Calças Marrons

by Phyllis

"All this happened a good many years ago." - Maugham

I was young, maybe thirteen or so, the first time I saw the movie Halloween. It had been a couple of years since it had been shown in the theaters, and I watched it one night when it was broadcast on television. After I finished watching the movie, it was late and time for me to go to bed. I sleepily loafed around upstairs for a few minutes, and then trudged downstairs to my bedroom.

My brother Joey also had a bedroom downstairs; the rest of the family was upstairs. Joey had watched most of the movie with me, but I didn’t see him after it was over. Perhaps I should have known what was coming.

I got to the bottom of the stairs, made the right turn to cross the large room with ugly orange carpet, and neared the hall, where the wall from the family room jutted out to make the entry to the hall about the size of a doorway. The hall was dark, and the instant I crossed the threshold into it, my brother jumped out from behind that jutting wall, wearing a ridiculous white plastic Halloween mask. He yelled “Ha!” or something like that.

Please keep the following in mind: In the first place, I had just recently finished watching the movie, so the images and scenes were fresh in my mind. Secondly, the mask, while not at all a close match to that worn by the killer in Halloween, was at the very least white, like in the movie. Thirdly, my brother appeared suddenly and mysteriously when I least expected it.

So my reaction, very vivid to me more than twenty years later, was extreme. But also strange. I was immediately aware that this was my brother playing a trick on me. As tired as I was, my brain quickly synthesized important information: the apparition I now saw was nearly six inches shorter than me, and he was wearing a silly plastic mask of an old man with a melted face. His hair was thin, stringy, and white, just like the mask I had seen (and worn myself) hundreds of times before in our home. Notwithstanding all of this, I was scared nearly senseless. I shrieked--yes, shrieked, so picture what that sounds like--in horror, but instantly moved toward him, calling him by name, while pathetically and miserably crying. “Joey! Joey! Tell me it’s you! Say it is you! Say my name!”

As I continued to walk toward him, I reached for him, and grabbed on to him, desperately hugging and bawling and begging for him to allay my fears. The more he spoke, now scared himself at such a reaction by me, the more I calmed down. But this continued for nearly half a minute, as I labored to convince myself of what I indeed already knew, and had known from the start: this was only little brother Joey.

Nowadays I don't get frightened by "scary" movies. I mean, come on, people, they just aren't. But Halloween scares me. Still. And if you ask me what some of my favorite movies are, I will include Halloween in them. But sometimes I wonder if that is true.

Lucky #7

by Phyllis

I read a blog recently here, and I felt almost compelled to respond. Well, not respond, so much as I felt I had a story of my own to tell. And, oddly enough, it is about #7 as well. I, too, had to bid him a (not so) fond farewell. In a different way.

Like Koozown (my name for the author of that post), I lived in a town with a very popular orthodontist. Indeed, I cannot get past the feeling I know the town he is speaking of. Only this man never put braces on my teeth. I am relatively certain I needed them, but it never happened.

And I don't really know why. I am sure my parents were much like Koozown's: nice, middle-class folks living in a small town, probably had their share (or more) of children. I imagine they lived in a fairly large house with a big back yard, a pasture maybe, and perhaps a few farm animals. Just a guess.

But my parents decided not to get me braces. I watched all my brothers and sisters (all six, mind you) get braces--the complaining, the pain, the retainers, the replacement retainers for lost or broken ones, the retainers used to cut popsicles to pieces--and thought I hadn't missed out on much.

Except that in high school I started to notice something: I used to stick my finger in my mouth. Don't ask me why--I supposed it was just a nervous habit. A bad habit, maybe, but not the worst thing that could be done with a finger and a mouth. But I would place my left hand index finger directly behind my two front teeth. And if I turned it sideways I could just feel the edge of #7 and whatever number is on the other side of your front teeth on each side of my finger. Only as I got older, this gap was narrowing. I didn't have to turn my finger all the way sideways anymore. And then finally, not at all.

I had said farewell to #7. Or rather, he had said goodbye to me. But he is still in there, chilling out behind the front line, poking my tongue everyday. Look closely--he's back there.


