenished with new memories for future recall. True, there
are 10 or 11 years of solid entries to view, but if I stay the course, that
ease of recall via Facebook timeline entries will be lost because there will be
no new Facebook timeline entries. Save this. This will be published to my personal
blog (michaelalthouse.com) and to The Medium, and I will link one or both to my
Facebook timeline. <i>That,</i> however, is simply promotional. I post those to
Twitter and LinkedIn as well.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Why? Nothing much new, just new iterations of the same old
shit. I have hundreds of examples of how the reality is not what Facebook
portrays it <i>and</i> of how reality is absolutely affected by what Facebook
portrays. Not reality in how water is made up of two hydrogen and one oxygen
atom, but the reality of how people relate to one another – a reality that is
no less “real,” but unlike molecular reality, one that Facebook has an inappropriate
and disproportionate ability to alter. Even knowing that is often - too often -
not enough to combat what Fakebook has constructed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The age of information has also turned essentially every
little nuance of daily life into some kind of data, each minute division of
everyone’s daily life is another thing which can then be known as yet another
bit of information, as though all of that information is somehow valuable. Its
existence, its mere passing though time, does not demand documentation and the
fact that some informational bit is documented does not mean that it must be examined,
reviewed, studied, saved or even known. Too much of what goes on in people's
individual lives that, prior to the “age of information” simply existed and
evaporated as it passed through liminal space, now finds its way into permanent
storage, often altered – intentionally or not - from what actually transpired.
But forgetting about errors in record-keeping and context, there are things
that find their way into the public domain that were not necessarily “meant to
be private,” but were private by default, prior to the age of “now we know
everything.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t want to know what all my friends think about every
little thing that comes to their minds. Sometimes I agree, and we can have a
wonderful online slam-fest with a group of like-minded souls, attacking anyone
who might enter that arena with an opposing view, like a bunch of sharks at a
feeding frenzy. Of course, if I came upon a bunch of friends in said frenzy
about a view I opposed – I then become the food. That shit <i>never</i> happens
in real life. I also do not need to know if my friends are associating with my
not-friends (yes, I have “not-friends”) – it’s none of my business, however,
Fakebook not only doesn’t care, it feels it is duty-bound to inform us. And
then Facebook serves up, as a main course, the feelings of betrayal that real
life would not normally produce. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s easy to say that Facebook is morally neutral, that it
is a tool, like a hammer, neither “bad" nor “good,” that it is up to whoever wields
it. While that is technically true, Facebook is more akin to a wrecking ball
than a hammer. It is true that a wrecking ball is also a tool, but it is a tool
that is used primarily to destroy whereas a hammer can be, but it is equally useful
in building. I don’t know where this ends, but it has to end here and now for
me. I don’t want to know the things I know, I don’t need to know the things I
know, and, despite the fact that the vast majority of it is “public
information,” it is none of my business knowing these things. Information <i>is</i>
power, and power <i>is</i> intoxication and intoxication of any kind, in my
experience, <i>is</i> bad. I see the Fakebook zombies, they don’t even know they've crossed over.
If I walk on the edge long enough, I’ll fall in, too.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">#peace</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<br /><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style> <br /></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-26511347063815547352021-07-09T12:42:00.007-07:002021-07-09T12:50:42.408-07:00One Redeeming Quality Might Be Enough<p class="if ig gk ih b ii ij ik il im in io ip iq ir is it iu iv iw ix iy dp ei" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="c9d3"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I maybe should be more appreciative toward Facebook — or whoever developed the idea that Facebook co<span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm">m</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>mandeered
its “memories” function from (I want to say, “Timehop,” but I’m not
sure and don’t care enough to do the research). I’m not being facetious,
and this is not a new revelation. I have made this assertion many times
before; the “memories” function is among Facebook’s <i class="iz">most</i> redeeming qualities. In fact, it might be Facebook’s <i class="iz">only</i>
redeeming quality. So, I give the platform itself a lot of shit, I
criticize the money-people behind it (not the regular day-to-day
employees, they are just doing a job) and, generally, think when
weighing the pros and cons, the cons break the scale, but that does not
mean that this one pro should not be given it’s due — again.</span></span></p><p class="if ig gk ih b ii ja ij ik il jb im in io jc ip iq ir jd is it iu je iv iw iy dp ei" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="1d01"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There was a time — before <i class="iz">e-everything</i> or Apple’s betterized <i class="iz">i-everything</i>,
before this informational epoch — the “age of information” — was upon
us, that our personal histories were recorded differently. Just before
the computer revolution took hold, an age that I, like other Baby
Boomers and Gen-Xers are very familiar with, we appeared to rely more on
the oral, tribal tradition. I can’t say with certainly for most other
families, but the general feeling I get is that we did not write a whole
lot of our familial histories down — we passed it down verbally. While
there are a few analog photographs that date back (if we are lucky) 150
years, at most, for most of us, the only printed records of us are kept
by record-keeping agencies. There is no story told, at least not in a
story-telling way.</span></span></p><figure class="jg jh ji jj jk jl fw jm ez jn jo jp jq jr bm js jt ju jv jw jx paragraph-image"><div class="jy jz ap ka w kb" role="button" tabindex="0"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" class="w kc kd" height="408" role="presentation" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/1000/1*PDKRAhkeklVGHI66bUF24Q.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="335" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 1936 Time Magazine drawing of Santayana</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="ft fu jf" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></span></div></div></figure><p class="if ig gk ih b ii ja ij ik il jb im in io jc ip iq ir jd is it iu je iv iw iy dp ei" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="daf7"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">However,
there were some who did more than just remember and talk. There were
some who did keep written records in the form of diaries and journals.
And some are/were meticulous. Mine were not, and while they, I believe,
are “around somewhere,” I have no idea where and even if I could find
them, the records I wrote were a very brief window in time. Some people,
however, wrote with much more detail — with names, dates and places.
