The End of A Vast Landscape and the Beginning of a New Journey...

I began researching graduate schools in late 2011 with an eye toward finding a terminal credential that would help me improve my skills with digital composition, communication theory, and media studies. I looked at programs across the country that had a variety of different approaches. There were creative writing PhD programs, American Studies programs, and old-fashioned English PhD programs. I got into some and was denied entry into others. I thought seriously, albeit fleetingly, about a move for our family that would have taken us into a completely different part of the country.

Ultimately, I found a program in Orlando at the University of Central Florida that has exceeded my expectations and helped me grow as a scholar and a person in ways that I never could have anticipated when I began attending classes in the fall of 2012.

UCF was rigorous, practical, and engaging. I took courses in HTML and XML theory, Web design, transmedia narrative theory, electracy, technical writing, modern rhetoric, writing for the Web, and cultural studies. I published three essays, completed thirteen classes, passed three qualifying exams, composed a six-chapter, 300-page dissertation, and successfully defended that research project in a culminating exam last week.

Whew!

I am very thankful to UCF and to the faculty in the Texts and Technology program. The aims of the program, which combines traditional and historical communication theory with cutting edge computer science, are perfectly applicable to my work in Florida State College at Jackonsville's Converged Communication program. I have forged friendships and made relationships that I plan to keep well into the future, and I know that I am a stronger writer because the work I have completed has been met with greater enthusiasm by editors and readers. 

I am participating in commencement in a few weeks with my family in attendance, and that will formally conclude at least one part of the process. But beginning with my classes at FSCJ in May, I will begin a new journey as I completely re-vamp my teaching approach and curriculum to help our students at FSCJ. 

These are exciting times, and I couldn't have arrived at this place without UCF, the Texts and Technology program, and T&T's amazing faculty and community of scholars.

Amusing Ourselves to Death

Neil Postman's prescient examination of the role of mainstream broadcast media on public discourse was in full display last evening in the GOP debate.

What a shameful display.

I've already lodged my vote in the Florida Democratic Primary, but I am, of course, keeping tabs on the GOP as well. Sanders and Clinton have positive attributes and negative attributes.

Marco Rubio, a conservative centrist that has done some good things for the state of Florida, has positive attributes and negative attributes.

Ted Cruz and Donald Trump? I don't see anything to recommend either of these guys, and their public displays of intellect, critical thinking, and substantive content leave so much to be desired that I actually am a bit fearful of what might happen if one of them won the nomination.

Postman's argument rests on the notion that convergence in radio, print, and television transformed actionable information into edutainment. He notes that the contemporary media is context free, truncated, titillating, and shallow. He mentions the waning of the private self in contemporary society and he cautions against the dangers of losing historical perspective.

It's an excellent text and, even though I'm generally an optimist, last night's debate perfectly illustrates how far we've fallen in terms of public discourse. The name calling and mud slinging was discouraging. It was like watching adolescents fight in the back seat of Mom and Dad's station wagon, and the sad thing is that Rubio had to get down into the dirt with these guys. 

Ultimately, Americans--and particularly supporters of the far-right contemporary GOP--lust for this type of thing. When Trump tweets that Cruz is a loser, which he does a few times a week, he is pandering to a base that gobbles up the negativity like candy. When he states that he'd like to punch a protester with a different opinion--the very definition of American democracy, mind you--in the face, dim-witted ogres at his rallies cheer for him. 

Seriously. This isn't the kind of thing we should be cheering, people.

Trump epitomizes the very thing that Postman warned us to be very wary of. A bombastic dullard, Trump has declared bankruptcy multiple times. His projects routinely fail. he hasn't an iota of a clue on the legislative process, and he's never done anything truly meaningful for America. 

He is not a viable leader of the United States of America.

Rubio said that Trump would be selling watches in Manhattan if he hadn't received a $200 million dollar inheritance. I'm sad he had to stoop down into the gutters for a handful of mud, but I'm glad he finally did it because Trump deserves to take a bit of the abuse he so commonly dishes out. 

Getting Back to Square One...

We had a pretty bad water leak recently. For the first time in nine years of home ownership, we had to file a claim. I received the itemized list of repairs yesterday, and I was amazed by how the contractors are parceling out the various expenses/depreciation.

We reported the claim on August 8. Today is September 9, and they are finally here working on the carpets in my daughter's room. The water crept under the drywall and soaked her carpet and padding. They are supposed to replace the baseboards and drywall, paint the walls, and lay the carpet down.