So, yes, I pity Koozown; I don't want pain, pus, or a root canal with a limited warranty. But I have gone to dentists and requested that #7 be pulled, and no one will do it. They claim that sort of problem can be fixed (only at my age it would require oral surgery and breaking my jaw and palate--no, thank you), and I can assume from Koozown's experience there could be other issues down the road.

Indeed, for some of us, #7 has not been so lucky.

Jay Clocker

by Phyllis

And you know I have no bias when it comes to this.

Ten things the end of the BYU-UW game made me think about:

1. Jake Locker threw the ball high enough in the air that anyone would expect a penalty to be called. Take away the situation (end of the game, [potential] tying touchdown) and would that call be made? Yes.
2. He did not throw the ball in the air when he scored a touchdown in the first quarter. So he knew not to.
3. The emotion and situation caused him to throw it up 25 feet in the air? Please.
4. People who are saying it is a stupid rule and shouldn't have been called are missing the point: it IS a rule.
5. Come on, teams out there. You have to make him throw the football. He will kill you running it. He will not even hurt you throwing it. Try it and see.
6. Hey, Washington placekicker, you are welcome to make the PAT, even if it is from 35 yards. But to do so, you might want to get the kick at least three feet off the ground. I'm serious. At the trajectory he kicked it, the ball might have been going down when it was blocked.
7. Please, BYU, could you at least once blow out an inferior team? And if you do suck out a victory at home against UCLA, would you mind NOT losing to UNLV or SDSU later in the season?
8. Tyrone Willingham is a wussy. At least be planning to go for two. Ride the momentum and emotion and beat the favorite when you can. Seems like a team from a school I went to did that once.
9. Jim Caple is a wingnut and a whiny homer. Check out what he said here: "It was one of the absolute worst calls I've ever seen in football." Really? Then I hope you never saw the Oregon-Oklahoma game in 2006. This is a good one, too. And that only took me five minutes.
10. The pass Locker threw after he scored the last touchdown is the most accurate pass I have ever seen him throw. For reals.

English Degree

by Sue Modray

Yes, Phyllis asked me some time ago if I would post on his blog and I am sorry it has taken me so long. I am nervous and afraid that someone will think what I write is dumb. I am afraid of offending someone, too. Phyllis has assured me his readership is small, possibly less than ten. I don't know if he is serious but it makes me feel better. He also told me he was not going to post again until I did. I thought he was kidding, but I think I believe him now. So here goes.

Phyllis asked me to write about going to BSU. He has posted about how we met in one of our first classes, and saw each other frequently as we both worked toward a degree in English literature. We are a lot alike and wanted about the same thing from our educational experience, only he likes Maugham and I love Austen. My only real problem with Phyllis is that he uses colons and parentheses too much in his writing. He is also always correcting people in their pronunciation and grammar. I am not sure he is always right.

I am not really sure I know what Phyllis wants me to write about, although we talked a lot about what the experience studying English at BSU was like. Maybe he means for me to write about how I felt so different sometimes. I did not fit into the group of 19-year-olds apologizing to each other before class started for forgetting to record Smallville, or how much fun it was last year to dress up as Hermione and go down to Borders for the release of the latest Harry Potter book.

Am I supposed to talk about the skills we were being taught in our English classes? We read many novels, short stories, and plays, and our instructors taught us skills to interpret, criticize, and respond to the works we read. But it seemed my interpretations and criticisms were only valid as they fell in line with those the instructor had. I wondered at times if the interpretations of my instructors were really theirs or just those of some great professor from long ago. It reminded me of The Wizard of Oz, almost complete with loud crashes and flashing lights. "Who are YOU to question to Great and Powerful Oz?!??"

But I was not a sponge, like, I believe, many others I saw. Just because the professor liked Evelyn Waugh, or Salman Rushdie, or D.H. Lawrence, I did not decide to. And even though we were assigned to read only one small piece by Nietzsche, I did not immediately latch on to "God is dead" and announce my intention to change my major to Philosophy and explore my new-found atheism.

I don't know what I expected studying for an English literature degree. I love reading and found many new authors and books to read. But I did not so much enjoy the interpretation and criticism. It seemed forced and planned out. I wanted more history and biography of the authors. I don't suppose that kind of English degree really exists, the one where you read a lot, learn a lot about the authors, and talk about it with others. No, not a book club. A way to become an expert about a certain author, know his works, know his characters, know him. And then move on to the next author.