They are rich and robust. And, we, as a society, have greatly benefited
from those personal histories — to fill in gaps, to add humanity, to
lend insight and in thousands of other ways the original authors could
never have known.</span></span></p><p class="if ig gk ih b ii ja ij ik il jb im in io jc ip iq ir jd is it iu je iv iw iy dp ei" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="d9a0"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Much
has been lost and even that which survives is not so easily accessible.
It cannot be searched, indexed, organized, sorted, etc. like the
digital versions Facebook’s archives (and IG, and Twitter, and all else)
can be. Furthermore, there are not just a few dedicated souls
documenting their lives — many on a daily basis — for posterity. Y’all
are journaling, y’all are writing in your diaries and you’re doing it
with the kind of precision that will make it extremely valuable 100,
200, 500 years from now. It doesn’t have to be a 700-word or more essay
like this — most aren’t and most won’t read even this far (and someone
will comment about how this is too long). But because of Facebook and,
in a similar fashion, all other social media platforms, we are all now
writing not only our own familial, personal histories for the benefit of
our offspring, but society will benefit from it, too.</span></span></p><p class="if ig gk ih b ii ja ij ik il jb im in io jc ip iq ir jd is it iu je iv iw iy dp ei" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="377b"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I
was inspired to write this today by my own Facebook history, what they
used to call “on this day,” what is now simply, “memories.” I opened my
Facebook account in May 2006, but I didn’t get active on it until about
two years later. Today, July 9th, my Facebook “memories” date back to
2009. Apparently, this general time of year has been something of a
personal roller-coaster — as recently as two years ago. However, even
that particular undulation was not as pronounced as some in the past
have been. The peaks and valleys are, according to the historical
record, smoothing out. I have some memories of tumult that precede
Facebook — plenty — and some took place during this time of the year,
too, but the precision that <i class="iz">e-everything</i> gives me is
lacking. I cannot see any patterns or trending like I can in the past
decade or so. That additional information, that <i class="iz">context</i>, is valuable, and I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge Facebook’s role in it.</span></span></p><p class="if ig gk ih b ii ja ij ik il jb im in io jc ip iq ir jd is it iu je iv iw iy dp ei" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="d06d"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Is it worth it? Is Facebook’s <i class="iz">one</i>
redeeming quality worth all the bullshit that comes with it? Short
answer: No. Longer answer: Still no, but with a caveat. In time, the
cons, the vastness of the deceit and the lies and the divisiveness that
is <i class="iz">also</i> part if this historical record will also be
preserved. Maybe, just maybe, we will survive all this division, rise
above it and that history will be the history we learn from. Because if
we don’t, we are surely doomed to repeat it.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-76424232682285907152021-06-17T11:14:00.012-07:002021-06-22T14:36:34.959-07:00You Know What I Mean?<p class="graf graf--p" name="f58b"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">There is a consensus that the level of overall skill in terms of grammar, spelling and written composition, generally, is not what it once was. That might not be entirely true. It might be that, with the advent of easy publication of written texts, the level of skill (or lack thereof) is simply more visible now. I’d say it is part both; there is a decrease in skill and that there is more visibility — and technology is to blame for both. I am on the record that “I don’t like it,” but that’s hardly unique. Even those who are guilty of egregious liberties with written English will lament about how lax attention to proper grammar has become — in the same paragraph “then” is used where “than” should have been.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sOE52IzwJEI/YMuQ0K6WvGI/AAAAAAAALOk/z6Q5AEgk0y4qVdDB_ceQ3C-34D0YclTUgCNcBGAsYHQ/s3088/IMG_1676%2B2.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="476" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sOE52IzwJEI/YMuQ0K6WvGI/AAAAAAAALOk/z6Q5AEgk0y4qVdDB_ceQ3C-34D0YclTUgCNcBGAsYHQ/w358-h476/IMG_1676%2B2.JPG" width="358" /></a></span></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">I accepted long ago that there is a different and lower standard for social media. The argument, “you know what I meant,” is valid, as is the one that claims this is part of the evolutionary nature of language. There are, however, caveats to both arguments. In the first case, we are basically speaking about function and form. For some things, function and form are inextricably linked. Language is not purely one of them, however, for it, function and form cannot be mutually exclusive, either. And, for all things, form — beauty — is important. And it is important in terms of communication, even if the form itself doesn’t actually discursively speak. Don’t believe it? Ask Edsel Ford how form and function are related.</span></span></p><p class="graf graf--p" name="8993"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">Ironically enough, there are some exceedingly talented, artistic, creative people in the world who know exactly how important form is, but will demonize it when it comes to the art in writing. Who better to understand the importance of form, of beauty, and what that means to a thing’s underlying function? Further, these same people should be the most understanding when it comes to the exactitude of publishing (or otherwise publicizing) their work — their art — if it does not reflect their standards. But when it comes to certain art, apparently, only function is important — “you knew what I meant.” Okay, but not when applied to <i class="markup--em markup--p-em">me and my writing.</i> Form, to me, is at least as important, maybe more important.</span></span></p><p class="graf graf--p" name="9683"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">From time to time I am accused of being the Facebook “grammar police.” When that happens, my challenge is pretty standard — “show me when I have done that.” They can’t, but I have done it, on rare occasion. I will slam someone for grammar <b class="markup--strong markup--p-strong">only</b> when it’s some troll slamming me or someone else for being stupid, uneducated, otherwise “dumb,” or (my personal favorite) using bad grammar when incorrectly correcting me or someone else. That’s it. However, because I am careful about the words I put out into the public forum, because I care about form and (I hope) because I am successful in producing some beauty in that form, some assumption follows that I am “judging” everyone else.