Needless to say, we really would like this to happen. All of her furniture is in the dining room. She's been sleeping on an inflatable mattress on the floor in our bedroom for a month. She's wearing the same half-dozen outfits because her clothing is in garbage bags.

And we won't get any relief on this point until after Friday, when they paint and replace the baseboards. 

Then, it's onto the living room (new laminate floors and baseboards, plus painting) and the garage and A/C cabinet.

Criminy, I'm happy that the insurance company was so responsive in coming out to assess the damage. They did an amazing job of dehumidifying the house and drying things out. I only wish that the contracted company doing the repairs was a bit more expedient. We're talking a full month here, and they just took our paint orders this afternoon. 

Home ownership has its rewards, but dang it sucks royally sometimes as well. 

Emaciation and Dread...

It's always baffled me how such an inconsequential little virus could have had such a great influence on humanity throughout our history. The flu, that same industrious contagion that spells doom for the alien invaders in H.G. Wells's War of the Worlds, has cyclically laid waste to the human species in our short and difficult time on the planet. 

I've largely avoided any major bouts of influenza in my life. I've had the occasional passing cold, but nothing on the magnitude of what I experienced last week.

My daughter might have brought the stuff home from day camp, because she was impacted first. Last Friday night, she awoke shortly after midnight and began to vomit. The unpleasantness impacted her for a few hours, but she was chipper and back at the business of being six the next day. 

Kids--so resilient!

And yet, when I look at the 2014 flu mortality rates, I see that last year's strain really did hurt a lot of children. When I think about how bad it hit me, I'm grateful that Lyla was able to whip it so easily. In the future, we'll never take a bug like this for granted again. Kids and the elderly face particularly tough battles with influenza, so it's prudent to take any early signs of the illness very seriously.

Anyway, we had an ordinary weekend. On Monday, I called my wife and asked her if she wanted to go out on a hike.

"Uhhhmpppllffff!" she moaned into the phone. "Sick..."

And indeed, when I arrived home she was lying on the bathroom floor. She'd filled a garbage bag with vomit in the car on the way home from work, and she was still having a hard time of it when Lyla and I made it home from camp. It was brutal. 

I took Lyla to the YMCA and we had an ordinary time there. I weighed in at 192 (healthy weight for me) and brought Lyla home after our workout, and that's when I noticed a peculiar, terrible, horrible thing.

Damn, was I ever sick.

Not just any sick, but the sickest I've been in thirty-eight years on the planet. Between about 7:30 and 10:00 p.m. I puked more than I've ever puked in my whole life--probably in all other instances put together. I lost so much water weight that I spent the entire night cramping. My calf muscles balled up into little iron knots, and I had to pace the room dozens of times just to keep from crying out in pain. 

I couldn't keep any fluids down, and it wasn't until we went to our family practitioner on Tuesday that I saw the full extent of my illness. I weighed in at 175.7, less than 24 hours after tipping the scales at the YMCA. I was given a shot to ease my nausea (thankfully, it allowed me to begin forcing fluids and I was able to infuse some life back into my frame, which had pulled tight like a the strings on a guitar) and a prescription for Tamiflu. Jeanne got one as well, and we've been on the road to recover over this past week. 

I'm back up to 192, and I've been able to get a few longer runs in over these last two days. What I'm stunned by is the general destruction that the flu--which the CDC noted mutated in late 2014, making last year's vaccine largely ineffectual--wrought on my body. I didn't get my full wind back in terms of running for a week. The headache associated with my dehydration was unlike anything I'd experienced before ("blinding" isn't merely some folksy idiom), and the cramping was so painful that I thought I might tear some of the muscles in my legs. Worse than anything was the thirst. I simply lie there in bed with a cold glass of ice water within reach, knowing full well that my body would not tolerate it.

When I read about the 20-40 million people that perished in the great influenza epidemic of 1918, my heart goes out to them and their families. It's a horrible illness, and one that we too often take for granted. Thankfully, the Tamiflu and other medications that we took turned things around quickly for us.

Never again, though, will I think of the flu as some innocent little bug--some cartoon germ that can be suppressed with a can of chicken noodle soup. No sir, the flu is one bad dude, and I'm going to remember that come November when the annual news cavalcade about washing hands and covering coughing mouths hits the airwaves.

