Books are so last year

July 21, 2008


Black Marks on Wood Pulp used to be a litblog.

Well, almost.

Okay. Not even close. But somewhere along the line, I picked up the classification. I occasionally wrote for Millions. I frequently penned lists and news and other thoughts about books and literature. I had it on my mind at all times, so it was a common topic.

And, for this reason – for these two or three times a week I’d utter something about literature or literacy or libraries or books – I somehow gained the reputation as a book blogger.

Whether it was the book-adorned banners or the literary blog name, I was given litblogger status in some select circles.

The funny thing is, I never was one.

Aside from the What I’ve Been Reading columns, columns that have dwindled down to bare bones, I have never been a consistent fountain of book knowledge. I’m blissfully unaware of the industry, have never met a real author for longer than 15 minutes, have never interviewed anyone who has written a book that I’ve actually read and, no, I don’t even hardly read books anymore.

Oh, I tried. I was going to be a litblogger, focusing on books and stuff like that. But I couldn’t do it.

So for all of you who have me on your “book blogging” lists, over there on your sidebar, or who list me under “books” or “reading” or “litblogs” in your feed reader, I apologize. That is, if you haven’t already completely ditched me, wondering why you subscribed to my feed in the first place.

It’s a misnomer. I’m not fulfilling the category. Instead, move me over to the “personal” section. Or, as 9rules classifies me, Commentary. I write about whatever, and sometimes that means I write about books. But other times, that means I write about babies or Ben Folds or photography or farting.

Just for the record, that is.

If you want to still think I’m a litblogger, go ahead. I won’t mind.

Just don’t tell the book reviewers over at the New York Times.

Tags: Blogging, Books, Literature, Meta, Writing |

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The CSA: Week 8

July 19, 2008


CSA: WEek 8

One bag for two families. That’s what we’ve been working with for the past seven weeks. One bag, one share, one group of vegetables. We split them, we consume them, and we come back for more.

We figured that’s all it would ever be. We were getting our money’s worth, so why expect more?

Oh man.

A combination of the beginning of a heavy harvest season and a practical rain-forest-like rain level over the past few weeks has turned the Farmer’s Market into something resembling a produce aisle at the largest Walmart on Earth. Except, you know, with good produce. And a variety. All of it organic.

It left us with not one, but two bags. Two. And not just beets and kohlrabi, either. Good stuff. Stuff I actually already eat. (Though, to be fair, we ate a lot last week, with numerous pasta dishes and a sweet oriental salad made from our half-head of cabbage.)

Two bags. For two families. And we should expect this from now on.

Best of all, we were supplied with surprises. Potatoes (finally!) and broccoli! Green beans! More cherry tomatoes, cucumbers and carrots! I’ve never loved vegetables so much, never experienced such a colorful display, never been so excited to make salads and stir-fry and whatever else you do when you eat healthy!

Our haul included:
Cherry tomatoes
Beets
Potatoes
Kohlrabi
Carrots
Yellow sweet peppers
Cucumbers
Broccoli
Onions
Cabbage
Green beans

All of it for about $20, or the average cost per week of our CSA.

$20 bucks. Two bags. Two families. One hell of a healthy haul.

Tags: Food, Sioux Falls |

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Uncapping the lens

July 18, 2008


I stood in the back of the tent, with both a camera and an All Access pass around my neck.

The heat was pressing in from all sides. The Second Stage was a sweat box. Kids crammed toward the front. Soulcrate started their set while Kerrie and I stood fast, she watching from a safe perch, me struggling to gain the nerve to move forward.

“So, you going to go take pictures?”

My stomach sank. This isn’t my gig. This is for the professionals. I can’t hop up behind the stage, in front of the stage, on the stage. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was a fraud, a hobby photographer who hadn’t even received any lumps, let along earn them. Who did I think I was?

I was nervous I’d be found out.

