Category Archives: humor

Jesus on a dinosaur

Jesus is Riding a Dinosaur, and other observations

The next time someone says something like “These are $130 headphones that I bought for $30,” I’ll respond “I guess that makes them $30 headphones.”untitled

Phrases and words that should never again be used in movie or book reviews: “Tour de force.” “Electrifying.” “Astounding.” “Spectacular.” “Jaw-dropping.”1345499734169

matt-and-kim-4untitled (2)To the professional photographer taking family pictures for the church photo album: Posing people in their 50s, 60s and 70s in contortions appropriate only for younger folks could lead to problems. We’ll send you the chiropractor bill.

Another word that is vastly overused: “Outraged.” It is okay to be outraged by the abuse of children, the fact that people go to sleep hungry every night in this country, or anything Donald Trump or Ben Carson says, or people who think that only Christians from Syria should be allowed to enter the U.S. as refugees. It is not okay to be outraged by a longer line than usual at the grocery store, two people of the same sex holding hands, or having to push an extra button on the ATM to indicate which language you would prefer the machine to use when communicating with you.images18HF1BON

Taking one point off a student’s final course grade every time he or she asks a question that is answered in the syllabus might cause a few more students to read the syllabus. Maybe.


I usually make fun of New Englanders and their tendency to overreact and over-obsess about weather, but I’m hoping for a year off on tough winters. The last two have been murder.
Ode to New England

The next person who posts a picture of food on Facebook should be required to buy dinner for all of his or her Facebook on facebook

dachshund banana003How is possible that my dachshund, sound asleep in bed with Jeanne in the middle of the night, can hear me eating an insomniac banana at the other end of the house?

Sixty is the new forty. Or at least I hope it is—I’m getting perilously close.60-is-the-new-40

I am a proud, card-carrying introvert, but if it was as easy to make real friends as it is to build a significant contact list on LinkedIn, I would be willing to give the extrovert thing a try for a while.Linkedin

Jeanne’s and my latest television-watching obsession is The Americans. Who knew the 80s were so exciting and entertaining? It’s giving me a whole new outlet for my dislike of Ronald Reagan.untitled (2)

From The Onion: Sonny Corleone would still be alive today if he had EZ Pass.300_100317

This will be helpful for creationists:Jesus on a dinosaur


Mister Perfect Has a Bad Day

A conversation heard behind the scenes:

Dude! Did you see what just happened??

How could I?? I’m in charge of the fucking luggage today and am stuck way back here. Why is the crowd always biggest when I have luggage duty?

The big guy just got dissed in front of everyone!

Are you shitting me? Tell me!

He was already in a pissy mood and this woman kept nagging him and bothering him until he finally put her in her place with one of his patented one-liners.

What else is new? That’s what he always does.

images0EW9Y1AOYeah, but she came right back at him with an even better put-down! And he admitted he was wrong!

HE ADMITTED HE WAS WRONG??? Oh My God!! You mean “MISTER PERFECT” made a mistake?? MISTER PERFECT admitted he was wrong?? Oh how the mighty have fallen! Priceless!!

Admit it. Every one of us has participated in a conversation like this at some point—probably more than once. Because deeply embedded in the heart of human nature is the desire to see the high and mighty take a pratfall. Henry VIII goutWe love hearing about the peccadilloes and foibles of those we put on a pedestal and enjoy finding out that they are flawed and limited just like the rest of us. It’s great to know that Henry the Eighth was afflicted with gout and that Napoleon suffered from hemorrhoids. WMIMI would love to find out that The World’s Most Interesting Man has an embarrassing case of athlete’s foot or dandruff or has bad teeth. Anything is welcome that lets us know that those who we, on the one hand, praise to the skies and worship in some fashion, on the other hand have feet (or other body parts) of clay.