Now I just need to find a graduate program that offers that. Or I can just do it myself.

Wife Gone

by Phyllis Miller

Just got done watching Nicholas Nickleby on hulu.com a few minutes ago. I was reluctant at first. I have sworn, for no good reason that I know of, to dislike Dickens. I mean, Chuck doesn't write the most uplifting stuff (yes I am aware that was part of his purpose). And the one Dickens novel that I did read, Hard Times--for my 19th century British novel course at BSU--did nothing to change my mind. I hated it and felt good about hating Dickens.

But I liked this movie. A lot. I daresay I will watch it again. It is definitely better than Pitch Black, Weird Science, 28 Days Later, or The Phantom the Opera, all of which I have watched (for the first time) in the last half-fortnight. (Yes, I never saw Weird Science when I was a kid. It seemed everyone else had, but I was able to avoid it somehow. What a pile of garbage! Honestly one of the stupidest movies ever, right?)

I almost feel like I need to read Nicholas Nickleby now, just to make sure it's nothing like the movie. But if your tastes in movies are anything like mine (here's how to tell: if you have seen or plan to see Wanted, you don't share my taste) watch this one. It is disturbing and funny at the same time. Oh yeah, and set in England in the 1800s. What more do you want? Here is a snippet:



I swear this is Christopher Plummer's best role since he was General Chang in Star Trek VI. Maybe even since he was Captain von Trapp.

Okay, did it seem like I was stretching it a bit when I used the word "best" right there? I did it on purpose. I get tired of hearing that word. I know the MLB all-star game is a fortnight past, but it has taken me that long to get over a few things. In the first place, Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia was voted as the starter. I try not to have an issue with that, since he is sent by fan voting, right? But please. I had to hear announcers rave about him, using words like "best."

And then, during a Yankees game on TV recently (since apparently Yankees and Red Sox games are the only ones fans want to see) I heard the announcers talking about Robinson Cano, the Yankees second baseman. Evidently, he's the best, also. Um, no. Not even close.

Now you think you know what is coming, but you're wrong. I am not going to claim that Brian Roberts in the best second baseman in the AL, but maybe a look at the numbers and a few other facts might help.

As of today:
Roberts: .286 average, 39 doubles, 8 triples, 7 HR, 35 RBI, 27 steals, 54 walks.
Pedroia: .315 average, 31 doubles, 1 triple, 9HR, 48 RBI, 11 steals, 28 walks.
Cano: .267 average, 23 doubles, 1 triple, 9 HR, 48 RBI, 1 steal, 17 walks.

Sure, Pedroia is hitting for a better average, but with the walks Roberts has a better on base percentage. And of his 116 hits, nearly half are for extra bases! Cano is not even close. Now consider the lineups that surround all three players. Mind you, I like the guys on my team: Markakis and Huff both have over 30 doubles, making it three Orioles in the top 5 of that category. But they don't have the names the Yankees and Red Sox do. Trust me, pitchers would rather face Markakis and Huff before Rodriguez, Jeter, Ramirez, Ortiz, no matter what the numbers say. So Pedroia is going to get some pitches to hit. Oh yeah, and he also has that wall ten feet past the infield that turns a can of corn into a double. What would Roberts do with that?

Besides, Ian Kinsler has better numbers that any of them. But he made the all-star team (only the announcers were a little less effusive with their praise). And I have soft spot in my heart for someone who has to play half his games in Dallas.

None of this helps, of course; the Orioles are last in their division. Another painful year of losing. There are promising moments, but we are soon smacked down once our hopes are up. Surely it can't keep going for much longer. I can't take the pain. The unfulfilled promises. The outlook is bleak. What can be done? Will it ever change? It's just too awful.

Okay, I need to stop. This is starting to feel like a Dickens novel.

