I need to state upfront, that I do not believe in "ghosts" or "spirits."
But like even the most rock-headed pragmatists, I've experienced things which I can't explain.
I bought my first house in college. I was looking at what I was paying in rent for a rather dingy studio apartment and comparing that to what a mortgage payment would be on an inexpensive house in a dingy neighborhood. I just could not rationalize the rent.
This was in the pre pre pre real estate meltdown days. FHA programs still worked as intended - getting working people into homes that they really could afford without large down payments.
So I bought a house at a price that is less than the cost of some vehicles. It was on a quiet one-way street, in a working-class neighborhood. There were no houses on the other side of the street, since that was taken up by the interstate. The interstate sat up a huge, steep hill, making the noise just a dull din in the background. For a college kid - it was idyllic.
The house was affordable, and I loved spending time and what little money I had improving it. Most rooms were painted; rough fixes done to allow the sale under FHA rules were remedied; carpeting was installed in many rooms. The energy that seems to inherently come with a first house is enviable now.
Still, money was tight. I made OK money working as a line mechanic and restoring cars, but the school year was tougher, with tuition due and often less work. Multiple jobs while going to school sometimes made things hectic.
The kitchen in the house was fairly large for its age. At some point in the house's history, it was lifted off its foundation, moved over several feet with a new basement dug under it. This was done to give the property a driveway, and (as I've been led to believe) as an overreaction to fighting with the neighbors at the time about the property lines. I believe the kitchen may have been enlarged at this same time.
The house had been owned by the same family for decades prior to my purchase. The family originated in Eastern Europe with a last name that had too many consonants. It was changed for most family members at some point to make it more pronounceable. The last member to leave was Annie. I bought the house from Annie's son.
Money was tighter than normal, with the end of the school semester approaching when I returned home on a late winter day. Opening a drawer in the kitchen, sitting right on top was a birthday card to Annie. I found this quite disconcerting as much time was spent cleaning before moving into the house.
I wasn't too disturbed, but did spend a few hours later that week removing all the drawers in the kitchen, looking under the cabinets and under every drawer; I had assumed the card was stuck under or behind a drawer somewhere. I found nothing else.
Through that spring, several more old birthday cards appeared in the kitchen drawers!
I won't say this freaked me out, but it was far more than curious.
As that school year wound down, a final envelope showed up under the sink this time. It contained a few more birthday cards and a massive wad of $2 bills. Humidity and water from the sink had caused all the bills to stick together in some even-numbered cancerous mass.
This was a blessing as money was scary tight by that point, with relief in the form of the summer work season not yet providing.
I've previously written how old houses have a breathing history, and this was only one very pronounced example of that house.
I wedged the wad of bills into a blue folder, and took it to the bank. A friendly teller and I spent a considerable amount of fun time separating the bills. I'm not sure if the average bank teller today would have taken that same amount of time. She returned the sum to me in uncirculated currency.
I used the cash to catch up on a few bills, buy food, and I think I also splurged on a really expensive bottle of beer - it was found money. As I recall, I was not impressed with the beer.
I suppose it is hard to have any fear about a ghostly windfall, but the circumstances of it appearing after specifically looking for anything stuck in the kitchen drawers due to the birthday card(s) was a little unsettling.
Either way, it is still very hard to explain.
At some future Halloween, I'll have to tell what I found out about Annie dying - it wasn't at the hospital, and the unexplainable noise and door behavior shortly after moving in...
Monday, October 31, 2016
Friday, October 28, 2016
Terra Mediterranean Vegetable Chips
Actual Headlines
From USA Today: Desperation Sets In While Homes Sit For Months With No Offers
From CNN: Home Prices Post Record Decline
From The Atlantic: After An Ugly 2010, The Housing Market Won't Look Much Better In 2011
Selling my house was objectively not very prudent. I tried to tell myself that buying at the bottom of the market made everything even out. I can still make that argument, but I spent a frightening amount of stressful time in 2011 holding my breath.
Action does not always need to be prudent - or inaction for that matter.
I also told myself that as a small community, the area I was living in would be largely immune from the big-city and suburban housing market sickness. Since I was so deeply involved in the buying and selling process, I started keeping track of the market in my township. The chart below shows how much of a glut there really was even in that small community five years ago - and what a bad financial decision moving might have been.
With the market overloaded, and with many of them foreclosures, prices were seriously depressed. If there was a bright spot, it was that as a house with improvements made under the assumption I would never move again, the house showed well compared to some of the foreclosures in the area. Still, foreclosures in the area now are about 10% of what they were five years ago.