The conversation above is what I imagine was going on behind the scenes of a classic story of someone’s imperfections showing in a very public way. The Sunday gospel readings during the summer in the common lectionary wander through Jesus’ activities and shenanigans as described by the gospel author of the year. tombsLast Sunday we encountered Jesus putting the finishing touches on yet another devastating dismantling of the religious authorities of the day. The disciples ask “Do you know that the Pharisees took offense when they heard what you said?” No shit—people usually don’t like being called white-washed tombs and hypocrites. Jesus is still pontificating as he and his entourage hit the road for the next town, undoubtedly still heated by self-righteous energy. Cue up yesterday’s gospel from Mark.

As the group presses forward, a woman elbows her way to within shouting distance of Jesus. Her accent and clothing show that she is a Caananite, a non-Jew, but that doesn’t stop her from doing whatever she can to attract Jesus’ attention because she has a big problem. Her daughter is “tormented by a demon,” and she knows by reputation that this itinerant preacher is also a healer. He has cast out demons before. “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon!” she screams at the top of her lungs. CanaaniteAnd she keeps screaming—her daughter’s health and well-being matter more than the fact that as a woman and as a foreigner, she has no reason to think that anyone, let alone Jesus, will take notice of her.

And for a time Jesus simply ignores her. He’s too busy, too tired, too annoyed by the crowds, too something to be bothered with this woman. But she continues screaming for his help, so much so that now it’s getting embarrassing. “Send her away,” a disciple or two mutters to him. “She keeps shouting after us.” “Jesus Christ” (really) Jesus finally sighs. “Enough already.” Turning to the annoying foreigner, he says “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” Ignoring this rather gentle dismissal, she simply gasps, with tears flowing down her cheeks, “Lord, help me.” That should work, right? This is Jesus, after all, the ultimate good guy who never turns down an opportunity to help the needy who come across his path.

But no. Jesus counters that “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” Oh my. That’s not very nice. And we know from other stories that Jesus has often addressed the needs of non-Jews without hesitation. The hero of one of his best stories, the Good Samaritan, is a non-Jew. So what the hell’s his problem? Simple enough—he isn’t in the mood. Just as all human beings—and he was one, after all—he’s having a tough day and he’s not at his best. He doesn’t feel like helping this foreign bitch (he just called her a dog, after all) and has provided a perfectly good rationalization for why he doesn’t have to. dog and crumbsEnd of story—the demons can have your daughter.

Not quite. This woman is not only insistent, but she’s also as quick on her feet as Jesus is. “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table!” Touché! In your face, holy man! This is impressive—her retort is the sort of thing that I always come up with hours after the conversation is over and I’m alone. “Man, I should have said . . .” But despite her panicked concern for her daughter, the unnamed woman is able to match Jesus one-liner for one-liner with her daughter’s health, perhaps her life, at stake. And even more impressively, it works. Something here, her persistence, her intelligence, her lack of regard for propriety, cuts through Jesus’ bullshit. “Woman, great is your faith. Let it be done for you as you wish.” “And her daughter was healed instantly.” The Jesus posse continues on its way and we never hear of this woman again.

So what’s the takeaway? Without the exchange between Jesus and the woman, this tale would be indistinguishable from dozens of other accounts of persons healed by Jesus. Why does the author choose to tell the story in this fashion? In the estimation of many, Jesus is the ultimate and cosmic “Mister Perfect”—their faith depends on it. nicene creedSo why make a point of showing that even Jesus had off days, could be rude and judgmental, and had clay body parts just as we all do? In addition to driving home the “Jesus was a human being” point, one the Nicene Creed tells Christians every Sunday but that we tend to ignore, there’s a more direct behavioral lesson to be learned here. Jesus listened. Even on a bad day crowded with distractions and annoyances, he was able to hear the truth, recognize he was being an ass, and wake up. We all have bad days, perhaps many more than Jesus did, and we tend to use “I was having a bad day” as a justification for all manner of bad behavior, even to those we love the most. The story of Mister Perfect having a bad day lets us know not only that the best of us occasionally fail to live up to expectations, but also that such failures need not be debilitating. Each of us can hear the truth and change a bad day into a not-so-bad one. Even Mister Perfect.

Back to the behind the scenes conversation:

Iwalk on water love it! Mister Perfect is having a bad day! Mister Perfect, who probably thinks he can walk on water, made a mistake!