The All Access pass had come from co-worker. He had received two, though his was being put to good use – he was actually collecting footage for a video on Jazzfest. Others slunk around with their own passes, looking official, looking as though they knew what they were doing.

I, on the other hand, felt as if I had snuck into the clubhouse, looking around to see if anyone would catch me.

I moved to the back. I stood a few rows back from the side of the stage. I snapped some pictures, looked at them, hated them, wanted to move closer. And, I wanted to turn back.

But I didn’t. I moved in. I edged toward the stage. My pass gave a clear path, people moved aside, I got a great shot; took it, and was happy. No one had found me out yet.

I moved closer. I saw others on the stage, video cameras and digital SLRs in hand, moving from side to side, documenting the action without being noticed at all. Only one had a pass – my coworker. The rest were rouge agents, brought in by the band itself or, most likely, not giving a damn about a pass.

Taking pictures freely. As if they knew what they were doing.

And it hit me. Just like that. With the proper props, I looked just like they did. The band didn’t notice them, the audience didn’t notice them. Hell, they barely noticed each other. They were playing the part of third-bit actor, sliding into the film for some added color but never making an impact. They were documenting the action and it was action worth documenting so the more the merrier.

I kneeled down and rested on the stage. I climbed up onto the stage. I stood on the stage, camera pointing, catching what I should have been catching from the beginning. I moved to the front of the stage, grabbing the audience, getting better than a front row seat, interacting with the band without actually saying a word or moving a muscle.

Everything just slid away. There was no need to feel weird about wielding a camera. It’s a prop, its very presence making a person seem knowledgeable. You take 1000s of pictures and ten turn out, but everyone who sees you imagines you’re taking the next great portrait.

Insecurities have no place in photography. Just make your mistakes, climb up for a better vantage point and start shooting away.

Indoctrinated into the club. All for finally gaining a spine.

Soulcrate Music
Soulcrate Music, Jazzfest Second Stage 2008

Tags: Music, Photography, Sioux Falls |

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The search for four

July 16, 2008


What’s the number one number these days?

That’s easy. Four.

As in, Four Dollar Gas. As in, gas stations are scrambling to locate their fours, digging through closets and ransacking their number bins.

Because think of it this way – most gas station number kits probably come with a standard number of fours. Maybe three, or four, or six at the most.

But what happens with gas reaches $4.40, as it has in New York? Well, according to the New York Times, you make do with a little creativity. You make more fours yourself.

With regular gas in New York City at a near-record $4.40 a gallon, station managers are rummaging through their storage closets in search of extra 4s to display on their pumps. Many are coming up short.

That’s why Vishal Nair, who runs the Lukoil station at Eighth Avenue and 13th Street in Greenwich Village, took another plastic number last week, turned it over and scribbled “4” on it with a black magic marker. The result was an obviously homemade “$4.47,” but it would have to do until he received the extra 4s he ordered months ago.

And here’s something you might not know – in New York, there are regulations regarding the size, font and clarity of gas station sign numbers, created by the Department of Agriculture and Markets. Handwritten numbers aren’t necessarily allowed, though the Department seems to have backed off a little.

“People are running out of 4s and 5s, so we’re allowing them to post makeshift numbers as long as they are the right size,” [Jessica Chittenden, a spokeswoman for the state’s Department of Agriculture and Markets] said.

Which means there are positive effects to this sudden gas hike. The companies that produce the plastic numbers for gas stations? They’re frantically producing fours, sending them out as orders and stocking up for the long run. Just like they did with the threes a year ago. And twos a couple of years before that. They’re experiencing a boom, and while others grumble about the rising gas prices, they are benefiting from the entire ordeal.

And this isn’t even taking into account older gas pumps – those with dials instead of digital readings – that were never created to even reach two or three dollars per gallon.

Has there ever been a seismic shift in need for one digit before? In any single letter, symbol or number, for that matter. Aside from creation of a new symbol, like the euro, I can’t think of a single time when something like this happened so quickly.

