RIBS - THE GREAT EQUILIZER (or Political Theory 101)

I have a suggestion for our nations leaders. The next time you host a big, multinational superpower summit - maybe the next G7 meeting, or a UN event - forego the linen napkins, Contre Fillet of Beef aux Cêpes and Louis Martini Napa Cabernet Sauvignon. Instead, consider a roll of paper towel, a pile of bone-in sauced-up ribs and a pitcher of sweet tea.

Here's my theory. There is no better social equalizer than a succulent, sauce-heavy, grease-dripping-down-your-arms rack of ribs. Who could play one-upsmanship with a barbeque sauce gotee and a paper towel tucked under the collar that is so splattered with dripped goodness that you look like a shot-up mafia extra in a Brian DePalma movie?

Think what could be done for the good of humanity if our leaders could sit together as equals over beef ribs and just hammer out the problems! Better yet, if you want to be a real leader, meet on neutral ground. Let me suggest Famous Dave's. That way, the only one sitting around the garbage can lid who can claim superiority is the one who can ingest the most Devil's Spit.

Now THAT's how you get things done!

Cheddar Cheese Soup

For about 12 years now, I've been making (semi) homemade cheese soup - a perfectly wonderful, rich, hot treat on a cold winter's evening. (And, trust me, it is cold out tonight. The temperature is around 2DC).

Each time I make my soup, I tweak it a little. Sometimes the recipe is elaborate, sometimes just simple. I've used vegetables from finely sliced carrots to rough chopped celery to diced red onion to sauteed mushrooms to broccoli. When I first started making cheese soup, I used to throw in fried bacon. Chopped chicken breast works well also.

Tonight, I kept it simple. Two cans cream of mushroom soup. 1 can of condensed milk (I prefer half-and-half, but, in a pinch...) Half a red onion, chopped, sauteed in sage butter. One bag frozen spinach leaves (thawed first, of course). Yellow mustard, Louisiana hot sauce, a loads of shredded sharp cheddar cheese. Oh... and one bottle of O'Doull's Amber.

Then I browned up some croutons for one top (sage butter and olive oil with Italian seasoning melted together, then torn pieces of leftover yeast rolls tossed in, coated and fried brown and just crisp).

It must have been a good batch. Austin ate all of his!

Next time, I may try to incorporate some goat cheese. That should give it a unique, sharp taste. I'll let you know how it goes.

Au Revoir, 2009...

As I write this, all of Asia and Europe have shucked off the old year, and are embarking on the possibilities that we all hope 2010 will bring. I must admit, I will shed no tears at the passing of this year. It isn't that the year was entirely horrible.

Just stressful.

Which brings me to my real confession. I admit that my attitude has hit bottom this year. My petty grumpiness hit a low. (Writing that sentence in a somewhat detached manner - as if the "grumpiness" itself is the problem and not me - helps me to simultaneously own and duck responsibility for my actions. Did it work?)

The problem... ok, ok... my problem is simple. I have not lived life with passion. I let myself get caught up and swept out in the undertow of busyness and stress. I forgot to approach life with enthusiam and joy and gratitude for all God has done (and continues to do) for me.

No more.

I don't do New Year's resolutions. However, there is something about the changing of the years that makes one want to use it as a demarcation for change.

Change.

Passion.

Joy.

2010 is going to be a blessed year. I can choose to look to Christ for strength and stride forward with gusto. Or I can trudge into drudgery. The choice is mine.

I choose to live as God created me, to do what He has gifted me to do, and to be creative about it. I choose to follow Christ and leave the results to Him.

I choose passion.

I choose joy.

2010 is heading west over the Atlantic Ocean, bringing with it the exhiliration of possibility and newness and change. A fresh breeze. Wonderful opportunities.

Welcome 2010.

Stubble and Stuff

"...wilt thou pursue the dry stubble?" - Job 13:25

Wow... I cannot believe how difficult it is to write this blog entry. It feels like I'm trying to ride a ten-speed uphill with rusty sprockets and a loose chain. Chug, chug.