As expected, the harsh edges of real estate have softened over the last five years, but I still vividly recall the two lowest of the low points.
Taking care of two houses was very painful, and it seemed after every showing someone would leave a window or door unlocked. On one afternoon with a threat of rain, I went to the house to check on it and mow the lawn. I was done with the front yard as the smell of ozone preceeded a thunderstorm. While trying to finish the back yard, the skies opened up with a deluge of water. I only had a relatively small section in the back of the back yard to finish so I kept at it. Then the lawn mower quit. Kaput. The unmowed square got relatively more expansive as I had to finish cutting the now sodden lawn with the push mower while light rain continued to linger. I drove home wet, cold and defeated.
At one point, there were three realistic potential buyers showing interest. Things were looking up as I was convinced one of these would work out, one of them had to. Inability to buy during a divorce and inability to get financing in the new reality of lending forced two of the three out. I was eating Terra Mediterranean Vegetable Chips when the Realtor called to say the third would not be buying the house due to family squabbles. "So we're back to square one," was all I could say after a long pause.
It is hard to find anything "good" about the selling process. But in retrospect, it does sometimes help to bring some perspective to difficult situations, and perspective is needed all too often.
This too shall pass.
And it did.
Eventually the house was under contract. I'm pretty sure that once that happens, the buying and selling process is designed to extract as much money out of the sale as possible. I'm also pretty sure that once under contract, the real estate professionals push things through as hard as possible, while the finance and government bodies do everything possible to stop the sale. Both buyer and seller are merely along for the ride at that point. I'm 100% sure that I'm fine with how everything worked out.
The actual closing was suprisingly anticlimactic, it was dark outside once the closing was finished. I went to the bank to deposit the closing settlement and the teller had to get it approved since it was such a large deposit. I ate Kroger sushi (always disappointing) and grilled steak that night. The sale was an amazing gift.
I have one picture of the house from around the time I bought it that helps me remember how great it was to move there. Whether it is nostalgia or rose-colored glasses really doesn't matter. I even miss aspects of the house - I miss living in an old victorian sometimes; I miss living in what might be considered a commmunity, albeit somewhat less frequently. I have surprisingly few later pictures of the house. That may not be an accident.
It no longer feels odd to drive by it. I barely even wince when I see the basement light has been left on. Someone else has lived there now for 1/3 as long as I had. Allowing things to come to an end peacefully is a gift of getting older.
The sale of the old house was really the conclusion of the purchase of the new house one year previous. Five years after that finality, I can say without hesitation that while not objectively prudent at the time, it remains one of the better decisions I've ever made ... even in a really bad housing market.
From USA Today: Desperation Sets In While Homes Sit For Months With No Offers
From CNN: Home Prices Post Record Decline
From The Atlantic: After An Ugly 2010, The Housing Market Won't Look Much Better In 2011
Selling my house was objectively not very prudent. I tried to tell myself that buying at the bottom of the market made everything even out. I can still make that argument, but I spent a frightening amount of stressful time in 2011 holding my breath.
Action does not always need to be prudent - or inaction for that matter.
I also told myself that as a small community, the area I was living in would be largely immune from the big-city and suburban housing market sickness. Since I was so deeply involved in the buying and selling process, I started keeping track of the market in my township. The chart below shows how much of a glut there really was even in that small community five years ago - and what a bad financial decision moving might have been.
With the market overloaded, and with many of them foreclosures, prices were seriously depressed. If there was a bright spot, it was that as a house with improvements made under the assumption I would never move again, the house showed well compared to some of the foreclosures in the area. Still, foreclosures in the area now are about 10% of what they were five years ago.
As expected, the harsh edges of real estate have softened over the last five years, but I still vividly recall the two lowest of the low points.
Taking care of two houses was very painful, and it seemed after every showing someone would leave a window or door unlocked. On one afternoon with a threat of rain, I went to the house to check on it and mow the lawn. I was done with the front yard as the smell of ozone preceeded a thunderstorm. While trying to finish the back yard, the skies opened up with a deluge of water. I only had a relatively small section in the back of the back yard to finish so I kept at it. Then the lawn mower quit. Kaput. The unmowed square got relatively more expansive as I had to finish cutting the now sodden lawn with the push mower while light rain continued to linger. I drove home wet, cold and defeated.