</span></span></p><p class="graf graf--p" name="2bea"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">No, with the exceptions I already enumerated, I am not. But I do assume others are judging me based on everything I present — my words, my image, my everything. I am careful that I present authenticity, and that authenticity includes attention to detail in my craft — just like a musician, or a painter, or a custom car builder, or any other crafts-person or artist would. Do I <i class="markup--em markup--p-em">cringe</i> when I see certain uses of the language in certain places (i.e., social media)? Yes. Do I say anything? No. Do I feel compelled to? That’s a better question and the answer is that I used to want to “help” everyone be better writers. I still didn’t, wholesale, <i class="markup--em markup--p-em">do anything</i> — that was and is much too overwhelming a task, but that was my desire — <i class="markup--em markup--p-em">to help</i>. I figured everyone would want that, too. That was a <i class="markup--em markup--p-em">long time ago. </i>I no longer think that and I am no longer compelled to help (unsolicited, of course I’ll help under some circumstances).</span></span></p><p class="graf graf--p" name="2000"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">Because… I do not want or need anyone’s help becoming a better musician, painter, etc., either. I’m cool. If I did need those skills, I would certainly: a) know it, and: b) find the help I need. I expect if someone needed to be a better writer, he or she would know it and get the help needed to become one. The other two reasons are much simpler. First, language evolves and this is part of the process — not all or even most of the current “new conventions” will stick, but some will and the generations behind me have as much right to fuck around with our language as we did. Second… 99 percent of the time, I know what you meant.</span></span></p><p> </p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-26659564908772124782021-05-02T20:34:00.002-07:002021-05-02T20:34:24.268-07:00Common Denominator<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the fall of 2003, I returned to
school for the first time in many, many years. My previous attempts at higher
education were mixed, but in total, unsuccessful. I had less than two years of
college credits accumulated, and they were scattered across several areas - too
many were redundant or otherwise did not count toward anything. It was
rebuilding my life and nearing my 41st birthday. I was also, for the first time
"clean and sober," a story for another time, but a key part of that
rebuilding process.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My goal was not to complete a
bachelor's degree, I was only shooting for an AA degree so that I could start a
new career in substance abuse counseling. But really, it was a much shorter-term
goal that drove me initially - I was in it for the money. The student loans and
grants that I would receive would put the kind of money in my pocket that I had
not had since my life came crashing down about three years earlier. However,
some time during that first semester, my motivation changed. It changed because
I was getting the kind of grades I was never able to earn consistently before.
I was good at something good.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The coincidence was not lost on me.
My ability to apply myself and do the work necessary, consistently, without the
distraction of not only substance abuse, but also the lifestyle that goes with,
enabled me to realize the potential I always knew I had. But I never could do
it. I knew I could, but I couldn't, no matter how good my intentions, no matter
how much I willed it, it didn't matter - the bottom always fell out. Of
everything, eventually. That fall in 2003 I had four As and a B - the best GPA
in a semester I ever had up until that point. I relapsed during the winter
break and went to school that next spring with all those distractions and,
while I managed to power through, my grades suffered considerably. I was also
arrested again and by the time the fall 2004 semester came, I was in jail for a
few weeks. That relapse also ended any hope of becoming a substance abuse
counselor.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But I was, by necessity of circumstance,
clean and sober once again. And the fire of that first successful semester was
still smoldering. When I got out some time in September of 2004, I could not go
to school right away, and even when I could go back, I did not know what future
I had there. However, after talking to a counselor at American River College,
we discovered that I was only one semester away from transferring to my local
university. One semester of general education courses would earn me a spot as a
junior at California State University, Sacramento. My choice of major was hugely
influenced by my new appreciation for my old ability to weave words and
punctuation, so journalism seemed a natural choice. The dual major of “government-journalism”
manifested itself after I got there. My final semester at ARC was even more
successful. Still clean and sober (since going to jail on August 6<sup>th</sup>,
2004 – to this day, no drinks, no drugs), I achieved straight As, and it would
not be my last perfect semester.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pwEnyreuI1E/YI9uyn7j6DI/AAAAAAAALM0/mY-Wb0lXpiIY2iFfZFVPrNEfWh6-RVGzgCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/IMG_2111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1513" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pwEnyreuI1E/YI9uyn7j6DI/AAAAAAAALM0/mY-Wb0lXpiIY2iFfZFVPrNEfWh6-RVGzgCPcBGAYYCw/s320/IMG_2111.JPG" /></a></div>
<style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style>I finished my BA at CSUS in the fall
of 2007 and took a semester off writing for a local newspaper before entering
the MA program in communication studies there in the fall of 2008. I was
awarded my MA in 2012, but in the fall of 2011, I moved to Baton Rouge where I
would begin my study in the PhD program at Louisiana State University, also in
communication studies. Every semester with the exception on fall 2003 (I was in
jail) and spring 2008 (in between my BA and beginning my MA program), I have
been a full-time student and taking a full load of classes to fulfill the
various requirements to achieve whatever degree I was pursuing at the time. From
the fall of 2008 until I left Baton Rouge and LSU at the conclusion of the
spring 2015 semester, I was also teaching two undergraduate classes per
semester. That is a lot of school for a 40-something turned 50-something “non-traditional”
student.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is the longest run of sustained
success I have ever built – the bottom <i>still</i> has not fallen out. And
that common denominator – clean and sober – is still common. However, that fire
did eventually burn out. For a lot of reasons, all of them important in their
own right, I only advanced to PhD candidacy – I never wrote a dissertation and