Dude, he CAN walk on water.

Shut up.

Someone with Skin On

afraid-of-the-dark[1]The story is told of a little girl who was afraid of the dark. After trying any number of strategies to allay her fears, one night the girl’s frustrated mother said “there really isn’t anything to worry about—Jesus is always with you.” “But I can’t see him!” the little girl wailed. “I know you can’t,” the mother replied, “but he’s there all the same.” This did not help the little girl, who said “sometimes I just need someone with skin on.”

I thought of this story in the wake of an interesting round of seminars with two groups of nineteen freshmen in the interdisciplinary course I  teach in. Our seminar text was anselm[1]Anselm’s ontological argument—the very title is sufficient to cause nineteen-year-olds (or perhaps anyone with common sense) to shut down or at least to glaze over. The proof is a highly cerebral, rational attempt to prove the existence of God first made famous by Anselm, an eleventh century Benedictine monk who rose to be Archbishop of Canterbury for the last fifteen years of his life. It is called the “ontological” proof because it focuses on a logical analysis of the concept “to exist” or “to be” (ontos in Greek). Here it is in its simplest form.

1. I can think of a being than which no greater can be thought (a Perfect Being). 

2. Since I have this thought, the Perfect Being exists in my mind. 

3. It is greater to exist both in the mind and in reality than it is to exist just in the mind (ex: a unicorn that existed in reality would be greater than the unicorn that just exists in our imaginations). 

4. The Perfect Being must exist in reality as well as in my mind; if it existed only in my mind, I could imagine a greater being (which is contrary to #1). 

5. Therefore, the Perfect Being (God) exists in reality.

Here’s a cartoon version that gets the gist of the argument. Jesus and Mohammed are having a beer . . .


Confused? So were my students. My literature colleague and teammate, a medievalist, had done a first run through the argument in a lecture early in the week, but when I asked my seminar students how many thought they had a handle on what had happened in that class, not a hand was raised.

So-What[1]I took the opportunity over the next ninety minutes to walk through the steps of the argument with the students as slowly as needed and was convinced, at the end of the exercise, that each student in the room at least understood how the argument worked. But as I frequently tell students, the most important philosophical question one can ask is “So what?” Who cares? This led to the most important part of the seminar, as I asked them to role play:

1. Choose one of the following roles: a person who believes in the existence of God or a person who does not.

2. Once you have chosen your role, ask yourself the following:

a. If you are a believer, would the ontological argument help strengthen your faith, or would it basically have no impact? Why or why not?

b. If you are a non-believer, would the ontological argument convince you to become a believer or not? Why or why not?

dividing-wall[1]Each person wrote from the perspective of their chosen role for ten minutes, then compared what they wrote  in groups of three or four with others who had chosen the same role—believers with believers and non-believers with non-believers.

The students choosing to be believers and those choosing to be unbelievers were roughly equal in number. But the message that emerged from the group discussions—believer or non—was consistent: The argument doesn’t work. Believers agreed that although the argument might be “interesting,” that’s all it is. The argument does nothing to bolster, support or clarify already existing faith. Neither did the argument move any non-believer an inch closer to belief.

Why? Is there a fatal flaw in the logic of the flow from premises to conclusion? Many philosophers and theologians over the past millennium have sought to poke logical holes in different parts of the argument, with varying levels of success. But the ontological argument is still here, dragged out and dusted off in hundreds of philosophy of religion classes across the world every semester, godel ontological[1]stubbornly staking its claim that from the mere existence of an idea about a Perfect Being one can establish with certainty the actual existence of an actual Perfect Being that matches up to the idea. I have a colleague in the philosophy department, a Dominican priest, who not only is convinced that the ontological argument is sound, but who will proceed upon invitation to demonstrate it using symbolic notation and modal logic. Trust me, you don’t want to know.

The argument’s failure to impress my students, however, had nothing to do with its logical triumphs or failures. As different groups of believers and non-believers weighed in after we reconvened, a common theme emerged:

Maybe God exists, but this doesn’t tell me anything about how to relate to God or where God is. 