At one point, there were three realistic potential buyers showing interest. Things were looking up as I was convinced one of these would work out, one of them had to. Inability to buy during a divorce and inability to get financing in the new reality of lending forced two of the three out. I was eating Terra Mediterranean Vegetable Chips when the Realtor called to say the third would not be buying the house due to family squabbles. "So we're back to square one," was all I could say after a long pause.
It is hard to find anything "good" about the selling process. But in retrospect, it does sometimes help to bring some perspective to difficult situations, and perspective is needed all too often.
This too shall pass.
And it did.
Eventually the house was under contract. I'm pretty sure that once that happens, the buying and selling process is designed to extract as much money out of the sale as possible. I'm also pretty sure that once under contract, the real estate professionals push things through as hard as possible, while the finance and government bodies do everything possible to stop the sale. Both buyer and seller are merely along for the ride at that point. I'm 100% sure that I'm fine with how everything worked out.
The actual closing was suprisingly anticlimactic, it was dark outside once the closing was finished. I went to the bank to deposit the closing settlement and the teller had to get it approved since it was such a large deposit. I ate Kroger sushi (always disappointing) and grilled steak that night. The sale was an amazing gift.
I have one picture of the house from around the time I bought it that helps me remember how great it was to move there. Whether it is nostalgia or rose-colored glasses really doesn't matter. I even miss aspects of the house - I miss living in an old victorian sometimes; I miss living in what might be considered a commmunity, albeit somewhat less frequently. I have surprisingly few later pictures of the house. That may not be an accident.
It no longer feels odd to drive by it. I barely even wince when I see the basement light has been left on. Someone else has lived there now for 1/3 as long as I had. Allowing things to come to an end peacefully is a gift of getting older.
The sale of the old house was really the conclusion of the purchase of the new house one year previous. Five years after that finality, I can say without hesitation that while not objectively prudent at the time, it remains one of the better decisions I've ever made ... even in a really bad housing market.
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Midlife Malaise
The worst part about the midlife crisis is that it doesn't exist. Or it doesn't exist as the whimsical fun experience that 80's television portrayed it as.
It is easy to laugh at the 40-something buying a red corvette and trying to hang out (or more) with the young floozy; playing Frisbee golf with a bunch of beer chugging frat boys. Even more funny if he is fat, ugly and going bald.
I even joked about this for a long time, saying I was looking forward to my midlife crisis when I would buy a motorcycle and ride it across the country, or I would do faux dangerous things like go white water rafting and bear hunting. It was easy and funny to paint myself as this caricature since I was doing these things long before the age of 40 and not as part of any sit-com existential crisis.
Before going any further, I think it is important to ask a few dangerous hypotheticals:
Would I go back to being a kid again? No way.
Would I go back to high school again? Nope, shoot me first. And I mean that.
Would I go back to college again? Hmmm, maybe - until I end up in a situation around college students and realize the answer is a definite no.
I recall working as a mechanic at a restoration shop during college, and the "old school" former employees would show up and often lament how the shop was just not the same anymore. Of course not - at the time, I thought it was better. But I get it now.
An informal poll of other similar-aged acquaintances suggests midlife can be a crisis of malaise.
There is that big question constantly lurking around lots of hidden corners:
I am generally content. Still, is this all there is?
Things were not supposed to be this ambiguous. My siblings and I used to play a board game called Careers. I likely have some of the details incorrect, but the premise was that levels of happiness, money and fame were chosen at the beginning of the game. Players then moved around the board "collecting" these things. The winner was whoever reached their predetermined levels first.
I'm somehow struck that either I chose the wrong mix at the beginning of my life, or this isn't quite as straight forward as the board game made it out to be. More metaphorically, I'm starting to believe that the game should have a constantly changing set of targets, and the players have no idea of what those targets are or what their score actually is. The squares in the board game only give vague direction as to how much of anything they provide. Money, Fame and Happiness can vanish without anyone realizing it. I believe I'm stretching the metaphor to real too far now.
Jonathan Rauch writes about his own experiences in The Atlantic. I've read similar articles and was prepared to skim this one. Until I got to the second paragraph:
"Yet morning after morning (mornings were the worst), I would wake up feeling disappointed..." (emphasis added). Mr. Rauch's experience is different in that the way any person experiences anything is unique, but there were familiar currents to what he was saying. And while I don't see things as disappointing, I'm with a large faceless group who see things with an overwhelming sense of malaise.
Yes, mornings are the definitely the worst, though. Perhaps a rarity in present day that I enjoy my morning commute. But once I sit down in my cubicle and stare at the computer as it boots up, there is a sense of unease. This routine is not comfortable.