It’s a fascinating look at frequency, really. Unlike a word falling out of general usage, this is firsthand experience with a change in the culture of communication. Like when words are added to the dictionary. Or when an entire country adopts a new catchphrase. Language trends take decades to make themselves known – this is happening in a matter of months.

With talk about the tipping point on gas consumption and the need for fuel-efficiency and the drive for energy independence rushing at us in the wake of looming economic disaster, it’s refreshing to see some of the little things. The quirky things that lie below the surface of this gas mess.

Like the fact that, love it or hate it, we all need more fours in our lives these days. I think this might be the most interesting thing I’ve learned about today.

It’s a good time to be the number four.

Tags: On..., Politics |

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The Flickr Game

July 14, 2008


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I usually pass on memes these days, but I thought this one was kind of fun.

The Flickr Game.

THE RULES:
a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
b. Using only the first page, pick an image.
c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd’s Mosaic Maker.

And here are the questions:

1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. Where did you go to high school?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. Favorite drink?
7. Dream vacation?
8. Favorite dessert?
9. What you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. One Word to describe you.
12. Your flickr name.

(and my answers)
Corey, Thai, Lincoln High School, Forest Green, Natalie Imbruglia, Grain Belt, England’s Lake District, Peanut Butter Pie, Writer, Sierra Dawn, Introspective, mrvilhauer.

There. You can all go back to expecting too-long monologues on dinosaurs again.

(via Holli Rausch)

—–

UPDATE – In honor of Kerrie’s birthday, I have created her Mosiac as well.

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Her answers are as follows: Kerrie, Cheese, Lincoln High School, Brown (today), Steve Nash, Beer, Boundary Waters, Angel Food Cake with Strawberries, A Kid, Sierra, Creative, [blank].

And yes – that is her in the first picture. There must not be that many Kerries on Flickr, as my own picture made the front page of the search.

In addition, since she has no Flickr account, I pulled one from my (our) set. (I did the same for my own, as there was no record of any pictures with a “mrvilhauer” tag or copy.)

Tags: Photography, Vilhauer |

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The CSA: Week 7

July 13, 2008


For me, vegetables fall into two categories. Those that I eat on a regular basis, familiar and comfortable, as crucial as milk or eggs or Cheerios. And those I gaze upon suspiciously.

For the first five weeks of our CSA, our haul consisted more of the latter – vegetables that I don’t necessarily use. Vegetables that were projects. Experiments.

Kohlrabi. Beets (yellow, red and bull’s-eye). Cabbage. These are projects. These are vegetables that require recipes. You don’t just make a beet salad – you find a recipe, you learn to roast or boil the beets, you hesitantly take your first bite, and you quickly tire of the taste after a few days.

This is what happened with our beets. We put together a very nice feta cheese beet salad, and it tasted good. It was different. But it was good. However, the second day brought more beets, and we quickly discovered that beets are both an acquired taste and an occasional treat. Eat beets one or two days in a row, you’ll poop maroon. Eat them any more, you’ll grow to hate maroon.

Lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers – now we’re talking. I’m not against variety, but sometimes I just want something familiar. Something I could find in my garden. They’re staples, with no recipes needed. Everyone knows what to do with cucumbers. Everyone can use a green pepper. There’s no research – it’s nearly impossible to screw it up.

So I was happy to see a higher percentage of familiar last week when we picked up the other half of our CSA (a mix-up led to us getting just half of our allotment on Saturday) Hot peppers, green onions, carrots, and peas. Stuff I knew how to use. Hooray! Familiarity!

And this week, even more
Cucumbers
Carrots
Green onions
Kohlrabi (will they ever stop growing?)
Beets (MORE BEETS)

I’ve learned a lot over the past few weeks, about how to use vegetables I’ve never heard of and how to open up my horizons. But now we’re getting into the meat of the summer, and it’s refreshing to enjoy some of the tastes of the season.