Faith for me is not about arguments.

This argument doesn’t tell me anything about what God is like or what God wants.

If I already believe that God exists, I don’t need a proof to tell me that.GodPuzzle[1]

I don’t think God is a puzzle or a problem to be solved.

How is this going to help me be a better person?

Bottom line: My students were in almost unanimous agreement that the God of Anselm’s argument is not someone who can be related to on a human level. Anselm’s God is not “somebody with skin on.” And sometimes—perhaps most of the time—that’s what we need God to be.

RUBIKS GOD[1]The good news is that according to the Christian narrative, God knows this. It sometimes shocks my students to hear that “incarnation” literally means “to become meat.” Carnivore, carnivorous, chili con carne, carnal. Or to put it differently, “incarnation” means “to put skin on.’ God’s response to human need, hope, sorrow, desire, pain, joy, and suffering is to wrap the divine up in flesh. On a given day, in a given situation, that incarnated God might be you. It might be me. This is how the divine chooses to be in the world. It’s much more possible to relate to someone with skin on than to a mathematical formula or a logical construct. God is not a Rubik’s Cube. God is a person with skin on. Embrace it.


Sowing the E-Seed

Today’s gospel is about sowing seed–a promising but ultimately inefficient activity, both in the field and on line. I was thinking about that a year ago . . .

I do not consider myself to be a particularly obsessive person (Jeanne might disagree), but my penchant for checking my blog statistics on at least an hourly basis belies my claim. In the middle of the summer when my schedule is less intense it is easier to explain why I frequently check my blog either on my phone or tablet, but I find time to do so regularly even when the semester is in full swing. my-stats-mapI have even stepped out of someone presenting a philosophy paper at a conference on the pretense of visiting the men’s room on a particularly busy blog day to see how many more hits my new post has attracted since the paper began a half hour before.

It did not help when Jeanne bought me a couple of hours’ worth of conversation online with a blog consultant several weeks ago. My blog has been in existence for close to two years now and I am continually surprised pleasantly by how well it is doing, but Jeanne would like to see it go through the stratosphere. I suspect there is an ulterior motive behind her promotional hopes for my writing beyond the fact that she loves me—she wants this blog to be the vehicle for my writing becoming so popular and my turning into a speaker so highly and lucratively in demand that she can retire. imagesRFB367C3During the first Skype-type hour with my very pleasant, very talented and frighteningly young blog consultant Matt, it was clear that he did not know what to make of me. I’m not selling anything on my blog, I’m not promoting anything other than ideas and stories—most of his clients are trying to become rich off their blog activities. It was clear that it would take some time for him to understand me when within the first ten minutes of our first conversation he suggested strongly that I should get rid of the penguins at the top of the entry page to my site. Unaware that messing with my penguins is like messing with my children, he backed off when I told him the penguins weren’t going anywhere (although he tentatively raised the issue again the other day at our most recent session).

On his advice my blog has been moved to a much more powerful platform. For the most part I have no real idea what that means except that it cost some money and forced me to learn a few new habits when preparing posts for publication (sort of the same as moving from word 2010word 2013Word 2010 to Word 2013; a general pain in the ass, but not impossible). The most tangible difference is that I now have access to approximately 1000 times more stats concerning where the people visiting my blog are coming from, how they got there, what they are reading, how long they are staying, what search engines are directing them to me most effectively, etc., etc., etc. Not a good thing for my stat-obsessibounce rateve tendencies, but I’m doing okay so far. That’s probably because I’m finding some things out that I don’t like.

For instance, the “bounce rate” on my blog for the month since it was moved to its new platform is 72.04%. The bounce rate is “the percentage of single-page visits (i.e. visits in which the person left your site from the entrance page without interacting with the page).” Well that’s not good. Matt says “we should try to get that under 70%,” which also doesn’t sound very good. I think he blames it on the penguins. My blog has been visited by folks in 67 different countries in the past month (over 150 since the blog began), but the bounce rate brings those numbers into sobering perspective. untitled 2I can just hear people in forty-five different languages saying “What the fuck is this??” as they zip away from my entrance page. They probably didn’t like the penguins.