Which is odd in that I like routine. When the routine is shook up, it too often means life is shook up, something negative has taken over. Monotony, comfort, lethargy, contentment all wrapped up in one.
Again, this is only unique in the same way any experience is unique. While not an avid Reddit user, a search on Reddit for "monotony" and "adult" shows that the crisis of malaise, while not universal, is also far from isolated.
The article in The Atlantic quotes Mr Rauch as feeling "ungrateful." I don't see it precisely this way. I guess I am in a similar state where if my 20-something self would look at my now-self, there would probably be surprise, maybe even shock. Who'd have thunk things would be where they are. In many ways, things could be interpreted as better than could have been imagined. Maybe I've sold out that 20-something though.
Not ungrateful, but incomplete. Definitely incomplete.
And that is the scary part of the midlife crisis, why the caricature of the guy spending too much money buying a Porsche seems funny on the outside. No matter what anyone does to rid themselves of the malaise of being 40-something, the only thing that won't change is themselves. Renting track time in a Ferrari won't do it. A new girlfriend won't do it. Even new career won't do it. The research seems to suggest, the best medicine is ... time. Given the restorative power of travel, I'm not really sure I believe this. Potentially, I just don't want to believe this.
I do think Generation X experiences this differently than the Baby Boomers, who screamed and threw tantrums about how they were not old. Generation X seems to be more in a holding pattern - the slackers even slack off when having a midlife crisis.
I frequently hear or read that generational distinctions are all BS. While this is partially true - slowly evolving changes create a spectrum. The reality can be seen in US birth data. The graph below shows both absolute and normalized births. No question the Baby Boomer generation exists, and that this huge group of people affects how people act and interact. The Millennial bump can also be seen; it is muted by the overall decrease the US birth rate.
In Generation X, we have a group of people who have listened ad nausea about how the Boomers were not ever going to get old. We watched them age before our very eyes. We saw it and are beginning to see it in ourselves. 50 is the new 40 is only one lie the boomers fed us for so long. Forty is still 40. And fifty will be 50.
And maybe that is good.
Mr. Rauch's article cites much research that after the midlife malaise, throughout it, things will improve. It would be nice if this curve was a V instead of a U. Life doesn't work that way; there will be no defined beginning and end - just a long malaiseful middle. Like generational change, the upswing will occur on its own schedule.
Generation X hopes that the research is meaningful, is accurate; that it is soon. I hope it is, anyway.
Still, there is a fear, a small voice nagging at me. As I look back 20 years, and ahead 20 years, could the next phase, beyond the humdrum of day-in day-out, be just as unexpectedly soft as 40-something?
Even as I am writing this, I'm not sure I believe it. Generation X is now well past the statistical half way point of our lives. There is another generation poised to bite at the heels of the first group to grow up in the participation-trophy era. That generation is just beginning to be defined. Gen Z? Or iGen (I hope not)?
With an objective eye, it is very hard to look at things negatively, and the midlife malaise ebbs and flows. I guess that midlife malaise is really a First World problem. But first world problems are not imagined - even with every developed country having pockets of third world when anyone takes the time to look.
This too shall pass. In time ... this too shall pass.
Sunday, October 9, 2016
A Blog About a Blog
I'm not sure why I initially started writing this blog, and I'm not sure why I continue to do so. In aggregate, it is one big non sequitur. Besides, blogs are soooooo 2002.
Five years ago, on this date, I poked around on Google's Blogger and started typing. It was a blissful time, with the newness of the new house providing an ongoing elixir. But it was also a very stressful time as the fate of the old house was a big unknown; it is amazing how transformational that move remains even after all this time. At the time I started the blog, I guess I was just looking for some kind of outlet, maybe any outlet.
The original goal of once per week was (predictably) quite optimistic. I've at least mentally pared that down to "about every other week" - with major exceptions being when other stuff, noteably vacations, takes significant time. Over the last five years, I've averaged close enough to 26 per year to be content.
The stats would suggest there is little readership, which is fine. Doing things for the self is far more important than what any kind of external validation can bring. I'm surprised how few people live this. I'm somewhat puzzled that a small number of posts have resulted in a large number of hits. I often wonder how many of these are just bots... I think monetizing the blog would overall cheapen it, take something away from the phantasmal existence. My consiracy-theory hunch is that the searchability (or findability?) of tjvbeagle.blogspot.com is affacted by search engines prioritizing monetized pages.
Still, some reviews have received numerous hits, and continue to do so.
Apparently, quite a few people want to see an oil change on a Toyota Tacoma.