never won the big prize, I never earned the right to place “Dr.” in front of my
name. I did earn another MA at LSU, however, and those two master’s degrees,
along with the PhD coursework I did complete has secured me a place as a
lecturer (adjunct professor, part-time faculty, non-tenured faculty… we have
many names) at my first alma mater, CSUS, where I continue to work today. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But it was this day, seven years ago,
that I sat in my last classroom as a student. I would still be another year at
LSU as a student, but my coursework was complete. I had my comprehensive exams
to take and that little dissertation thing to write – and, of course, I was
still teaching. But today, seven years ago, was the last time I sat in a classroom
on the front side of the podium. I don’t remember what class it was or who the
professor was, and although I know it made enough of an impact on me at the
time to make note of it, I don’t know that I could have really appreciated the
magnitude at the time. Not just that – all of it. All that has happened in all
those years – and there is so much more than just this. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And that common denominator… seems to
be something there.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pwEnyreuI1E/YI9uyn7j6DI/AAAAAAAALMw/frSd6LLmh2MxdfRnSFnA3gixUKv3dbPfACNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p></p>
<br /><p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-30245770794426397002021-04-15T09:16:00.004-07:002021-04-15T09:16:31.290-07:00Re-reflection: Serendipity <p class="ia ib gf ic b id ie if ig ih ii ij ik il im in io ip iq ir is it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="3901">I
wrote this 12 years ago, when I was a middle-aged, first-year grad
student. I was still in the early stages of what could be described as
my “new life,” fresh off a very successful completion of a BA and more
than four years free from the a life controlled by drug addiction. My
life, in significant ways, resembled nothing of what it did just a few
short years prior, but it also retained certain elements of who I was,
some of which were stifled by the life I once lived. Once I was free,
they blossomed.</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="4c05">I w<span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm"><span id="rmm">a</span></span></span></span></span></span>s
not open about my recent past at the time; I was concerned that it
would prevent me from moving forward into my future. I don’t know if
that was prudent or not, but today I have nothing to fear and much to
offer by being completely transparent about who I was and how I was able
to escape. I blame no one and nothing — drug addiction can happen to
anyone. However, like any affliction (some people don’t like the term
“disease,” so be it, but it is certainly an affliction), those
afflicted, no matter the source, are ultimately tasked with resolving
the affliction. Once I accepted that, I was able to find the help I
needed. The rest, as they say, is history — more than 16 years of it.</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="892a">I
write; in some way, shape or form, I always have. I don’t know where it
came from, but in 2009, I did write about it. It probably wasn’t the
first time and I know it wasn’t the last. It is one of the most coherent
explanations of not only why I do what I do, but also why others do
what they do, as well.</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="4045">April 15, 2009:</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="bd40">One
of my colleagues recently asked me how long I’ve been writing. As grad
students in communication studies, we are all required to write often
and at length and we have necessarily become quite good at it. But for
some, writing is a more intimate encounter — more composition than
arrangement. I guess it has always been that for me, but it wasn’t until
a relatively short time ago that I realized what the written word held
for me.</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="db77">I
wasn’t exactly sure how to answer the question. It was a simple
question, really, but it stumped me. There is no discrete line of
demarcation… it is a question that just begs for context. If I go back
far enough, technically I guess I could say that I’ve been writing since
the first grade — about 40 years. But that’s not what she was looking
for and I knew it. She meant writing, like seriously. I thought for a
moment and suggested a re-phrased question: How long have I enjoyed
writing?</p><figure class="ja jb jc jd je jf fr jg eu jh ji jj jk jl bf jm jn jo jp jq jr paragraph-image"><div class="fo fp iz"><div class="jx s ah jy"><div class="jz ka s" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><div class="eb js bx fg fd jt w ju jv jw"><br /></div><img alt="" class="lt qz bx fg fd jt w c" height="300" role="presentation" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/300/0*csfW4oVJSDOHBiNU.jpeg" width="300" /></div></div></div></figure><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="ffe0">I
hated English all the way through school. My forté in grade school and
high school was math. I thought I liked math, but I now know that what I
liked about it was that I was good at it — nothing more. Numbers held
no magic for me; the mystique of their manipulation, coordination and
cooperation was lost on me. I get that the magic is there and I
understand how numbers and their relationships can enchant some, but
math just didn’t do that for me. I could understand it, but I could not
feel it. I could apply the rules and get the results, but when it came
to abstract concepts — the <em class="ke">application</em> — I was lost.</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="99bc">It
was just the opposite for me in the language arts. I didn’t get the
rules, or at least I could not articulate them. It seemed impossible for
me to absorb the mechanical processes and regurgitate them on demand. I
tried, but try as I might it seemed as though I just couldn’t
understand. About half-way through high school, the nature of the
English class changed such that, because the study of the rules that
govern the process had largely been dealt with, we were left with the
more abstract principles of word arrangement. In other words, we read
and we wrote.</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="4625">For
whatever reason, aside from spelling errors (there were no word
processors and no spell checker to look over my shoulder), my writing
never failed me. My grades when it came to essays, reports and the like
were consistently good. Even before high school when longish written
works were not common, my grades on those assignments were better than
the routine grammar, spelling and vocabulary scores I earned. By the
time that sort of work became the primary source of grading and my
grades improved, my beliefs were already firmly set. I didn’t “like”
English any better and, more so, school in general was becoming a pain.