Constructive Criticism

Barry Hinson just gave a great interview on Jay Mohr Sports. He apologized for calling his athletes out by name, but he wouldn't apologize for the rest of it, and I give him credit for his stance. In the interview with Mohr, he talks about a lack of accountability among his athletes, and an inability for them to take criticism. Every time he tries to correct a bad behavior, or introduce them to something new via analogies or stories, these young people roll their eyes at him. They're too apathetic to be bothered, according to Coach Hinson.

It was interesting to hear him talk about communication as well. He stated that he thought texting and e-mail communication has created an environment in which digital natives have a hard time dealing with confrontation. His point is that, when he has something to say, or an issue to contend, he just makes a phone call or schedules a meeting.

I can relate to his points, but I do think it was a mistake to single out an athlete on the air. After his rant went live on SportsCenter, one of his athletes let him have it on Twitter. He later deleted the tweet, but that's a good example of how difficult communication can be between the coach and his athletes in the digital era. Dashing off a quick tweet is just too immediate, and it doesn't take any formulation of an actual argument. It's merely reactionary, and it has zero rhetorical value at all when one just deletes it a few hours after pressing "send." 

I like Coach Hinson and I applaud him for his passion to compete and his implementation of tough standards. It's an important lesson for these coddled college students to learn--life is filled with challenging expectations and interpersonal conflict, and Coach Hinson is going the extra mile to help prepare these athletes to meet those challenges.

Oh, and as I write this, Coach Hinson is just killing it in terms of positive audience reaction. I think there is a real thirst in this country for the kind of tough correction methods that Coach Hinson is bringing to this SIU hoops squad. These are adults, not kids...they need to step up and accept criticism when they under perform, skip practice, and refuse to take coaching... 

Nihilism and Perversity

Their names have almost become a mantra: Kyron, Caylee, Haleigh, Somer, Maddie...It's a long and sobering list for any parent and for any community.

These are but a few of the children that have been abused, mistreated, taken and, in the worst cases, extinguished. While I don't think our current era is any more dangerous than life in America twenty or thirty years ago, the simple truth inherent in the list of names above is that life can be cruel and brutal. The fear and anguish suffered by these children--it's the kind of thing that puts those little triangles at the corner of your eyes.

I spend a small portion of my free time writing about monsters. And, while I think of myself as a writer of horror tales, most of my work is fantasy. These are weird tales that I'm writing, not stories of the evil that men visit upon each other.

And yet I can't help but shake my head at the horrifying and often random nature of it all. As a father, I can do only so much to protect my daughter. I can nurture her intelligence and teach her to be self-reliant. I can work with her to value herself and be careful to recognize dangerous situations.

But then you see some stories that shatter any idea of perceptual control, and those are the outliers that could impact any one of us. Take, for example, the senseless loss of life that was visited upon Makia Coney. She was killed so her murderers could feel the thrill of execution. I won't indulge in the fallacy that enrolling kids in private schools offers some elevated level of security; rather, I'll just lament the fact that Coney, a bright and personable young woman, merely made the mistake of getting into a car with a pair of human rattlesnakes.

Nihilism is a bruise on the soul and, if ever a tangible example could be tied to such a dark term, it's Coney's tragic death and the utter destruction of the lives of those who cared for her. One of Makia's University Christian classmates attended a composition course I taught here at the college. This dual-enrollment student wrote a little about Makia, and how her death was a stark reminder of how tenuous our very existence is. She, like the rest of us, couldn't answer that simple question: why?

Consider little Mona's story. Sent on an errand to the corner store, Mona was abducted, raped and strangled. Her killer was never captured. The prime suspect perished prior to the connection being made between his perverse appetites and Mona's death. It's a heart-wrenching story; when Detective Delehant provided the dress Mona was killed in to her mother, some forty-eight years after her death, the sense of overwhelming futility in all of it is palpable. For forty-eight years, Joyce Lane punished herself. And for forty-eight years, that punishment was not warranted.

People are not disposable, and yet some in our culture believe they are. Some of the people who believe this live next door to us.

It's the horror that we see in life--horror much more jarring than the lurching zombii or the cobbled-together Frankenthings our psyches conjure when we talk about scary stories.

So why even write this down? Why even contemplate such things? How does one prepare for the ultimate wild card, for the perverse and thoughtless monsters that walk among us on a daily basis?

I write because I want to, on some small level, make a tiny bit of sense of it all. And the simple truth that I arrive at--the one thing that provides even the smallest glimpse of rational thought in all of this--is that none of it makes sense.