Chug.

I'm posting again today after lots of thinking about it and meaning to get around to it and hoping to do it and wanting to do it and... well, you get the idea. I'm not procrastinating. I'm just waiting for the right time.

2008 has been so full of stuff that absolutely had to take priority (adoption stuff, parental stuff, school stuff, church stuff, work stuff) that I have managed to stuff my life full with no time to just write. To pray. To think. To ponder.

To be.

I feel I am losing myself in stuff.

Today I am beginning - once again - to review my life and see what's important, what's more important, what's less important, and what just isn't important at all. This isn't the first time I have attempted this exercise. In fact, it isn't the tenth time. And, every time, just when I think I've got it down... along rolls a pile of stuff, just crying out, Don't forget me! I'm important!

And I'm back off the wagon again.

It is time to get healthy again. Time to find time to relax. To invest in my beautiful wife and son. To write. To draw. To pray. To connect.

To be, as opposed to being stuffed.

I think I know what I need to do. Stay tuned.

Life and Rugby at the Center of the Continent

I was sitting here on my lunch break, pondering great ponderances and wondering about this wonderful world we live upon and thinking, "I wonder where the geographical center of the North American continent is."

Lo and behold, thanks to Google, I found it.

Rugby, North Dakota.

A mere four-hundred and forty-odd miles from where I sit.

Sounds like a fun traveling destination. So... what with the weekend coming up, I thought I'd check out Rugby's website.

Looks like the city-wide garage sale is this Saturday.

Hellboy II is showing at the local cineplex.

They have a Victorian Dress Museum. And a bell tower. And the Dale and Martha Hawk Museum, with lots of old farm machinery.

Prairie Village Museum is celebrating it's 23rd anniversary with a village fair.

Oddly enough, no mention of a rugby league. No Rugby rugby team in Rugby.

Gasoline is just under $4.00 a gallon in Grand Forks.

Maybe we'll stay a little closer to home this weekend.

This Week's Fake Horoscope

ARIES (March 21 - April 19)
Be careful of your dinner choices tonight. An incautious poultry entree order will cause you come to the conclusion that you have no idea what bird gave his life to become a "cornish hen". Don't worry, nobody really knows where cornish hens come from. You have two choices: 1) Look to see if there are a lot of pigeons (worse yet, loose feathers) outside the restaurant, or 2) Order the Filet Mignon. But not the "petite" minion (same reason).

TAURUS (April 20 - May 20)
Ease up on the Aqua Velva, sport.

GEMINI (May 21 - June 21)
You are about to become the hero to millions of kids worldwide when you discover the true source of childhood obesity: broccoli, asparagus and brussel sprouts.

CANCER (June 22 - July 22)
The Prize Patrol will not pull up to your house in a beater pickup truck with a window decal of Calvin peeing on Hobbes (or anything else for that matter). Don't open the door, and don't try to cash the big cardboard check.

LEO (July 23 - August 22)
Tonight's "Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?" marathon will do nothing for your self-esteem. Read a book instead. One without pictures.

VIRGO (August 23 - September 22)
You're in for a big surprise when a dinnertime ring-of-the-doorbell comes from none other than actor and activist Sean Penn. Tips: put away the camera, turn off the Madonna CD, and don't ask how he feels about the Iraq situation. Keep conversation light: gardening, the kidlets, his brother's music career. No, wait... Michael Penn hasn't had a hit in years... Just keep quiet and play Yahtzee. And, for Pete's sake, let him win!

LIBRA (September 23 - October 22)
Don't track mud across my nice, clean floor!

SCORPIO (October 23 - November 21)
Yes, she said she has a boyfriend. No, she doesn't really have a boyfriend. Neither do any of the other 18 ladies you hit on at Hoppy's Bar and Grill last night - even though they all told you "yes, I have a boyfriend." My advice: see entry above for Leo.