But retrospectively, the signs were there.</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="db2e">Over
the many years since, I have found numerous occasions to write both
personally and professionally. I always viewed it as a necessary evil
however pleased I was with the finished product. I never liked to write —
I still had it fixed in my mind that English was not my thing. I was a
math guy, a science guy… none of this “soft” stuff for me. Ironically
enough, as my use of math gradually evaporated, my skills faded as well —
so much so that today all I have left is what would probably amount to
high school algebra at best. But the writing never did — it was always
there. Even when dormant for long periods, it came right back.</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="80ee">After
a series of both eventful and non-eventful events (and the non-eventful
variety can be just as tumultuous), I found myself at yet another
crossroads. Although I had some major life decisions to make, I cannot
discount the role of serendipity. Opportunities materialized that,
combined with a great deal of help and personal effort, propelled me to
this very point — and more directly, to answer this question. (My
colleague received the Reader’s Digest version. She merely inspired this
expansion — she was not subjected to it.) I had to sort some things out
and I had ample time to do it.</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="70d2">It
all started with the simple journaling of my day’s events. Most days
were uneventful, but my mind had the time to begin to make some sense of
it all. It wasn’t much — maybe 400 or 500 words, hand written in a
spiral notebook. This was just about six years ago and predated my
return to school by several months. In fact, I had no idea where to turn
next, but at just 40 years old I was at the end of the road… I had to
figure something out. That journal continued until my return to school
where my writing began to take a more formal role in my life.</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="2063">And
it happened. I made perhaps one of the most profound discoveries in my
life. I found my love, my passion, my purpose… my gift. On that
discovery I have built what has become a direction that will last a
lifetime. I am no longer lost and although I don’t know what serendipity
holds in store for my future, I am sure I am capable of pursuing the
opportunities it presents. And affirmation comes from the strangest of
places. It came in a quote from a grade school teacher for a story I
wrote while working for a small newspaper in Rocklin, Calif., “We all
have our gifts, we just unwrap them at different times.”</p><p class="ia ib gf ic b id iu ie if ig iv ih ii ij iw ik il im ix in io ip iy iq ir it di ed" data-selectable-paragraph="" id="dfe3">And so it was for me.</p><p> </p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-41628151143124916572021-04-06T09:48:00.002-07:002021-04-06T09:48:21.065-07:00Do We Even Care<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">There was
once a time when writing proficiency and reading comprehension were considered
pretty important. In grade school all the way through high school, some sort of
curriculum, some class, whether it was English, a specific reading or writing
course, etc., had something to do, directly, with the subjects of reading and
writing. Even math and science did not enjoy the same prominence that the
written arts did. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I was born
towards the end of my generation - the Baby Boomers - but it's safe to say that
the importance placed on literacy remained high probably into the 70s, maybe
the early 80s. But somewhere, sometime, something changed. The evidence is
clear in a number of ways. Among the newer generations - those since Gen-X at
least - it can be seen in college entrance exams, in remedial college writing
programs, in college "writing proficiency" exams and "writing
intensive" courses as<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>graduation
requirements. These all indicate a problem in the writing (and reading) skill
of incoming college students. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BHyVgwhqi5U/YGyQtvPl0FI/AAAAAAAALKw/80xLfu68LtsFD96gAWsCHLrLUiq2-_onwCNcBGAsYHQ/s823/IMG_5236.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="409" data-original-width="823" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BHyVgwhqi5U/YGyQtvPl0FI/AAAAAAAALKw/80xLfu68LtsFD96gAWsCHLrLUiq2-_onwCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5236.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">But that
evidence extends beyond those who are college bound. Because we live in a
communication environment that is heavily text-based - much more so than when I
was young - written communication is abundant... and public. We are, literally,
able to self-publish ourselves to the world, without filter and without an
editor and what is lacking in terms of proper <br />writing is glaring. I'm not just
talking about the rules of grammar or proper spelling - English, especially, is
fucking complicated and even those who know it well will make mistakes and
sometimes argue over what is correct grammar. I'm talking about the ability to
put words together that actually mean something that can be deciphered as what
was intended.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">For
Boomers and older, for Gen-Xers, and others who did learn it in grade school
but never used it much since and have forgotten many of the regulatory
conventions and spelling, their mistakes, too, are on full display in this
modern world of public text-based communication. They were, actually, prepared
for this, but it has been a long time. They will typically struggle with the
"rules," but not so much with the content. In other words, the
details that we tend to forget when not using something every day might have
faded, but the core structure remains - they are making sense because when they
graduated high school they had years of education in the subject. I have forgotten
most of the advanced math I learned, but when faced with a math problem, I
still think about solutions "algebraically" or “geometrically” - the
rules have faded, but the core structure remains.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I am not
the Facebook grammar police. I do not find joy nor do I fill my days correcting
others' grammar and spelling on Facebook or other text-based mediums. If I did,
that would be all I'd have time to do. I get that others see me in my job as a
communication studies professor and make the assumption that I
"judge" everyone else's grammar; I don't. I do enough of that in my
job grading my students' work. Yet, because, I guess, of these assumptions,
some have taken great pleasure in finding and pointing out my own occasional
mistakes. I never claimed to be perfect or that I do not make them - and I do
appreciate when they are pointed out. I will always edit out errors once I am
aware of them. I don't get the glee others find in their discoveries, but this
list of things I don't understand about humanity dwarfs the list of things I do
understand.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The age of
information and the Internet has had the largest impact written communication since
Gutenberg invented moveable type, bringing mass-produced printed works to the
masses. Literacy then, was very low, but the new printing press began a
movement that changed the world. Literacy, today, is not that low, but it is,
arguably, much lower than it was 25 years ago. The age of information has not
shown signs that is changing. While "good writing" seems to be
recognized as such (when it's not demonized as "intellectualism"), the
inability to practice it - or even care – is a very real, demonstrable problem.
I see it in my college classrooms (or their pandemic virtual equivalents) every
day and I see it on text-based mediums like this one even more. It won't change
unless we care. Right now, I don't think enough of us do.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-8675062603687752412021-01-18T11:07:00.010-08:002021-01-18T12:22:57.099-08:00Rounding the Bend
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The past few weeks
have been a veritable whirlwind. Where did it go? So much has happened so fast.
Hopefully, finally, we are starting to settle down. The turbulence, while
likely still somewhat bumpy (keep your seat-belts fastened), looks as though it
will become less so. We can hope.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At California State
University, Sacramento, like other colleges and universities around the
country, the spring term is about to begin. Instruction at Sac State begins one
week from today, although we do not officially go back “on the clock” until the
20th. I learned long ago that what the university designates as “work” time and
the actual time I have to allocate for doing my job are often vastly different.
In fact, as “non-tenured faculty,” I don’t even have my semester contract yet.
That’s normal, too. Weird, but normal.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="clear: left; color: #050505; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image for post" height="213" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/720/0*lwuIlmWlGtwSx4mA" width="320" /></span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></span>However, what is not
normal is also, unfortunately, beginning to become normal. Since midway through
Spring 2020, all of Fall 2020 and this coming Spring 2021, most classes at Sac
State and throughout the entire 23-campus California State University system
have been and will be online, distance, virtual, instruction. Prior to last
spring, that was not normal for the vast majority of courses throughout the
system, </span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></span>and certainly not at Sac State. If the reduced anxiety and increased
comfort I feel going into the semester at just a week out is any indication,
normalcy has gotten at least its foot in the door. And, no, I do not like </span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span>it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I do not like the
distance between my students and me. I am a “present” teacher, I establish a
rapport, a relationship with my students that constitutes a kind of a deal.