Because there’s nothing better than a vegetable sandwich. Tomato, cucumber, lettuce, mustard, a little green pepper, a little hot pepper, some Muenster cheese and a fresh slice of bread or bagel.

(And, let’s be honest. Nothing goes better with bacon than tomato and lettuce.)

(And, let’s even be more honest. No one wants beets with their bacon.)

Tags: Food, Sioux Falls |

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Sue

July 12, 2008


Sue.When I was eight, I made a grand announcement.

I was going to be a paleontologist.

It struck my parents as an odd declaration. A paleontologist! How scientific! How smart! With my future vocation decided, everything would be milk and honey! Corey wants to be a paleontologist! Hooray! According to family legend, my mother supported my decision whole heartedly. She welcomed the notion and was ready to enroll me into the best college or university with a Paleontology program.

Then, she ran to a dictionary and looked up the word “Palentology.”

For four or five years, I was convinced that paleontology, and archaeology as a whole, was a grand and noble vocation. I loved dinosaurs. I even read adult non-fiction books on digging bones and dinosaur origins and other things I didn’t fully understand, but still enjoyed.

And then, as is to be expected, I realized how boring paleontology would be. I mean, it’s hot. Dusty. You wade through rocks, dusting them. You search for years to find dinosaur bones. You discover them, and they’re taken away to a museum.

At which point you begin again.

South Dakota, at times, seems like fossil central. We have mammoth pits and full skeleton deposits and about seventeen billion arrowheads. We’re a depository for already used calcium, with bones piling up around the state like dust bunnies.

This weekend, these bones (and a South Dakota Humanities Council board meeting) led me to experience faith.

Sorry. Let me rephrase that. Led me to experience Faith, SD.

Sue, the most complete Tyrannosaurus Rex ever found, was discovered outside of Faith, a small town in the middle of a remote but beautiful part of the state. The area is covered in bluffs and hills, and the only reason it’s not more widely known is because of its distance from any other form of civilization.

Even though Sue was discovered near Faith, the population and proximity to others makes Faith an odd place to hold a grand museum exhibit. Which is why Faith had never hosted the dinosaur that nearly made it famous. At least, until now.

Currently, in the middle of Faith’s modern-looking convention/activity center, which in and of itself is a vast contrast to the rest of Faith’s small-town charm, stands a full Tyrannosaurus skeleton. Illuminated red and backed by a soundtrack of roars, Sue (a replica – the real dinosaur is on display in Chicago) hovers over all who enter. It’s daunting. And when you imagine it with flesh and muscle and skin, it’s horrifying.

It was also fun. Sue is archaeology personified – the discovery of ancient cultures and life lying just below the surface of the Earth we now know. Seeing it firsthand is a little sobering, bringing to mind the immensity of life and the span of known existence. All we know of Sue is what we’ve discovered. We know she was a grizzled veteran, with bone scars and broken ribs documenting a life of hardship. We also know that she was fiercely protective: Sue is thought to have died protecting her young, with her jaw ripped from her skull and baby Tyrannosaurs found close by.

Most of all, though, it brought me back to my childhood. I was transported to a trip I took to the dinosaur museum in Pocatello, Idaho, where I saw firsthand the dinosaurs that were, at the time, filling my mind with wonder. I met a true paleontologist that day, and was absolutely sure that I was going to have a long and fruitful life digging up dinosaurs, living out a childhood fantasy.

Two decades later, I couldn’t help but stare down the hollowed out skeleton, through the gaping mouth, bounding down each rib, sliding up and off of its tail, and think of what people will find of me when I’m gone. What life record will I leave? What bones will people dig up. What culture will I help influence with the artifacts I leave behind?

And of course, I thought of the life that no fossil record could capture. That I was once ready to dig up artifacts on my own. Walking through the lives of giants. Discovering yet another life cut short by natural progress. Piecing together the records of those who came millions of years before me.

Tags: Career, Travel, Vilhauer |

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