SAGITTARIUS (November 22 - December 21)
Cheese covers a multitude of burned foods.

CAPRICORN (December 22 - January 19)
A glitch in the solar system tonight will mean no astrological events for Capricorn tonight. Sorry for any inconvenience.

AQUARIUS (January 20 - February 18)
No, the Burger King mascot isn't staring at you through your bedroom window. Time to lay off the fast food.

PISCES (February 19 - March 20)
Yes, the Burger King mascot is staring at you through your bedroom window. Time to lay off the fast food.

This Wrinkly Life

I like perfection. I want things to be just so-so - ducks in a row, plans detailed and plain, everything smooth and easy. No muss. No fuss. No wrinkles.

No wrinkles.

Here's my problem: life is wrinkly.

Like a sharpee (the dog, not the ink pen).

Like my shirts (at least when I do laundry).

Like my Grandma Courtney's cheeks (as a very young boy, my little brother once informed our grandmother that her cheeks were soft like rotten apples. He honestly meant it as a compliment. I believe she took it as such - once she stopped laughing).

Smooth. Like velvet. Like a new stretch of freeway. Like pudding.

Like pudding.

Not old-fashioned cooked pudding. That stuff's lumpy. Too much startch.

Like pre-made, factory-plopped pudding-in-a-cup.

What I am slowly accepting is that writing and art are wrinkly as well. And God being gracious and wonderful as He is has been showing me this in gentle little ways. On our recent outting to the Minneapolis Institute of Art, I had an opportunity to study a few paintings up close. (Actually, a little too close. A guard kindly told me to step back so I wouldn't accidentally flick a booger on Gerrit van Honthorst's Denial of St. Peter. Evidently, snot is niot easily removed from 384 year old oil paintings.)

It was a painting by an artist whose name escapes me - a photo-realistic painting - that caught my attention. This huge painting looks just like a photograph.

Until you get up close.

Then you see the paint.

The very minor imperfections.

And I was reminded that everything is imperfect.

Every painting.

Every writing.

Every song.

The beauty comes from what pours forth from the heart and the mind, not the technical proficiency of the artist.

Wrinkly is okay.

Just not too wrinkled.

¿Él dijo lo que pensé que él dijo?

I was watching a film about rappers in Cuba this morning. The young men being interviewed all looked like American hip-hop stars, and had that hip-hop attitude. And they all spoke Spanish,

And rapped in Spanish.

Except for one word.

Ironically, the one word they used is the same one that gets mixed out of the radio-friendly versions of all those raps they play on MTV where every other word is removed.

You know, that word.

The universal adjective.

The reason Nick Nolte's dialogue sounds like one big growling mumble after TBS sanitized 48 Hours in order to meet broadcast decency standards.

The word that got Ralphy in so much trouble, because he didn't say "fudge".

The vulgarity that makes my mother's head spin faster than a dradle during Hannukah.

The big "F"-bomb".

The "f"-ing-heimer.

The expletive to end all expletives.

I just found it somewhat ironic, and humorous. It caught my ear because the station airing the film "beeped" the offending vulgarity out.

Had he said it in Spanish, it probably would have made it through intact. I would have never known.

The words were translated into English across the bottom of the screen as "didn't give a care." Evidently, a "care" wasn't exactly what this rapper wasn't giving.

Sadly, the "f"-word has truly become the international expletive. No need to translate. Everyone on earth knows what it means.

The Creativity Challenge Sputters and Continues...

Well... we did the road trip on Saturday. And it was, well... less than inspiring. I'm not sure what I thought would spark my creativity. We ate breakfast at a diner in LeSueur that looked just as it must have twenty years ago (which was quite interesting - very smalltown Hoosieresque). Ottawa is quite interesting - a tiny 19th century village with the original stone Methodist church and streets that are actually still narrow horsepaths. And St. Peter is filled with beautiful Victorian-style homes.

But Henderson... I got scared in Henderson.