There are several things I don't write about ... but I do.
Some topics are so current-time limited that care should be exercised. Cecil's death gave him a few minutes of fame that has faded very quickly. Predictably, there is no lasting change. His carcass remains rotting in a corrupt-African-government warehouse somewhere; all those good intentions and monetary donations are rotting along with it.
I need to work to live, but I don't need to dwell on it outside of work. So I never write about work?
Too much is already penned, typed, memed, etc. about politics. I don't need to contribute to this?
Some of what was written here led to bigger and better things. I never really anticipated this.
My first magazine article was published, somewhat indirectly, as a result of some thinking and pecking away at the Blogger keyboard.
On a much larger scale, my self-published book would likely have never been written if it weren't for this blog. Of course most of it was written mentally first while walking dogs.
I've committed to thinking before writing, and thinking again before hitting that terrifying "Publish" button. In addition to spelling and grammar issues that I wince at, there are some regretful posts. I've also committed to leaving them largely as they were, belated edits are rare. Do not delete the snapshots in time, no matter how ungraceful.
There are some I would probably rewrite as I don't think what I was trying to convey actually was. So it goes.
A few might be very questionable if someone, often a particular someone, might end up reading between the lines; or someone reads between the lines when they shouldn't.
A couple are regretful to the point that I have a hard time rereading them.
There are some that feature borrowed or stolen content. I love using quotes from interesting people, sometimes out of context. At least one is almost completely stolen, but oh how I wish I could find the Outburst extolling You Do Not Have a Constitutional Right to a Washing Machine. Actually, I recently did (and stole it too).
Some of what has been written is almost too personal to actually publish.
A few might be interpreted as a veiled cry for help. They probably aren't.
Some posts are so sad that I have a hard time rereading them.
Others are just too personal, but need to be written anyway.
This post is beginning to look like an 80's sit-com clip show - a cheap way to create a TV show without actually filming anything new.
And as I look over the 150 posts to date, I begin to see three themes emerging:
Much of what is written relates to Generation X, what happened to us. What is happening to us? But history is doomed to repeat itself since we pay so little attention to it the first time. The Baby Boomers and Millennials continue their love affair.
Getting older is brutally inevitable. Solidly middle class in middle age, I shudder when I look at reality. But I just about scream in terror, clawing at the dashboard of life at the thought of what could have been.
Life in the rural Midwest is wonderfully underrated. Bridging the first two themes, I can't imagine, at this stage, living anywhere else. Definitely not in the wretched overpopulated coastal ribbons. Still, sometimes I hear new places calling. Maybe New Mexico, or Oregon. Maybe Niue?
"In a faraway land called 'pre-2000,' what Earthlings now call blogging was called 'keeping a diary.' It's hard work to do well. I tried doing it in the early 1990s but had to stop because I no longer had a life - instead I had this thing that generated anecdotes to go into my diary. The diary took over and I had to stop." - Douglas Coupland
Five years ago, on this date, I poked around on Google's Blogger and started typing. It was a blissful time, with the newness of the new house providing an ongoing elixir. But it was also a very stressful time as the fate of the old house was a big unknown; it is amazing how transformational that move remains even after all this time. At the time I started the blog, I guess I was just looking for some kind of outlet, maybe any outlet.
The original goal of once per week was (predictably) quite optimistic. I've at least mentally pared that down to "about every other week" - with major exceptions being when other stuff, noteably vacations, takes significant time. Over the last five years, I've averaged close enough to 26 per year to be content.
The stats would suggest there is little readership, which is fine. Doing things for the self is far more important than what any kind of external validation can bring. I'm surprised how few people live this. I'm somewhat puzzled that a small number of posts have resulted in a large number of hits. I often wonder how many of these are just bots... I think monetizing the blog would overall cheapen it, take something away from the phantasmal existence. My consiracy-theory hunch is that the searchability (or findability?) of tjvbeagle.blogspot.com is affacted by search engines prioritizing monetized pages.
Still, some reviews have received numerous hits, and continue to do so.
Apparently, quite a few people want to see an oil change on a Toyota Tacoma.
There are several things I don't write about ... but I do.
Some topics are so current-time limited that care should be exercised. Cecil's death gave him a few minutes of fame that has faded very quickly. Predictably, there is no lasting change. His carcass remains rotting in a corrupt-African-government warehouse somewhere; all those good intentions and monetary donations are rotting along with it.
I need to work to live, but I don't need to dwell on it outside of work. So I never write about work?