Pulmonary Embolism

By Phyllis Miller

One of my favorite phrases was used on the radio again today. Erik Kuselias was in for Mike Tirico during the Tirico and Van Pelt show on ESPN radio. EK was working today notwithstanding suffering from "flu-like symptoms." Awesome. Not the flu, not a cold, not allergies--flu-like symptoms. I had only heard it before as the reason some athlete was missing his next game. "Kwame Brown will not play and is in street clothes tonight; he is suffering from flu-like symptoms." I am glad to see it has jumped from athletes to radio personalities. I plan to adopt this type of speaking myself in everyday parlance, you know, speech-like talking. So enjoy reading the rest of my blog-like ramblings.

This whole thing reminds me of the time I had blood-clot-in-the-lung-type symptoms. It took a while for the various doctors I saw to narrow it down (maybe on another occasion I can blog about my respect and admiration for these fine professionals, but a small taste can be found here). First I was told I had bronchitis-like symptoms; I knew that wasn't it. Next, I was told I had some strange form of asthma-like symptoms and got an albuterol inhaler. Finally, after I was feeling fine again (no more nights sitting in the bathroom crying and breathing in and out in as shallow a manner as I could, while feeling like a chinese star was loose inside my chest) an internist-like doctor sent me for a CT-like scan. And there it was: a clot-like formation in my lung.

The weirdest thing I learned in my week at St. Al's is that my blood clot has something to do with my testicles. It doesn't make sense to me, either, but of course, I'm not a doctor.

I say this because once in the emergency room-like area, the ER doc checked my prostate as I lay there nearly prostrate (prostate vs. prostrate and lay vs. lie in the same sentence!) and then he examined my man-parts. (Note: the ER doc's response to my obvious chagrin when he had informed me he would be performing the above-mentioned tasks was excellent: "Believe me, pal, it isn't the highlight of my day, either.")

I was checked in to the hospital and assigned a room. Since I was a healthy young man in his late twenties, doctors were at a loss to figure out why I should have this ailment. A urologist was consulted. He came to my room, asked me some questions, and told me to make an appointment to see him when I was out of the hospital. I said I would. Before he went, however, he did me the favor of performing another testicular exam. I would have preferred if he had consulted with the ER doc first.

The next day, a doctor entered and explained that she was on call for my vacationing internist. She asked almost the same set of questions I had answered in the ER, and then performed another check of my nether region! Come on! What is going on here? But as much as I was tired of these testes-tests, it was her comment after the few light squeezes that bothered me the most.

"Nothing remarkable."

Sue Modray

I have a friend I have asked to contribute to this blog, so here are a few words of introduction.

I met Sue Modray when I returned to BSU to get my English degree. She was in one of the first classes I took, and after chatting a bit, we realized how startlingly similar we were. We could not help but become soul mates. She is very nearly my mirror image.

Look at the similarities:

Sue had never finished college when she got married, started a family, and started working on getting old. After a few kids, she settled in to a nice little career quite by accident. Sue had recently moved with her family to Idaho from Alaska when she got a temporary job through one of those staffing service companies. What started out as a little data entry to make a few bucks turned into a career. Her data entry job was at a company that designed websites, and after a few years grinding up the ranks from temporary data entry clerk to secretary to website contributor, she soon was designing websites herself. She had managed to get this (fairly decent paying) job not from experience or schooling; she simply rubbed shoulders with others doing it.

She parlayed this experience into another job with the state department of education--a totally sweet job. No supervisor breathing down her neck, freedom to come and go as she pleased, and good pay. Sue soon realized she was at liberty to return to school and get the degree she never got. An English degree.

Like me, Sue had not originally studied English at college, but had found an author she loved (Austen, as it turns out; there are precious few who revere Maugham the Master) and wanted to study more literature. So there she was at BSU starting to do it in 2004. And I was there, too. We followed a similar path toward our degrees and saw each other in many classes. Her literary tastes are nearly identical to my own.

We had many discussions about the education we received in the English department at BSU, and we share many of the same ideas. I have asked her, as her first contribution to the blog, to talk about her journey. Hopefully you find it entertaining. If not, stay tuned, and Phyllis will post again soon.

[I have asked Sue when she posts to leave her name at the beginning of the post, so readers can know right away without scrolling to the bottom of the post who is writing. I will also try to do the same. But I might not; it is my blog, after all.]