Understand, I mean no disrespect to Henderson. It looks like a nice, quaint, welcoming little river town. In fact, I fely so warm and welcome that I parked on the Minnesota River bridge and hopped out to take some photos.

It was as I walked back to the van that it happened. I had the creepy feeling that I was being followed. I look behind me, and I see some guy, driving real slow in his old pickup truck - putt putt putt putt across the river bridge.

And he was looking at me. Staring is more the word. As if I were the first human he had seen in a long time. (Or at least like the first non-local human.)

Putt-putt-putt-putt...

Birds stopped chirping. The breeze calmed to stillness. Somewhere in the distance, a banjo picked away. Dang-duh-dang-dang-dang-duh-dang-dang-dang. I looked around nervously to see if Ned Beatty was anywhere around.

The truck drifted past me, down by our van, where he pulled off the road and down along the river - a wooded area one would expect to see on the local news, as the reporter begins to explain that the body was found about 20 yards beyond the police tape barrier...

My wife was still in the van. My stroll back became a trot, then a speedwalk.

"Why are you running?" she asked as I jumped in the van.

"Just getting some exercise", I replied. She didn't buy it.

I wouldn't have, either.

Preparations Are Underway...

Oh, am I ever looking forward to this summer of adventure! (OK... adventure may be stretching things a bit. I mean, there will be no skydiving / bungee jumping / extreme sports of any kind, but...) The first trip is this weekend as, as you read in yesterday's blog post (scroll fown if you missed it), the randomly chosen stop is Henderson MN. Which may pose a problem.

Henderson MN is a very small town.

As in very small.

As in 931 people in one square mile (or 640 acres).

Yes, this town can be measured in acres.

And there probably isn't much to occupy a person for a full day.

Although I could be wrong.

So... if Henderson doesn't get the creative juices flowing, perhaps LeSueur and New Prague will. Yes, LeSueur, home of Jolly Green Giant Niblets canned corn. And New Prague, which we will probably revisit in September for the annual Czech harvest festival, DožínkyTM.

We will probably be doing some Twin Cities activities as well. Anything to prime the mental pump and ignite the creative spark.

Checklist for our adventures:

_____ TUNES!
_____ COOLER
_____ TUNES!
_____ COKE ZERO (and plenty of it!)
_____ MINNESOTA ROAD ATLAS
_____ TUNES!!
_____ NOTEBOOKS, JOURNAL AND PENS
_____ SKETCHPADS, PENCILS, PENS AND RELATED ACOUTREMENTS
_____ OPEN MIND AND ENTHUSIASTIC OUTLOOK

More next week on our travels!

The Summer Creativity Challenge

stale [steyl]
–adjective
1. not fresh; vapid or flat, as beverages; dry or hardened, as bread.
2. musty; stagnant: stale air.
3. having lost novelty or interest; hackneyed; trite: a stale joke.
4. having lost freshness, vigor, quick intelligence, initiative, or the like, as from overstrain, boredom, or surfeit: He had grown stale on the job and needed a long vacation.
5. Law. having lost force or effectiveness through absence of action, as a claim.
- verb (used with object), verb (used without object)
6. to make or become stale.
Dictionary.com. Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Random House, Inc. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/stale (accessed: June 07, 2007).

That is how I have been feeling. Stale. No wonder writing has become a ponderous chore as oppose to the joy it used to be. So, I am reaching for the obvious answer to my stagnant, boring state.

I gotta get out more.

To that end, Jennie and I are going to have an adventure every weekend throughout the summer. Some trips will only be as far as the metro area, some across state - some even to other states! (Maybe even - are you sitting down? - Wisconsin!)

And we're going to share our adventures with all of you! Right here at Jumbled Encephalon Noodle Salad. So come along as we travel each weekend to places unknown and unexpected. In fact, I have just pulled down the road atlas and opened it to Minnesota. I will close my eyes, point out my index finger and plunk it down on the map. Where the finger lands, we will go.

OK. Here goes nothing.

