1. Influx of Roadmasters.
2. Influx of drivers that –when it rains—loose all ability to operate their vehicles.
3. Bikers who ride in the dark with no lights.
4. Influx of Dogs that my dog doesn’t like.
5. Cops in places that I’m not used to seeing cops.
6. T-shirts of bands that the radio plays.
7. The American flag and Constitution in every classroom?
8. People and motorists who have never shared the road with bicyclists.
9. People falling in love with playing outside again.
10. New friends, and friends who just left and now you miss

I moved a bunch of furniture around the English Department a week before my position started there. That’s why they couldn’t pay me money; instead, I was paid with 40 bucks worth of bookstore credit.

I wanted The Omnivore’s Dilemma, but for some reason it’s not available. I was able to get Erich Fromm’s The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness, which I’ve wanted to read for a while (how about that for a title though?).

Anyone out there have any good suggestions? I’d even be up for something fun, like a graphic novel maybe, or something with zombies in it.

I wanted to let everyone know that I’ve started contributing content to another blog, the annihilating feminine, which is run by a friend of mine. You probably noticed this blog in one of my blog-role lists on my side bar. If you haven’t visited yet, now you’ve got even more reason to do so: ME!

I’m the only one who doesn’t write under a pen name, which I think says a lot about our culture in terms of who can speak out against rape and sexism and remain safe and comfortable. I have very little reason to be worried about individual men coming after me, while many women must protect their identity. This could, in part, explain why many domestic violence shelters are unmarked and/or often hard to find.

Anyway, I was just interviewed by a friend of mine who is writing a series on rape prevention for The Noise, the same magazine I write for. I posted that interview there.

By the way (or as the say in So Cal, “BT-Dub”) I will not be contributing for the September issue. I’m writing something big about water issues and, having just defended my thesis (!!!), I’ve been a little crunched for time.

In other news, as most of you have noticed, I’m really bad at sticking with catagories. The VAST majority of my posts are in the “uncategorized” section….which doesn’t help anybody. I’m hoping to clean house and fix that problem the coming week or two.

The story goes like this.

When I was 18, I hated English class. All through high school, Mrs. O’Conner did her best to stomp out any previous love of writing I may have had. When I was a senior, I took a creative writing class with someone else and discovered that I actually loved writing, but still hated my English class. This didn’t make sense.

At the time I was listening to a lot of classic rock, reggae, some occasional punk (or punkesque) like Pennywise, Blink (I don’t care what anyone says, everything through Dude Ranch was great), Less Than Jake, NOFX, Bad Religion, Social Distortion, Sublime (so much Sublime, in fact, one summer…pre-junior year, I believe, was dubbed, the “Sublime Summer”). Unfortunately, I also went though a big and ill-advised metal phase, involving the likes of Pantera, Sepultura, early Metallica (though when I sold a lot of my CD’s in college, I did hang onto “Ride the Lightning” and “Unjustice for All”), and many more that I’ll never admit to now.

My first college English teacher was unlike any teacher I had before. It wasn’t just the tattoos and piercings, and it was more than his combat boots and Green Bay Packers shirt that never matched his shorts. Eric let us write about whatever the hell we wanted to. He also helped us say and argue what we wanted rather than the way he thought the argument should be structured. It was a breath of fresh air. The most important thing I took from that class (both classes actually….I took 102 with him as well), both as a student and (now) as a teacher was one simple, but crucial message: English class doesn’t have to suck.

Later, Eric and I got to be pretty good friends (after I turned 21…). We talked a lot about English, grad school, and, of course, punk rock. I credit him with my introduction to Youth Brigade, which subsequently got me into Minor Threat and other early eighties gems. The “Someone Got Their Head Kicked In” comp remains one of my favorite records ever.

During this time, I also started regularly reading the fantastic punk zine, Razorcake, which Eric was involved with to some degree. As the years went by, I changed residences like 37 times and didn’t renew my subscription. I also lost contact with Eric.

When I moved into my new office, on campus, I found some old Razorcake issues tucked away in the back of my new desk. I took them home and decided to get a subscription. For some reason, I asked the mailorder guy if Eric still wrote for them. He emailed me the next day.

We had been emailing back and forth about punk, teaching, and shit. I guess he talked me up to Razorcake about writing reviews and stuff. To make an uninteresting story a bit more tactful, I’ve been offered a chance to write a column for Razorcake’s webzine. Topics are wide open and there is a strong possibility I’ll move up to the print zine eventually, most likely slogging through crappy bands for reviews and the like. No money, but that’s not really the point.

I’m gonna come up with a snappy pen name. Any ideas?

For my August column for The Noise, I’m looking at a different side of sustainability. Instead of interrogating the things we use (and should discontinue using…), I’m taking a look at what we throw away. More broadly, I want to examine the way in which our culture understands the concept of waste.

Many cities are thinking more critically about outdated materials that are used once, used rampantly, and do not biodegrade. San Francisco recently banned plastic bags in supermarkets and pharmacies. A few years ago, Eugene banned all use of Styrofoam for local businesses. I think it would be easy for Flagstaff to implement such bans, but I also think we have a long way to go.