It’s not spoken, but, rather, an understanding based on each of us doing our
part. Being there to uphold our end of this “bargain” is part and parcel of how
I present myself and my material. I didn’t plan it that way, I didn’t learn
that in “professorin’ school,” that teaching style is an evolution of my style
poured into my teaching — of my personality — and is based on who I am; it is a
version of myself that is part of every relationship I have with everyone. As a
result, I present an authenticity that is best conveyed in real life. It can be
done virtually, but it is challenging and takes a great deal of attention to
varied, scattered and often difficult to read inputs from students. Presence,
virtually, is different — and, so far, not normal.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today, the batch
emails go out. For most of my 100-plus students, this will be my first contact
with them. That old cliché about first impressions has proven itself many times
over; I am a believer. While I have learned quite a lot about how to better
navigate and utilize this online environment over the last two semesters, I am
hopeful this will be the last one. That said, I expect it also to be the best.
I will be focusing my energies in the areas where students seemed to respond
well and eliminate areas they did not. Ultimately, I want them to engage — with
me and with each other. The best way to foster that is in a classroom, but
there are other ways and I have some experience now that will help guide me.
This is, despite the “distance learning” model we are forced to work with, an
exciting prospect. I can say, without (much) reservation, that I am looking forward
to the new semester.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Every new semester,
especially the first week, brings with it a version of all the fears and
insecurities — the trepidation — of that very first semester. It is the kind of
adrenaline producing fear that is almost intoxicating — it is exciting. Last
semester it felt more like dread. Dread can be described in many ways, but one
thing is sure, there is nothing exciting about dread. That sense is gone, the
excitement has returned. The online model leaves too much to be desired, but it very likely will be over by the fall semester. When it is all said and done, for
me, for my students, and for everyone else, we will have learned to get through
yet another of the trials and tribulations of living a human life. We will look
back and remember those we lost, marvel at how we managed to get through it
all, realize and remember that we are strong.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Peace.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background: white none repeat scroll 0% 0%;"> </p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style><div class="separator"><p style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p></div>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-52633121103739290522020-12-31T11:40:00.008-08:002020-12-31T13:18:37.286-08:00Hell in a Handbasket<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">I feel as though I should write something. I am tempted to
say, “I don’t know what,” but the genre of New Year’s Eve writing is pretty
standard, in general terms at least. It is a reflective effort. It places what
has transpired into some greater context. It sets the stage for what is
coming in the next year; it looks both back and ahead. Although no year is, in
isolation, “normal,” this past year falls so far outside normal that reflecting
upon it, as well as looking ahead from it, is not so routine. The task this
year is far more daunting, the dynamics involved are broader and have many more
facets. This is not nearly so personal.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WsXydRSu1j0/X-4pITnH4lI/AAAAAAAALGA/WZdOWvVAEcckHysVywUozliBHb2vXwy6gCNcBGAsYHQ/hell.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="600" height="229" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WsXydRSu1j0/X-4pITnH4lI/AAAAAAAALGA/WZdOWvVAEcckHysVywUozliBHb2vXwy6gCNcBGAsYHQ/hell.png" width="320" /></a></div>But that’s probably as good a place to start as any. The
personal. Personally, it has been a trying year, but not devastating. However,
devastating is one of those words that, when applied in individual cases, one’s
circumstances could be described as such whereas another’s similar
circumstances might not be. One of my best friends contracted and, after a long
battle, succumbed to COVID-19. That was devastating<br /> to his family, certainly, and
to me personally, in many ways. But in the big picture, my life, overall, for
2020, was not “devastated.” I know I am splitting definitional hairs here, but
it is important to illustrate the finer points of what the fallout 2020 meant
to me at a very local level. Art’s passing was (and still is) a major blow, it
hurts, still, I miss him a lot, but my life in the big picture goes on mostly
the same. And, in his memory, he would want that. But – and this is kind of
where I am going – currently there are more than 340 thousand others who have
suffered the same fate this year, and their families are permanently and
significantly altered because of it. In that respect, my life has not been
“devastated.”<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And in many others it has not, either. I am in solid
financial shape, my immediate family is safe and most of those I am close to
and care about are well, too. Of course there is the psychological toll,
everyone has been thrown into a discomfort zone; dealing with the unfamiliar,
for many, has not been easy. And we like easy, don’t we? Our entire society is
built on convenience, on ease, on comfort. But it’s also built to a large
extent on community and the social nature of our species. Ironically, the
technology that fosters both the ease and the community has made much of the
trudge forward in the past year possible. Social media, virtual meeting
software, delivery of goods and services and the like has made the isolation
that so many despise workable. The very technology that makes us even more
social has maintained our sociability and our functionality through this
pandemic. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course technology cannot replace real human contact. Even
though we were heading that way in very real terms – voluntarily and
unwittingly – when forced to rely on technology exclusively, we have found it
has significant limitations. Good. But one of the overtones I cannot help but
notice, one that existed before and was already starting to bubble to the
surface, went into a full boil. Incessant, wholesale and, frankly, embarrassing
whining. When confronted with hardship, in the past, the people of this nation
buckled down and did what was necessary. They did not whine, they did not
complain, they did not bitch and moan about how hard it was or how inconvenienced
they were. They did the work and they did it together. Not this time. Now we
are a nation of whiners. And if nothing else, I hope 2020 shows us that and
that we never succumb to it again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So much for looking back. Looking forward, much about 2021
will be different. The pandemic will, in all likelihood, come to an end
sometime mid-year. The political landscape will change; hopefully some level of
decorum will return. Lessons to be learned are everywhere, lessons in courage,
lessons in perseverance, lessons in empathy, in patience, in humanity and
compassion, lessons in understanding one another. All of that and more are
available if we, enough of us, are open to them. Our children and grandchildren
will be taking the reigns and running this nation soon – many already are – and
I am hopeful. More than 200 of them have been in my “virtual classrooms” this
past year. They are bright and inquisitive, they are, more than ever, engaged.