Drilling down deeper (a cool, nerdy phrase Matt likes to use) into the location stats, I discover that in the US, not surprisingly, 39.06% of my visitors are from Rhode Island, with a close competition for a distant second between New York, Texas, and Massachusetts. Texas?? That doesn’t make sense. But the bounce rate from Texas visitors is 87.88% and the average duration of their visit is thirty seconds, so even Texans can figure out pretty quickly that my liberal, blue state, non-fundamentalistMt-Rushmore-006 blog is somewhere they don’t want to be. It’s probably the penguins. I am also disturbed to find out that there are three states who have not sent someone to my blog in the last month: cornSouth Dakota, Iowa, and Nebraska. I’ll work on saying something nice about Mount Rushmore and corn in the coming weeks. By the way, I can drill down even deeper and find out what cities and towns visitors are coming from as well. I haven’t figured out how to find out my visitors’ mailing addresses yet, but if I do I’ll be writing you individually.

I could go on and on, but I shouldn’t—that would require my spending even more time looking at blog stats. But I wondered for several days whether all of the time and energy I put into my blog is worth it when almost three-quarters of the people who arrive on my entrance page and have the opportunity to read my latest bits of wit and wisdom don’t. L07LIM26CHRFortunately the Gospel readings for the past few Sundays have been from Matthew 13, the wonderful chapter in which Jesus shares many of his most memorable parables. Like this one:

Listen! A sower went out to sow, and as he sowed, some seeds fell on the path, and the birds came and ate them up. Other seeds fell on rocky ground, where they did not have much soil, and they sprang up quickly, since they had no depth of soil. But when the sun rose, they were scorched; and since they had no root, they withered away. Other seeds fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them. Other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty. Let anyone with ears listen!

It is difficult to imagine a more wasteful and non-economical activity. If this sower had Google Analytic statistics to gauge the success and effectiveness of his activity, I’ll bet his bounce rate (the sum of seeds that fell on the path, rocky ground, and among thorns) is at least as high as mine. But if, as Jesus’ interpretation later in the chapter suggests, the seed is the word of God, then this is just the typical divine strategy that I keep bumping into—“Let’s just throw a bunch of crap out there indiscriminately and see what happens!” ineffeciencyGod is no respecter of persons, statistics, focus groups, yield projections, bounce rates, or any other thing humans might devise as the best measures of effectiveness and efficiency. All you have to do is consider the extraordinary wastefulness of the way God chose to crank out endless varieties of living things, natural selection, to realize that Isaiah wasn’t kidding when he reports God as saying that “my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.”

I’ll try to keep this in mind whenever my stats aren’t to my liking or Matt tries to get me to ditch my penguins. Every Monday and Friday when I throw new e-seed out there and Wednesdays when I throw out recycled e-seed, I am imitating a divine activity that makes no sense but somehow produces fruit in the most unexpected and unpredictable places. Excellent. And I’m not getting rid of the penguins.untitled 4


The Little Red-Haired Girl

Today is my lovely Jeanne’s birthday–please join me in celebrating my favorite person’s natal day!

A staple of my early years was the “Peanuts” comic strip. That doesn’t make me unusual—I don’t recall anyone in my circle of family and friends unaware of what Charlie Brown and company were up to on a daily or at least weekly basis. Depending on my mood and what was going on in my life, I resonated either with tumblr_l8pnbvbVeh1qdz4kto1_500[1]Linus, with whom I shared a host of insecurities; Schroeder, with whom I shared budding virtuosity on the piano; Snoopy, who was the epitome of coolness and could communicate volumes without saying a word; or Charlie Brown himself, whose endearing ineptitude in all aspects of his life was uncomfortably familiar.