It’s 2007 and the Earth and all its life support systems are in crisis. Why do manufacturers continue to produce packaging that can only be used once? If it can’t be recycled and used again in one way or another, such as many plastics and specific papers, why do they still exist in the market?

I toured our local recycling plant yesterday morning to try and get some ideas. There were a lot of fundamental problems there and I don’t think I’ll be able to use much. For example, glass is ground up into sand (sort of…it’s still sharp glass) and citizens of Flagstaff are free to come by and pick it up for all their sand needs. But is that really recycling? Further, when everything else is crushed into cubes, they are often shipped to far away places like California. That doesn’t really cry sustainable. Also, glass, as many people know, is not picked up on the curb with the regular recycling. There are several places in town where people can take it, which is fine if you have a car and a little classist toward those who don’t.

Anyway, I don’t want to write a slam piece on local recycling because the problem is much deeper than that. (Plus, Chuck and Meredith rely on The Noise to eat and pay the bills…I don’t feel comfortable making enemies for them….Chipotle Frank already has that covered anyway!)

I’m going to discuss the issue of waste from both a practical and theoretical lenses. Here are my topics so far….can you help me think of more, faithful readers?

1. The Styrofoam and plastic bag examples…
2. Why do we continue producing things that can’t be recycled or used again?
3. What exactly do we mean by sustainability (I figured if I keep talking about this, I should have a solid, working definition). We clearly don’t know what sustainability means because we’re the only animal on Earth that doesn’t give back and improve the land (save the cyclical infestations of locusts…etc.), let alone help to maintain the quality of life for everyone who relies on the land to live.
4. I also want to discuss the issue of “wasting time” in our culture. Who is anyone to say when I am or when I’m not wasting my time. From the time we’re born to the time we die, we are given time and the time is our own. This is contrasted with the way in which we understand productivity. The idea that if I’m not being productive with my time, I’m obviously wasting it, is purely a product of western capitalist culture.

What else? I’m about to call the City Council office to investigate this bag and Styrofoam situation. 

I got an email inquiring as to what my comment tag referenced. A false guess persisted, I’m afraid. It’s from this fantastic album. I’ve never seen this on CD before, I’m not sure any exist. I haven’t looked very hard though. I’m pretty sure they’ve got a song on that early 80’s Peace/War comp with Reagan Youth.

I should be finishing up my thesis, but it’s been hella-nice outside. The rock & roll kids are playing kick ball down the street; I’ve been reading on the patio and gardening all afternoon. Friends have been having barbeques left and right; it really feels like summer now.

Andrea from CSA gave me some great tips on gardening and info on what plants grow well here. So far, my roommates and I have seedlings for bell, habanero (Word doesn’t know this pepper exists, evidently), and jalapeno peppers, eggplant (which I think is gross), three kinds of tomatoes, asparagus, onions, parsley, basil, and cilantro. My roommate has planted seeds for chamomile, Echinacea, spinach, and green beans and I’ve planted sweet corn. The last average “frost date” around Flagstaff is June 15, so as of right now, most of our plants are in buckets or pots so we can move them inside if we anticipate a frost. Once the seeds have grown and begin to look like they can handle a life outside of our proverbial teats, we’ll put’em in the ground.

Even though I haven’t been able to help lately because of the back injury, The Noise has a few plots in the Southside Community Garden as a summer project. It’s kinda Natasha’s writing project (in fact, I think she’s there right now), but I plan on stopping by soon to see what they’ve done with out me, and figure out the best way I can contribute. I plan on contributing some of the plants that will grow from the seeds I’ve just planted at home.

I have to say, after months and months of reading, writing, and staring at a computer, it feels really good to play in the dirt. My thesis will be done by Friday if it kills me.

My next post, which I’ve been working on, will be an anti-automobile manifesto. I might turn it into my column for the July edition if I don’t explore some other ideas popping around in my head. As for now, I’m going to go play outside some more.

To continue with the exhibition of what I am now referring to as my “twisted metal series,” here is another montage of another accident. This one, however, happened a few months ago.

It was March 22, 2007, just after 6pm. It had been raining all day and the needed precipitation smelled good. I had just passed Cherry Rd., the one that goes to Prescott, and it started coming down really hard. Though I was already running a little late, I decided to slow down a little (a little…from 78 to 65). I was supposed to pick up Chris and Andy from the airport, drive them back to Flagstaff, and we were to hike to Havasupai Falls the next morning, early. That was the plan.

I was in the fast lane, which I shouldn’t have been, but my visibility was less than great so I figured the best thing I could do is stay where I was. My green tea was still hot even though I was half way to Phoenix. I remember taking a sip and, with my left eye, I saw the bridge up ahead. There are small bridges all over 17; they are built over washes mostly. There were large headlights changing lanes behind me, going around me.