They care about their future and they care about their predecessors, too. They
care about us. To those who have been bagging on the “millennials” and
otherwise looking for a scapegoat in the younger generations, I have two words
for you: Fuck off. They know who they are and, more importantly, they know who
you are.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like many of you, I am tired. Not so much of the isolation
or the other hardships we must endure to get past this medical emergency – I
can deal with that. I am tired of the attitudes. But I am hopeful that not just
the end of this blip in history is near, but also that a paradigm shift is upon
us. These “kids” have had quite enough and soon enough, they will be calling
the shots. Those of you who feel that they are going to destroy the country,
that because of them we are “going to Hell in a handbasket,” take heart. You
needn’t worry so much. You and I will be dead before we get there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Peace. </p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-36178316061141142752020-12-06T09:44:00.002-08:002020-12-06T09:44:21.992-08:00Forty Years of Adulthood<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Forty years ago, at
this moment, I was looking forward to being magically transformed into a legal
adult. That happened, of course, and certain things changed - my attitude did,
certainly, for a while anyway - but besides that intangible change in legal
status, I remember nothing “special” about that birthday. On my 16th birthday I
got my driver's license, but beyond that, again, nothing special. The same goes
for all prior birthdays except my 5th - on that day my parents gave me my first
bicycle. I'm sure there was cake, too, but as far as celebrations go, I don't
remember. My 10th, 13th, any others, I have no recollection. Moving forward,
with just one exception, I cannot recall anything noteworthy in terms of
celebrations for the yearly anniversary of my coming into this world. I
remember quite a few for other decidedly non-celebratory reasons, but except
for one strange, but nice “surprise party” 10 years ago, I remember the
celebrations for others, many of them, but not my own. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Eg5MeFeC2H8/X80YJbKXqwI/AAAAAAAALEM/Ah_aF-JCfuEl-BWTMjMDuiUKegmtwTXagCNcBGAsYHQ/s604/Senior%2Bportrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="393" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Eg5MeFeC2H8/X80YJbKXqwI/AAAAAAAALEM/Ah_aF-JCfuEl-BWTMjMDuiUKegmtwTXagCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/Senior%2Bportrait.jpg" /></a></div>There are a lot of
possible reasons for that. I know that my 21st birthday fell during finals week
while I was attending San Diego State University. Even Playboy Magazine's “#1
Party School” wasn't partying that week. It's not as though I ever passed up a
chance to party, but my 21st birthday did not present such a chance; a pitcher
of beer and a couple of enchiladas with a friend at the local Mexican food
place was my big shin-dig. Although my birthday has never been a big deal,
there have been a few that I sort of wanted to be, that I felt like they should
be, but they never were. Turning "The Big 5-O," for instance, is
supposed to be kind of a big deal, but as it turned out, it kind of wasn't.
However, I am mostly content letting them pass quietly by - especially
considering those that were not so quiet. This one - 58, or 40 years since my
18th - is only noteworthy because it has been 40 years since the privileges
(most of them) and the responsibilities of adulthood have been thrust, or
bestowed, upon me. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What am I going to do?
Nothing special. Nothing different than most any other Sunday at the end of
most any other fall semester. I'll answer a few phone calls and texts from
friends and family wishing me well and I'll "like" a shitload more
from Facebook friends (not judging - I do it, too), when I get to them - maybe
I'll take my Harley for a little ride to get some wind therapy (and I have a
nice cigar I've been saving, too), but the reality is that it's just another
day. It's been coming for a while and until a couple of days ago I haven't
really given it much thought. I don't need or want a “birthday month,” and, to
be perfectly honest, I feel a little disingenuous even writing this - drawing
attention to what I say I don't really care about. Some will say, “You must
care a little or...” And they are right, to an extent - there is some truth in
that. But I also process shit this way - I write about it - and those who
really know me know that. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlQufBNv7Mo/X6bwJi9WaTI/AAAAAAAALCM/DP0c8ihW_LwbDJm1HIJGR87vPmNiaSeugCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/IMG_1103.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlQufBNv7Mo/X6bwJi9WaTI/AAAAAAAALCM/DP0c8ihW_LwbDJm1HIJGR87vPmNiaSeugCPcBGAYYCw/s320/IMG_1103.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>I have a lot of
friends who have passed this mark and I have a lot who are still years away,
but none of that helps me understand what 58 is supposed to feel like. I know
how I feel physically and, considering what I've put my body through, I cannot
(and do not) complain. But the very idea that I turned 18 years-old 40 fucking
years ago is hard to wrap my head around. There is a lot to be said for
experience - far more than my 18 year-old self would ever grant. I use that
experience every.single.day And when I can, I try to share it. I remember stuff
first-hand that my students learned about in K-12 history classes. And although
my earliest memories, sketchy as they are, predate that 5th birthday, I
distinctly remember that day 53 years ago when I got a brand new red Sears
bicycle for my birthday. That birthday is still the best one.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">#peace</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19984125.post-68691323583748013322020-11-17T09:24:00.004-08:002020-11-17T09:24:54.219-08:00What If...<br /><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">It seems that everyone passes through a “reflective” time of
year. Okay, maybe not everyone… I should qualify that; everyone who has lived
long enough to have some years to reflect upon. And that time of year can span
several days, weeks, even months. It tends to be centered around some major
milestone, often one’s birthday, but we collect other major mile markers as we
move through life, too. To the extent that they will “cluster” at some point in
the year, that seems to be the place where an ever increasing cascade of
reflection takes place. That process, for me, began in early August and will
culminate on my birthday in early December. By the time the holidays and New
Years Day come around, it will have been processed – no “new year resolutions”
for me, ever.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I am currently in that period leading up to my 58<sup>th</sup>
birthday, the warehouse of reflective material is full. It is not just due to
surviving nearly six decades, but also due to nearly not surviving. But I have
hashed and rehashed that and much else of my “new life” that began with the violent