Too much is already penned, typed, memed, etc. about politics. I don't need to contribute to this?
Some of what was written here led to bigger and better things. I never really anticipated this.
My first magazine article was published, somewhat indirectly, as a result of some thinking and pecking away at the Blogger keyboard.
On a much larger scale, my self-published book would likely have never been written if it weren't for this blog. Of course most of it was written mentally first while walking dogs.
I've committed to thinking before writing, and thinking again before hitting that terrifying "Publish" button. In addition to spelling and grammar issues that I wince at, there are some regretful posts. I've also committed to leaving them largely as they were, belated edits are rare. Do not delete the snapshots in time, no matter how ungraceful.
There are some I would probably rewrite as I don't think what I was trying to convey actually was. So it goes.
A few might be very questionable if someone, often a particular someone, might end up reading between the lines; or someone reads between the lines when they shouldn't.
A couple are regretful to the point that I have a hard time rereading them.
There are some that feature borrowed or stolen content. I love using quotes from interesting people, sometimes out of context. At least one is almost completely stolen, but oh how I wish I could find the Outburst extolling You Do Not Have a Constitutional Right to a Washing Machine. Actually, I recently did (and stole it too).
Some of what has been written is almost too personal to actually publish.
A few might be interpreted as a veiled cry for help. They probably aren't.
Some posts are so sad that I have a hard time rereading them.
Others are just too personal, but need to be written anyway.
This post is beginning to look like an 80's sit-com clip show - a cheap way to create a TV show without actually filming anything new.
And as I look over the 150 posts to date, I begin to see three themes emerging:
Much of what is written relates to Generation X, what happened to us. What is happening to us? But history is doomed to repeat itself since we pay so little attention to it the first time. The Baby Boomers and Millennials continue their love affair.
Getting older is brutally inevitable. Solidly middle class in middle age, I shudder when I look at reality. But I just about scream in terror, clawing at the dashboard of life at the thought of what could have been.
Life in the rural Midwest is wonderfully underrated. Bridging the first two themes, I can't imagine, at this stage, living anywhere else. Definitely not in the wretched overpopulated coastal ribbons. Still, sometimes I hear new places calling. Maybe New Mexico, or Oregon. Maybe Niue?
"In a faraway land called 'pre-2000,' what Earthlings now call blogging was called 'keeping a diary.' It's hard work to do well. I tried doing it in the early 1990s but had to stop because I no longer had a life - instead I had this thing that generated anecdotes to go into my diary. The diary took over and I had to stop." - Douglas Coupland
Saturday, October 1, 2016
Washing Machine (or Outburst II)
Stolen before it returns to the vacuous ether (again). Presented without commentary for your own conclusions to be drawn.
The context is an American teaching in a formerly Eastern Bloc Country, originally published in March, 2001:
There Is No Constitutional Right to a Washing Machine, by Mark Lovas:
As part of its pre-election campaign a local political party is offering working mothers one day off per month. The cynicism implied by this offer is, perhaps, not astounding if one considers that this is coming from a party headed by a man whose chief contribution to public debate seems to be vague accusations of corruption directed at other politicians.
The other night on the local Monday night political chat show, one member of the audience produced a newspaper article showing that this particular leading light had once been the recipient of special training in Russia. The political leader looked unhappy and did not respond. The moderator wanted to ignore it too. It wasn’t part of the planned discussion.
But, there’s something here worth noting. This country never had a lustration law—a law which banned former Communists from participating in politics. Had there been a lustration law many of today’s leading politicians would have been prevented from participating in politics. (A friend recently told me about a case in a neighboring country where a member of parliament who has responsibility for the media turns out to have been a censor during the communist period. When reporters tried to ask him about this, the former communist censor responded with belligerence and threats.)
In any case, the cynicism implied by the one-free-day-off bait is not restricted to the political realm.
My current employer recently offered a night of free bowling at the local shopping mall. The very same employer (speaking to me through the mouth of the most low-ranking local administrator, a man whose salary is certainly at least double my own) once told me that I shouldn’t complain about the ancient washing machine in my school-provided flat. He flatly stated that while my contract promises me a flat, the school is under no obligation to provide a washing machine. (Let us ignore the fact that this is a city where there is not one laundromat.)
This particular bureaucrat then went on to inform me that during his first six months at the school he had washed all of his clothes by hand.
I suppressed the thought: Well, when I worked for a different local University I washed my clothes by hand for 18 months. So, there: I’m more macho than you.