I was halfway over the bridge when the semi blew past me, going 85…no, 95, no, 195 miles an hour. I have no idea how fast it was going, but I know I was going 65 because I was cruisin’. I could literally hear and feel the water rush beneath the car. The back end wiggled very slightly, like if I were parked and someone tied their shoe with their foot on my back bumper. The back end of the semi was still next to me; to my left was the guardrail and whatever might lurk beneath that. Immediately the fish tailing got worse. I had no idea how big the wash was, how long the drop would have been. The end of the bridge was drawing closer and I knew I was going to crash. I was listening to this album, and I haven’t listened to it since…

I remember thinking how lame it would be to die in a car. I didn’t want to die in a car, but I knew the crash was going to be bad. I was totally out of control and I knew it. I couldn’t see anything.

Hydroplaning sounds like the ocean. I used to have an alarm clock that has nature sounds. One of the options was “ocean;” when the alarm goes off, the nature sounds get progressively louder and after a few minutes it sounds like a tidal wave or something. That’s what it sounded like.

I closed my eyes, but I knew the car was sideways, which meant I was past the bridge. I put my head down and gripped the steering wheel as hard as I could, thinking of bloody head injuries. I had no idea what was coming; I just waited for the impact.

It came from behind, hard. Music off. The car kept spinning, ricocheting off the side of a mountain, rocks churning beneath me. There was a less severe impact on the front and that’s where the car stopped. I opened my eyes and saw the smoke, the mountain. I looked down at myself, looking as much with my hands as with my eyes. I was totally and completely fine. I have no idea why, but nothing was wrong with me whatsoever. The car was totaled. I had 8 payments left.

Many of the contents of my trunk were on (in?) the road. As I rescued my tent from the highway, I suddenly remembered the quarts of green and tan paint, which had spattered all over the road. I was so happy to be alive, I wanted to finger-paint right there on the highway. Cars started to come, cars started to stop. It was still raining. I met a lot of nice people who couldn’t believe I was as okay as I was. Some people let me wait for the law in their suburban; they actually ended up giving me a ride to Phoenix (my friends rented a car and we went back up together). It took about 45 minutes for DPS to come. An ambulance stopped by (happened to stop by on their way back from some other accident), but I refused their services (I was fine, and that’s expensive). They seemed bummed and left. DPS finally showed and they gave me a ticket because I didn’t have my new insurance card with me. I was pissed and speechless. We took off and let them wait for the toe truck.

…got up the next morning at 5 and hiked 10 miles in the desert.

You’re looking at the lower right side of my back….

I’m usually a pretty quick healer; that’s why I think something is wrong. I’ve got an appointment to have it looked at tomorrow at 7:45am. This bike accident happened over a week ago and I don’t think, under normal conditions, that it should be this swollen still. The abrasion is healing fine; you can even tell that I’ve been pickin’ at it. I’m more concerned with the swollen part just below. I can’t even sleep without popping a couple ibuprofens.

After talking to some friends and searching the Internet, it could be one of several things:
a. nothing…and I should quit bitching
b. a fractured or chipped bone, but it doesn’t hurt that bad
c. a bruised kidney, though my insides are working fine.
d. a slipped or ruptured disc
e. an alien life-form that implanted itself in my back upon impact

UPDATE: hematoma: a mass of usually clotted blood that forms in a tissue, organ, or body space as a result of a broken blood vessel….or in my case, because it is so huge, it was a busted artery. We took an x-ray just in case and it came back clean. I got some pain meds and I was told that all the blood would slowly start reabsorbing, which could take several weeks. 

I know a lot of you had your fingers crossed, hoping it would be an alien. Sorry to disappoint.   

Just got back from AZ Bikes; my new fork isn’t in yet. Maybe this is for the better.

So last week, I’m riding down town on the ol cyclo-cross, taking my normal route through campus. Picture me riding on south San Fran by the dome. The hill goes down, curves sharply, and goes back up toward the north end of campus. Apparently a lot of people crash their bikes here. I am now one of those people.

The thing with that hill is you want to go as fast as you can down the hill so going up the other side isn’t a problem. So I’m cruising down, wind coursing through my helmet like a turbine; it’s a beautiful day, so I’m enjoying my surroundings. When I’m almost at the bottom, another biker going equally, irresponsibly, fast is coming straight at me. We see each other and smile. He slams on his breaks and goes one way (the grass) and I slam on my breaks and go another way (the guard rail).

I blow out my tire, bend the fork, and find myself bleeding where the steel cables from the guard rail graded my leg like Swiss cheese. I have an unexplainable and very painful abrasion on the lower right side of my back…think kidney; it’s still pretty swollen. A Japanese exchange student saw the whole thing from across the street and ran over to see if I was okay. When I got up, he said the wreck looked “Totally Awesome!” I also have a bruise in an embarrassing location. I think it was from my bike seat.

….Anyway, now I’m going to miss all the great stuff that the Flagstaff Biking Org. has planned this week. Yesterday, I saw a group of people playing what can only be described as grass-polo on bikes. What a crappy time for a biking injury.