last day

Music: Moby: Last Night (2008) I'm sitting in Rachel's lovely kitchen in a neighborhood just north of Penn State. The day is glorious (blue sky, little fluffy clouds, robins grubbing for grubs), and I'm thinking about what I might do to entertain myself as I travel. My flight doesn't leave until 6-ish, and I won't get into Austin until midnight or so. Perhaps I'll find myself blogging again before the night is over. I have some books, but I've almost finished them. I have the new season three disks from Battlestar Galactica, so I imagine I'll get getting down with sexy cylons in my own private imaginary . . . .

The night before last Rachel hosted a reception for the department, and I got to chat it up with folks about everything from plagiarism to acid rock. It was a lot of fun, the mood was welcoming, and I gnoshed on more cauliflower than I thought was possible. Mike Tumolo and I had already bonded over our psychedelic experiences at Ottos (to the background of bluegrass music). Mike Hogan disclosed he used to have long hair, saw Hendrix play, and had erasers thrown at him by Michael Calvin McGee. We bonded. Johnstone also revealed he too shared a lysergic past. I felt like if I had some shrooms, we could have taken the reception up a notch (though less so in Emeril's direction where the four Cs par-tay; moreso Westward, Height-Ashbury to be more exact). I think if Timothy Leary were alive today, he would be so proud of our opened minds. After the reception Rachel and I gabbed into the night, discussing transitions, changes, and all things life of the junior professor.

Yesterday was a fun-filled day of waiting to be fed and spelunking. After we finally found a place to eat that was not mobbed by the people in town for some gymnastics meet, Eric and I took a leisurely drive eastward through the mountains, and then back again to Penn's Cave, an underground waterway discovered some time in the mid-nineteenth century. It was fun (if not cold down there). The guide of our boat was some aspiring teenage humorist: "This stalactite is Santa Claus. Over to your left, that's Mrs. Claus. And look here at this elephant." Ho-hum. "Any questions?" he asked. "Yeah, where's the restroom?" No laughter. The highlight of the boat-ride through cave formations was the territorial swans who were apparently supposed to attack us when we exited the cave into a lake. They didn't seem to interested.

Last night Eric, Rachel and Me had a charming dinner together at some fancy pizza place. We also had cocktails. Mmmm: cocktails.

This morning I made breakfast (omelets) and Rachel and I discussed teaching. She helped me to solve a syllabus problem this fall. I'll be teaching "Basic Rhetorical Criticism," but the way I want to teach it involves a lot of writing. Since enrollment for this class hovers between 13-16 students, that would kill me. So she shared with me her peer-reviewing system and I think I'll try this: run the class like each student is submitting to a journal, and other students are "blind reviewers" and so on. It's a great idea, and strangely I'm anxious to develop the syllabus.

Eric is on his way over for a last visit; I think we'll hang at Rachel's and gab a bit more. Then I head to the airport. If my plane crashes, Roger, you get to figure out how to divvy up the CDs. Brooke, you get to help place (or take in) the animals. My books are to be divvied up among the grads and Christopher and David. My neighbors get to take some furniture, foodstuffs, and appliances if they want them. Yogita, you get my prized cooking supplies, my poetry books, and any furniture you need for your spartan apartment. My intellectual estate should go those of you who tire of buying your toilet paper. James, you get the shoe collection. Barry definitely gets the fortune teller. Oh yeah, and there is only to be a kegger wake.