Peaks, Parks, and Politics

If there were an Olympic event for the slowest bona fide effort to read through a particular book, article, or other text, I would be a promising contender, a quality which occasionally leads to the lamentable state of failing to read at all; depending on the density of the language, I can often spend considerable time reading and not feel as though I’m really getting anywhere. Yes, you can imagine the difficulty I had as an English major at Cal Lutheran. Two plays per week in Dr. Murley’s Shakespeare class was enough to drive any undergraduate to sweat a few beads and shed a few tears, but for yours truly it was altogether Herculean. That my slowness should at times deter me from reading is personally

My First Mania

My mom has shared with me on multiple occasions since I was a kid that in my earliest years, I was easily entertained, and because I walked and talked so late and seemed otherwise content with little attention and minimal stimulation, she came to suspect in me a somewhat deficient mental capacity. In other words, she supposed I was retarded, or as we now say, mentally challenged. I was at the very least, by all accounts, a rather mellow baby. Apparently, I could occupy myself for considerable spans with just a handful of toys rolling around the interior of the play pen. She recalls, "Sometimes I even forgot I had you," because I remained so quiet in whatever contained space she had placed me.

The photo at the right shows me in November of 1976, lounging rather contently next to my dad. The next, just below, was taken on December 22 of the same year and shows me handling one of Dad’s LP recordings of the music of Czech composer Leos Janacek. Apparently, not only did my dad have few hang-ups

Without a Country

A few weeks ago, I attended the dance concert at Oaks Christian—where I work—on the same night, it turned out, as a group of young female teachers who happen to be friends of mine as well as colleagues. There had been a cursory discussion between myself and a couple of the teachers about going to dinner beforehand. So, the afternoon before the performance, I sent an email to one of them to see if any dinner plans had crystallized, but received no reply. I then approached the other to see if she had made any plans. Seeming to have forgotten any mention of dinner in our discussion from a few days before, she said she had already agreed to go to dinner with one of the English teachers along with the other young women in the group. And I got the distinct feeling that I was not welcome, and more specifically, that it was a girls-only affair. I also started to realize, from having seen them congregate in various contexts and places around campus, that this group of about five young teachers had become a kind of clique. In truth, it makes a lot of sense. These young women are all friends, and it’s entirely natural for them to bond and to wish to spend time together apart from friends and colleagues outside their situation,

Confessions of a Triskaidekaphobe

Friday, December 13, 1996, I found myself driving eastbound on Los Angeles Avenue in Simi Valley, on my way to a Carl’s Jr. to order food for myself, my friend Andy, and several other coworkers at Edwards Simi 10 Cinemas. And as I approached the intersection of L.A. Avenue and Sycamore, I suddenly realized I was in the rightmost lane and would soon miss the left lane that would allow my approaching turn. In a moment of haste, I began to merge left having checked only my side mirror, but not my blind spot. No matter what anyone says, it will forever be the case that the one instance you fail to check said blind spot during a lane change, it will be hiding an enormous Peterbilt, with a bumper wide as a bulldozer blade and front grill like the grimace of a giant Halloween mask. Murphy’s Law, it seems, in all its