Had I said that, there would have been a race to prove who was more macho. I was speaking to a man who in his mid-thirties was living in Eastern Europe and is a quarterback for an American-style football team in the Exotic East. On top of that, his name appears above mine in the organizational chart for the local branch of an America-based university.
Praise God for the American Empire! Look how they send talented people to the poor part of Europe to help out. Such a generous country.
[Tracing the history of my washing machine—a mundane item if ever there was one– is instructive. When I spoke about its run-down condition to a member of the academic staff (a woman whose calling card identifies her as a “Site Manager”) she responded with surprise, telling me that it was her old washing machine and worked very well. In fact, her candid remark confirmed my suspicion that every local resident has a newer washing machine than I do. I have visited the homes of more than a few people who are citizens of this country, and every one of them has had a newer washing machine than I do.
My suspicions were reinforced by a conversation I recently had with a washing machine repair man. Apparently unable to place me from my accent alone, he asked me where I was from. When I told him I was American, he immediately responded with the question, “Why don’t you buy a new washing machine?”. Plainly the repairman would be surprised to learn that a native speaker of a prestige language, citizen of the world’s only super power, and someone working for a company with a “home office” within the territory of that super power, might actually be receiving a salary less than the average paid to local residents working for foreign companies.]
Then there is the case of a free trip to the local ski resort. Another case of bread and circuses — Yes, we should regard this as a free gift from our lord and master the Distance Learning University, which gives American Academics a chance to strut their stuff in the Exotic East of Europe.
The purpose of the Free All-Expenses Paid Trip to the local version of the Alps was to encourage Team-Building and reward the hardy workers. It also allowed “Senior Professors” based in the United States a chance to pontificate on the sin of plagiarism and the fifteen ways to skin (whoops, I meant evaluate) a student.
Hmmmm.
The globalization of education. Is that what it is? Or, mightn’t we speak more accurately of the Will to Power? If you can’t dominate at home, go abroad. If people who speak your own language don’t admire and respect you sufficiently to satisfy your dreams of being a guru, go abroad to a place where people want to speak your language, and you can have a head start, an advantage over them in the form of your native-speaker status. By all means, find someone to dominate. If you can’t be a winner at home, you can at least be the quarterback of a team in the Exotic East.
But by all means, you must be a quarterback!
Note on Distance Learning (DL): Thanks to the Internet, if only one has a computer and money, one can study with a university anywhere in the world. In the above rant, the author exaggerates a bit when he describes his school as a DL school; the school is not exclusively devoted to distance learning—it actually does have “day students” as well. On the other hand, distance learning is an important part of the school’s activities, and with the help of a grant recently awarded by the US government, the school plans to expand its DL activities in Eastern Europe.
One of the most horrific aspects of this new institution (as Phillipson 1999 points out) is that educators ignorant of a student’s culture, environment, and language are, in effect, marking out what is important and what is not.
It may, perhaps, be possible to have distance education of some quality in an extremely abstract mathematical subject, but in the humanities as traditionally conceived, discussion is essential. And discussion means face-to-face contact. And insofar as good (relevant, local) examples are the life-blood of any lecture, it is difficult to imagine how a distance teacher can overcome the inherent limitations of the medium.
It would appear that what is now on offer is (yet another) version of education for the masses. Just as mass production meant a decline in quality for the sake of wider availability of the product on offer, so education in enormous lecture halls at America’s state universities meant a de-humanization of education. And distance learning continues the trend with its promise of wider availability, and an unadvertised accompanying decline in quality.
Distance learning is a means for English-speaking countries to assert and expand their cultural hegemony. It is a vehicle of cultural imperialism, the McDonaldization of education.
The context is an American teaching in a formerly Eastern Bloc Country, originally published in March, 2001:
There Is No Constitutional Right to a Washing Machine, by Mark Lovas:
As part of its pre-election campaign a local political party is offering working mothers one day off per month. The cynicism implied by this offer is, perhaps, not astounding if one considers that this is coming from a party headed by a man whose chief contribution to public debate seems to be vague accusations of corruption directed at other politicians.
The other night on the local Monday night political chat show, one member of the audience produced a newspaper article showing that this particular leading light had once been the recipient of special training in Russia. The political leader looked unhappy and did not respond. The moderator wanted to ignore it too. It wasn’t part of the planned discussion.
But, there’s something here worth noting. This country never had a lustration law—a law which banned former Communists from participating in politics. Had there been a lustration law many of today’s leading politicians would have been prevented from participating in politics. (A friend recently told me about a case in a neighboring country where a member of parliament who has responsibility for the media turns out to have been a censor during the communist period. When reporters tried to ask him about this, the former communist censor responded with belligerence and threats.)