beginning of the end of my old life twenty years ago many times, most recently
on the 20th anniversary of that specific date. Today, my musings took me in a
different, much less foreboding (and, consequentially, much less climactic)
direction. Today it has to do with “what ifs,” my nature, and would it have
mattered.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SfKEt8X0ZZY/X7QHOjtBSPI/AAAAAAAALDI/-TS2fOpD-xwsfOujkr2lJC_ZeFeeBcEIwCNcBGAsYHQ/s3088/IMG_1415.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="1737" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SfKEt8X0ZZY/X7QHOjtBSPI/AAAAAAAALDI/-TS2fOpD-xwsfOujkr2lJC_ZeFeeBcEIwCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_1415.JPG" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Briefly, I wasted many years of my life wandering aimlessly
through it. I had no real direction, no real goals, no real plans – I don’t
remember ever having an answer to, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” I
didn’t think anything of it, I was just a kid, but that aimlessness eventually manifested
in a lot of unhealthy behaviors that included drug and alcohol abuse. I worked,
I even had careers (plural), I was a husband – briefly – and a father and, if
asked, that was my purpose, my main job, and the only thing that really meant
anything to me was being a father. However, addiction is more powerful than
love and eventually even fatherhood came in second. Obviously there is much
more to the story, but that sets the stage of aimlessness and highlights that,
while lifestyle played a part, it was more symptom than cause.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That part of my life literally crashed in on me a little
more than 20 years ago and the life I lead today took hold for good a little
more than 16 years ago. The transformative process took some time – hence the
beginning of the end was not the same as the beginning of the beginning.
Suffice it to say that I have been completely abstinent from all mind and mood
altering substances, “clean and sober,” for more than 16 years now. It is a
point of personal pride for me, but it also moves this story along to our next plateau.
Prior to that line of demarcation, while I had many jobs and many of those jobs
constituted what could be called careers – and I went to school for some of
them – none of them “stuck.” Usually a personal crisis of one sort or another
would conveniently coincide with a subconscious, “I’ve been doing this long
enough,” and I would jump ship. Long-term commitments were not, apparently, my
thing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But that is likely only partially true. The fact is that
there are several areas in my life in which I enjoy some very long-term
commitments. And, since 16 years ago, one of those has been of the
career/educational variety, too. I went back to school, but this time it was to
finish my bachelor’s degree. After that was a master’s and after that I
attempted a PhD and, although I only managed to advance to candidacy – never completing
my dissertation – I was awarded another MA degree. Furthermore, I have been
teaching undergraduate university students since my first semester in graduate
school in 2008, a job I have now been doing full-time since 2015. That is, by
far, the longest I have ever stayed in one job.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So much for the Reader’s Digest of what got me here. My
musings for the past couple of days have been based around “what ifs.” I know
it’s just a mental mind-fuck and if I am not careful it can take me down a
rabbit-hole to a place of self-loathing for all the time I wasted, but it need
not be so dark. I wonder, what if I had found this prowess for academia when I
was in my 20s? What if the dedication I was able to muster in my mid to late
40s and early to mid (now late) 50s was available to me when I was younger, when
I had more energy, when I had more <i>memory,</i> when I had more drive? Worthy
questions, all. What I really want to know… would I have made it to Dr. Althouse?
Would I have had more success in earning that PhD? There are several factors
driving this question, but one is a subtle but distinct change in attitude of
certain others once I decided to <i>not</i> go through with the final step of
writing a dissertation. That decision, the one that essentially awarded me the conciliation
prize of another MA degree, seems to have disappointed certain others – but disappointed
is not exactly the right word. The right word denotes action – it’s an attitude
that captures the feeling. I am not sure a good word exists – it’s not
ostracized or shunned, neither of those words are accurate, but a lesser
version, perhaps? Knowing what I know now – and forgetting stupid lottery
scenarios – would it be any different? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 67.95pt;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I think yes – and no. In terms of the destruction and
dereliction I ran my life into, and in terms of much (but not all) of the
wasted time, yes, some of that could have been avoided and my life would have benefited. Indeed, not just my life… However, I cannot discount my own nature,
those core things about me that make me who I am. Some things I can deal with,
modify, work around – and I have, in many respects, but others are just there,
characteristically me. The questions about that “drive,” the energy to pursue a
longer-term goal, to be see things past “good enough” to absolute perfection –
in most cases, I can’t see it. That wasn’t me before the drugs, it certainly
wasn’t me during and it has not been me since. Even when it comes to this –
writing clean, clear prose – something I know, now, that I am good at, that I embrace
and nurture, I will not pour over endlessly striving for some standard of
perfection. True, my line for “good enough,” for this, is much closer to
perfect, but I am not nor will I ever be – or was I ever in the past – that guy.
About that PhD… I have no fucking idea, I really don’t. And regarding how
others feel about my failure to achieve <i>their</i> dream. I’d suggest they
read that last sentence out loud.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So “what if” I could go back and do it all over again,
knowing some of what was in my path ahead. Well, first, regarding the danger
signs of addiction, take them seriously, get help early and have 35 or 40 years
clean and sober by<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the time I turn 58. Next…
nothing. I don’t think that anything I could do, knowing or not knowing what my
future held, would provide me with the necessary motivation beyond what I found
in my later life. In other words, my success would likely be similar, perhaps
aided by the increased energy and memory of youth, but perhaps hindered by the
distractions of youth, <i>sans drugs</i>. While musing about what might have
been is somewhat entertaining, it is, when put in proper perspective, also
gratifying in that I might not have wasted as much time as I think. And, unless
someone invents a working time machine, it only matters in the here and now
anyway.</p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Michael K. Althousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07726807939923761538noreply@blogger.com0