My eyes are closed. (I type really well with my eyes shut, eh?)

Here we go...

Plunk!

And the winner is... Henderson MN 56044.

Never been there. Should be cool!

We'll let you know how the first adventure goes.

It Was 40 Years Ago Today...

The album responsible for the "rock" album, the "concept" album, and breaking the rule that stated that every song on an LP must be separated by three seconds of silence, has turned 40 years old this week.

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, release the first week of June 1967, was revolutionary for its time, and turned artistic expression for pop/rock artists on its ear (so to speak). Not only were the sounds on the disc incredible (technically speaking), so was the sleeve. Sgt. Pepper is best known perhaps for the collage of (in)famous folk standing behind the festively costumed (and heavily moustached) Fab Four. These people - from Bob Dylan to Lenny Bruce, Laurel and Hardy to W.C. Fields, Edgar Allen Poe to Aldous Huxley - were people The Beatles (and sleeve designer Peter Blake) admired. (Interestingly, three of John Lennon's choices - Jesus Christ, Adolf Hitler and Mahatmas Gandhi - never made it onto the sleeve for fear of upsetting people. Gandhi came close - he was airbrushed out and replaced by a palm tree - just behind Diana Dors and beside Lawrence of Arabia.)

So, tell me... if you were designing this cover, who would you have on the sleeve and why? I'd love to know! Drop me an e-mail and I'll add your answers to the Jumbled Encephalon Noodle Salad blog.

My Cluttered Little Skull

My mother would be appalled. She always hated seeing my room wrecked as a child, with toys and paper and assorted what-not strewn from closet to desk and over the bed.

If she could look into my brain, she would probably ground me until I cleaned this mess up. (So much for being an active part of society any time soon.)

I am intensely cluttered and scattered, cerebrally speaking. (As well as otherwise - you should see my office!) And it's because of the messed up way I mentally process and file information. It shows in my blogging (4 blogs going, each with a different topic, none updated as often as they ought to be). It shows in my writing / journaling (I juggle notebooks like Gallagher does watermelons - only without the sledgehammer.)

I have a lot of things I want to do:
- write a book of devotionals
- write a book of humorous pieces
- write a cookbook (ok, that entry wins the "least likely to succeed" award)
- develop my drawing skills
- teach
- preach
- find a cure for stupidity (my odds are better with the cookbook)
- broker a deal for lasting world peace (see above)

What it boils down to is finding a way to satisfy this intense desire I have to be a truly creative individual. And it requires being creative at my very core - changing the way I think, the way I work, the way I operate. It requires opening my mind. (Anyone got a good pair of pliers? How about a hydraulic chisel?) It requires overcoming this fear of failure / embarrassment and letting it all hang out, just being me.

Simple, right?

It also requires doing creative things and submersing myself in creativity (art, music, writing, etc...) To this end, I am juggling a bit of reading:

Rome Sweet Rome: Our Journey to Catholicism by Scott and Kimberly Hahn. My brother sent me this book to read. I am fascinated by the idea of a Presbyterian minister going Catholic. So far, and interesting read. But I just it started last night.

The Arrogance of the French: Why They Can't Stand Us - and Why the Feeling Is Mutual by Richard Chesnoff. Chesnoff is an American who lived in France for years, and has some unique insights into our mutual love / hate relationship. (Hint: it's almost a sibling rivalry type of relationship.)

Don't Shoot, It's Only Me - Bob Hope's Comedy History of the United States by Bob Hope and Melville Shaveldon. This is no history textbook. But it does have some entertaining tales and anecdotes. Fun to read - as long as Bob Hope's humor is your thang.

According to The Rolling Stones by The Rolling Stones. Actually, I just finished this one a week or so ago. What a skewed way to view the world. If you want to convince your kids that drugs are bad, have them read Keith Richards' bits in this book. (By the by - saw the new Pirates of the Carribean movie over the weekend. Keith Richards plays Johnny Depp's dad and needed very little make-up.)

