Fish, Obama, and Jesus

As you likely know, Obama is gaining momentum heading into next week's election. This campaign has lasted, what, two years? I think the length of the campaign cycle needs to change in the future, but I'm not optimistic that it will. And after all this, it feels like a lot of heads are coming together from various corners of the country--many camps, so to speak--to try to avoid what I'd call a catastrophic collapse between now and next Tuesday. From Greg Oden to Stanley Fish. Frankly, if this doesn't excite you, I might consider you disengaged in one way or another.

On Sunday, Fish wrote in the NY Times about Obama's patient, passive approach to campaigning, comparing him to Jesus. A stretch? Well, I'm not the person to comment on whether the connection is entirely accurate or not, but it's quite an impressive rhetorical move by Fish to draw this particular sketch one week before the election.

(And before you say, "oh, like all the liberal sheep haven't treated him like Jesus for months now," just check out the article. Not all of Obama's supporters blindly praise and follow his every word. Yeah, I've grown defensive in this area.)

Live and direct from the Pangea Café

I'm sitting at Pangea in the MU finishing my lunch. Dinner last night was two pints of Lagunitas IPA at American Dream, so I threw in a Rice Krispies treat today in addition to a hummus and pesto wrap. That makes no sense, I know, but I was hungry and won't be having any dinner (two pints of IPA again?) until late because the final presidential debate is on at 6 tonight. I am hoping McCain doesn't try anything desperate; Palin has grown increasingly out of line lately, and I fear cable news networks, in attempting to be even-handed, are letting the GOP off the hook. Frank Rich agrees. On Monday the Washington Post released the results of a recent poll showing Obama firmly ahead of McCain nationally, and in typically red states.

I'm going to share a Carver poem I thought about earlier today.

Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year
Raymond Carver

October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen
I study my father's embarrassed young man's face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string
of spiny yellow perch, in the other
a bottle of Carlsbad Beer.

In jeans and denim shirt, he leans
against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.
He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity,
Wear his old hat cocked over his ear.
All his life my father wanted to be bold.

But the eyes give him away, and the hands
that limply offer the string of dead perch
and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you,
yet how can I say thank you, I who can't hold my liquor either,
and don't even know the places to fish?

Gettin' Mavericky

This just isn't getting old. SNL is legit again.

(So busy. More words, fewer videos someday.)

This was a night.

One of Portland's finest bands, Starfucker, Sept. 18 at Doug Fir on Burnside. In 4 parts. One of the coolest venues I've ever been to, with cool people, drinking $2 bottles of PBR. Good nights end with dance parties, cartwheels.
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It's raining, school's in

Week one of the Fall 2008 term is basically over for me -- I'll be working in my office Friday for a few hours before the Rays look to go up 2-0 on the White Sox; this postseason I'm a Rays fan. And dammit, I'm taking a few hours to watch it despite having a lot of work to do this weekend. I taught my first college classes this week (Tuesdays and Thursdays 4-5:20) and everything went well, as expected; in fact, I'm fortunate that I don't have any distracting or sleepy students in my class at all. My friend Adam and I were talking tonight about how we pull some energy from our students and feel pretty good at the end of a long week when class goes well. And it's been a long week.

I'm nervous about how much time I'll have to devote to Spanish. I've completed 9 weeks of Spanish classes (this summer) and there's no way to speak the language as well as some of the other students in my 211 class. I have to take 211, 212, and 213 this year, and I understand about half of what the instructor says in class, maybe less; she was also my instructor this summer. The grad director in our program now tells me the English Department is considering dropping the MA language requirement next year or after that and, he asks, what do I think?

Anyway it might be my Spanish class that drives me to insanity this term, or at least to really erasing my weekends and working late each night of the week. I don't usually break form with commas like in this blog's title. I've been thinking more about writing creatively lately and missing it a lot. A friend made a squash and beets dinner last night and we drank Rogue's Dead Guy Ale and wine until very late on a Wednesday when maybe I could have been doing thesis reading. The Spanish instructor today listed me as one of about ten students in class who hadn't done any of the online homework yet, just as a reminder. I immediately identified a few new students who are favorites because of their energy and interest and engagement but really, they're all fantastic and I'm glad my week in the classroom ends on Thursday evenings.

There's always more to write about. Pete agrees, he's living hour to hour right now, too. My grandfather turns 93 on Saturday and I wish I could spend more time with him. The air in Corvallis smells like rain and fields.