Meet my blog

My children are screaming at each other in the living room. No, don't get up, I'll get to it. Eventually. I'm sure that yet another debate over the merits of ennui vs. enthusiasm encompassed in the relationship between Spongebob and Squidward in an episode of Spongebob Squarepants has escalated into shouting and eventual violence. Yes, again.

OK. I settled it by popping in The Incredibles. Yes, I'm that kind of parent. And I'm blogging now, for ... some reason. My wife will say this is just another project to distract myself with, and she's right, but what else is new? This will be an experiment in directed ranting, most likely, a place to get all the nonsense out of my brain and into a public forum where it can be squinted at and poked with a stick. Children can yell "ooh" and be fascinated or run away. If you even let your children read it. There will be cussing. You have been warned.

For those of you who've wandered across this randomly (how appropriate) I'll introduce myself, sort of. I Live in Northern California. No, not Fresno. Not San Francisco. No, not Sacramento either. North. No, still north. Almost Oregon. Hint: A lake. A Dam. You're probably close. Jefferson, as the idealists like to think of it (hi xnickerx!) Or Superior, California. Or Just Northen California for those who don't care what mental image that brings. We have rivers, mountains, and an ocean around here somewhere but you'd never know. God's country, but aren't they all?

I was born along with the collapse of the Nixon administration, though I don't think the two events were related. I think the Exorcist also came out that year, so make of that what you will.

I grew up in a small town in Indiana (motto: a great place to be from!) , population 13,000, and wanted to flee my entire life and have the sick irony of having fled to a small town in rural California (motto: why are all you people here, again?), population 13,000. I teach 7th and 8th grade Language Arts and a college prep program. Yes, people allow me to mold young minds. They even pay me for it. This scares even me.

So, this blog is here so that I can, at some future point, prove to myself that I did have coherent thoughts. Or, as is more likely, give me the opportunity to regret impetuouisity and the easy fix of the publish button. But it will be here and you will be there and who knows where I will be, but somehow we'll get through it all together.

I'm sure the meaning of the title will become obvious over time.

I'd better go. There's shouting again and the three-year-old has demanded to know, yet again, whether Brad Bird paid any royalites to Stan Lee for ripping off the Fantastic Four and the six-year-old, a staunch Birdist, has brought Jack Kirby into the argument.

This could get ugly.