I am hoping to hit the Minneapolis Museum of Art at some point this weekend with sketchbook and pens/pencils in tow.

As for music... hey, you know me. I always have tunes going.

And what about my cluttered mind? Creativity is not conducive to being organized, now, is it? It requires looking at life from a different perspective, being willing to explode what we see, rearrange it and view it in a new way. I guess that means there's hope for me after all!
-

(negative entry replaced)

This morning, I sat down and wrote a blog entry about fast food in general. It was a very negative piece, biting and satirical. The words were right here, in the space you are staring at now.

And I removed them.

Article IV, Section 6(b), Paragraph 19 of the Jumbled Encephalon Noodle Salad charter clearly states (and I quote):

"Adverse negativity is to be avoided at all times at Jumbled Encephalon Noodle Salad. There is enough negativity in the real world without allowing it to permeate this piece of cyberspace. Jumbled Encephalon Noodle Salad is a place of humor, joy and escape from the bad vibes and ugly boogabooga of reality."

I apologize for any bad vibes I may have inadvertently sent your way. On to more happy writing!

It Just Distappeared!

I have read horror stories of writers who lost their work - a lightning strike that fries a computer in the backseat of a car, the only copy of a manuscript disappearing in the mail, the scene from Duplex where Ben Stiller's laptop catches fire and gets run over...

I have some sense of empathy for these folks.

No, make that sympathy.

I just lost all my writing from this year.

Back in February, I was serving jury duty. To pass the time (which was considerable, to say the least), I re-read Kurt Vonnegut's Wampeters, Foma and Granfalloons (a collection of essays, articles and speeches I first read when I was around 16) and, feeling inspired (and bored), began writing again.

I had a little black spiral-bound hardcover journal that my beautiful wife had bought me. I had intentionally saved it for something special. In it, I furiously scribbled thoughts, ideas, anecdotes, drawings, cows, asides, insights, blindsights, opinions, seeds, observations and what-not miscellaneous cerebral bric-a-brac. I have been working in that little book a lot, and had what I thought were some very funny ideas going.

I hadn't written in it for about a month and, last Friday, decided the time had come to get back into the swing of writing. Off I went to a local coffee shop, where I poured ink onto pen and came up with a manifesto / plan to follow for a summer of creative writing and mental pump priming.

Excitedly, I took my little book and a fistful of pens with me to Little Falls MN over the weekend, intending to write whatever I was inspired to write whilst in the woods.

I last saw my book at Linderbergh State Park. I sat it down - on a bench or a ledge somewhere - and, in my zeal to snap photos of flora and fauna and scurrying varmits, I forgot to pick it up.

It is gone.

All that work - gone.

Gone.

As my young nephews used to say when they were three or four, "It just distappeared!"

How foolish. How absolutely stupid of me.

Poof! Presto. Gone.

My hope is that someone found it and, intending to do the right thing and turn it in at the rangers' station, instead opened it, read the words, checked out the cow, and laughed so hard they decided to keep it.

Maybe they'll shelve it beside their copy of Wampeters, Foma and Granfalloons.

Or Breakfast of Champions.

Either way, I would be honored.

So be it.

Tonight, I start again. I hope I'm still funny.

The Echinertia Excuse

Wow... has it really been two months since I last posted at Jumbled Encephalon Noodle Salad? Well, please allow me to explain.

When last I posted (7 March 2007), cold and flu season was still in full bloom. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I do not like taking medication, unless I absolutely have to. However, I was also trying to stave off coming down with a nasty bug as spring approached. So... I strolled down to this local pharmacy to pick up an herbal suppliment to bolster my immune system.

Evidently the pharmacist was new. He looked like he was about twelve and, while I thought he might be albino, come to find out he was just really blonde and had a milk moustache. He thought he was handing me a bottle of echinacea.

He gave a bottle of echinertia instead.