In any case, the cynicism implied by the one-free-day-off bait is not restricted to the political realm.
My current employer recently offered a night of free bowling at the local shopping mall. The very same employer (speaking to me through the mouth of the most low-ranking local administrator, a man whose salary is certainly at least double my own) once told me that I shouldn’t complain about the ancient washing machine in my school-provided flat. He flatly stated that while my contract promises me a flat, the school is under no obligation to provide a washing machine. (Let us ignore the fact that this is a city where there is not one laundromat.)
This particular bureaucrat then went on to inform me that during his first six months at the school he had washed all of his clothes by hand.
I suppressed the thought: Well, when I worked for a different local University I washed my clothes by hand for 18 months. So, there: I’m more macho than you.
Had I said that, there would have been a race to prove who was more macho. I was speaking to a man who in his mid-thirties was living in Eastern Europe and is a quarterback for an American-style football team in the Exotic East. On top of that, his name appears above mine in the organizational chart for the local branch of an America-based university.
Praise God for the American Empire! Look how they send talented people to the poor part of Europe to help out. Such a generous country.
[Tracing the history of my washing machine—a mundane item if ever there was one– is instructive. When I spoke about its run-down condition to a member of the academic staff (a woman whose calling card identifies her as a “Site Manager”) she responded with surprise, telling me that it was her old washing machine and worked very well. In fact, her candid remark confirmed my suspicion that every local resident has a newer washing machine than I do. I have visited the homes of more than a few people who are citizens of this country, and every one of them has had a newer washing machine than I do.
My suspicions were reinforced by a conversation I recently had with a washing machine repair man. Apparently unable to place me from my accent alone, he asked me where I was from. When I told him I was American, he immediately responded with the question, “Why don’t you buy a new washing machine?”. Plainly the repairman would be surprised to learn that a native speaker of a prestige language, citizen of the world’s only super power, and someone working for a company with a “home office” within the territory of that super power, might actually be receiving a salary less than the average paid to local residents working for foreign companies.]
Then there is the case of a free trip to the local ski resort. Another case of bread and circuses — Yes, we should regard this as a free gift from our lord and master the Distance Learning University, which gives American Academics a chance to strut their stuff in the Exotic East of Europe.
The purpose of the Free All-Expenses Paid Trip to the local version of the Alps was to encourage Team-Building and reward the hardy workers. It also allowed “Senior Professors” based in the United States a chance to pontificate on the sin of plagiarism and the fifteen ways to skin (whoops, I meant evaluate) a student.
Hmmmm.
The globalization of education. Is that what it is? Or, mightn’t we speak more accurately of the Will to Power? If you can’t dominate at home, go abroad. If people who speak your own language don’t admire and respect you sufficiently to satisfy your dreams of being a guru, go abroad to a place where people want to speak your language, and you can have a head start, an advantage over them in the form of your native-speaker status. By all means, find someone to dominate. If you can’t be a winner at home, you can at least be the quarterback of a team in the Exotic East.
But by all means, you must be a quarterback!
Note on Distance Learning (DL): Thanks to the Internet, if only one has a computer and money, one can study with a university anywhere in the world. In the above rant, the author exaggerates a bit when he describes his school as a DL school; the school is not exclusively devoted to distance learning—it actually does have “day students” as well. On the other hand, distance learning is an important part of the school’s activities, and with the help of a grant recently awarded by the US government, the school plans to expand its DL activities in Eastern Europe.
One of the most horrific aspects of this new institution (as Phillipson 1999 points out) is that educators ignorant of a student’s culture, environment, and language are, in effect, marking out what is important and what is not.
It may, perhaps, be possible to have distance education of some quality in an extremely abstract mathematical subject, but in the humanities as traditionally conceived, discussion is essential. And discussion means face-to-face contact. And insofar as good (relevant, local) examples are the life-blood of any lecture, it is difficult to imagine how a distance teacher can overcome the inherent limitations of the medium.
It would appear that what is now on offer is (yet another) version of education for the masses. Just as mass production meant a decline in quality for the sake of wider availability of the product on offer, so education in enormous lecture halls at America’s state universities meant a de-humanization of education. And distance learning continues the trend with its promise of wider availability, and an unadvertised accompanying decline in quality.
Distance learning is a means for English-speaking countries to assert and expand their cultural hegemony. It is a vehicle of cultural imperialism, the McDonaldization of education.
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