I ended up taking echinertia. For two straight weeks, I kept popping these echinertia suppliments and slowing down more and more all the time. Quite frankly, by the time I realized the pharmacist's error, I had taken so much echinertia that I'm just now getting back to normal speed.

The good news is I didn't catch a cold. The bad news: it still takes me about ten minutes to walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night. And that's a problem!

No Wonder I Love the Nightlife!

I've known for quite some time now that something wasn't right. I could feel it - I mean deep down feel it. The sensation - a tingle, if you will - would begin in my legs, or my spine, and spread throughout my nervous system and into my arms. It's usually worse when music is playing. Still, I could never figure out the cause of this odd sensation.

Until today.

This morning, I had to stop at the local Megamart to stock up on some supplies. As I was pushing my wobbly cart up the critter care aisle (they had one whale of a deal on salt licks, 3 for $10), I heard a song blasting through the PA system that I hadn't heard in years.

And then... I felt it. The tingle. The itch. The need to move - indeed to groove. My legs were beginning to buckle and sway. My fingers were snapping and popping uncontrollably. It was as if my nerves were suddenly and inexplicably under an influence that was not my own. I couldn't control my feet as they danced around the cart, causing me to knock over several bags of Monkey Chow.

When I heard the words to the song that was playing, it clicked. Ah-ha! It was coming together. I knew what the problem was - at last.

I got the Boogie Fever.

Evidently, the most prevalent symptom of the Boogie Fever is an uncontrollable urge to boogie on down. Another thing I learned: the Boogie Fever outbreak is an epidemic - dare I say a pandemic. How do I know this? The song clearly states it: EVERYBODY got the Boogie Fever.

I wonder if the people at the CDC know about this.

There is no known cure for the Boogie Fever. There aren't even treatments available to relieve it's Kung-Fu grip on those this wretched disorder infects. I guess I have no choice: I'm just gonna have to boogie oogie oogie till I just can't boogie no more.

Announcement

Jumbled Encephalon Noodle Salad no longer accepts competitors' coupons.

We're sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

When Three Blogs Just Aren't Enough...

Once upon a time, I had a website for Hoosiers who had moved away from Indiana called Expatriate Hoosiers. I'm now in the process of resurrecting this site as a blog.

The Expatriate Hoosiers Blog site will be a place for the vast Indiana diaspora, and those who love them. It will be a place to catch up on all things Indiana, visit linked Hoosier websites and celebrate the Colts' imminent Super Bowl victory. (And, yes, pray for Peyton Manning's thumb!)

So... if you know a Hoosier - either someone who is from in Indiana or still lives there - please tell them about The Expatriate Hoosiers Blog. It makes the ideal Christmas gift!

Irritable Vowel Syndrom

My accent is fading. I used to speak with a pronounced Indiana twang - a verbal reminder of my homeland of which I have been stubbornly proud for years. However, this year marks the 13th anniversary of Jennie and I's incredible escape from the Hoosier state (for extremely fictious details, read my blog post from 29 March 2006, The Great Escape). I still remember the brush and the briars, the terror of being hunted down by snarling dogs and various farm animals, the guards in their coveralls atop their tractors, having to crawl through that crudely dug tunnel, emerging on the Illinois side of the razor-wire electric fence...

Alas, I digress...

While my twang may be fading, there are still some word pronunciations that drive me up a tree. Much like our beloved president who talks about "nu-kyuw-lur" weapons (its nu-clee-ar, folks!), I cannot make myself refer to my parents' sisters and sisters-in-laws as "onts". They are my aunts (pronounced "ants").

I was baptized in a creek (pronounced "crick"). Creek is the sound your wood doors make when they need oil.

And don't pick on me because my car has windahs.

OK... there's plenty of room for multiple pronunciations of most of the English language. That's why I love English so much - it is so pliable! You can abuse it, misuse it... heck, practically destroy it! - and it will still convey your message. Sometimes even better!

Yabetcha! (OK... another non-Hoosierism I refuse to adopt.)