I was a hopeless romantic, generally falling in love and making silent wedding plans any time a girl would make eye contact with me. Because of this, the most poignant story line in Charlie Brown’s escapades for me was his unrequited love for the never-seen little red-haired girl. nye3[1]Although she does make a couple of appearances in later, non-canonical television “Peanuts” cartoons, she is never seen in the print comic strip, nor do we learn her name. Charlie Brown most often notices the little red-haired girl while eating lunch outdoors on the playground, often trying to muster up the courage to speak to her, but always in vain. Anything touched by her or associated with her is precious to him. Many strips concerning the little red-haired girl end with a classic Charlie Brown “SIGH.”tumblr_lwy627YD7t1r1g3g0o1_500[1]

I understood Charlie’s struggles because in first and second grade there was a little red-haired girl in my class. Her name was Laura, her hair was carrot red, and since her last name also started with an “M” she sat in the seat in front of me. No one knew that I was enamored of Laura, certainly not her, but one day the secret was out. She unexpectedly handed a note back to me—it said “Can I borrow a pencil?”—someone observed the note transfer, assumptions were made, and during the next playground session it was “Vance and Laura, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.” As Charlie Brown would have said, “Good Grief.” Laura set things straight from her end by pointing out that everyone knew that she liked David, not me, but my failure to immediately deny my admiration of Laura confirmed everyone’s suspicions. Word spread fast, and my brother three grades ahead of me announced at dinner that evening to my parents that I was in love with a girl who didn’t like me.

Time passed, we moved away, and the little red-haired girl faded into the mists of memory. Life happened, and I ended up getting married to the first person I had a serious relationship with, my girlfriend during my last two years of high school (she had brown hair). Over the next decade two sons were born, things fell apart, and at age thirty-one I found myself divorced, living in the same town as my ex, finishing a Master’s degree and making plans to get into a doctoral program.Trudy and Bruce June 1982 My parents invited me along with my sons—ages eight and five—to their place five hundred miles away for Thanksgiving. And oh yeah—they were inviting their friend Jeanne for Thanksgiving as well.

I had heard about Jeanne before—my parents had known her for a number of years. When she came up in conversation, my mother always mentioned her beautiful singing voice and her beautiful red hair. Jeanne and I had even talked on the phone once a couple of years earlier, when she called me out of the blue just to tell me that she had been accepted into st_johns_college_logo[1]St. John’s College, where I had done my bachelor’s degree in the seventies. Jeanne only knew about it because my parents had spoken of it in glowing terms based on my experience. She thought—correctly—that only someone who had been there would know how big a deal it was to get into St. John’s.

So now this person who I knew only through second-hand stories from my mother and a voice on the phone was going to be at my parents’ for Thanksgiving. I’m not big on meeting new people, but figured this was safe because I would have my parents as a buffer.

Those few days over Thanksgiving changed several lives. Although the last thing I was looking for was a relationship six months after my divorce had ended eleven years of unhappy marriage, it was immediately clear that there was something going on between the two of us. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOn Thanksgiving morning I sat on the sofa in the small living room of my parents’ condo observing Jeanne chatting with my mother who was puttering around in her little kitchen. Leaning with her back up against the wall as she talked, Jeanne struck a seductive pose (or so it seemed to me) and I thought “she’s the little red-haired girl, all grown up!” A few days later, I inexplicably had tears in my eyes as I started the long drive home. In some deep place I knew I was driving away from my soul mate. But after a month of nightly phone calls of more than an hour each, she joined me for Christmas and we were together for good. And the rest is twenty-five years and counting of history still being written.

If being a romantic means being someone who believes that “Love is all you need” or that “Love is the answer,” I’m not a romantic any more. One thing we’ve learned over the past twenty-five years is that love is not enough. A couple of weeks ago the text at church was the fruit of the spirit: Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Gentleness, Goodness, Faith, Meekness, Temperance. We have needed every one of these many times in order to keep going, in addition to the tenth, unmentioned fruit—humor. Each of us considered and even tried walking away from the whole thing more than once. But here we are, twenty-five years in, stronger and more connected than we have ever been. Of the list above, the first three are in the ascendant. Love—because like fine wine and single malt scotch love gets better as it ages. Peace—of the sort that only comes with having spent almost half of your life in love with your best friend. And Joy–because unlike Chuck in the “Peanuts” strip, I got the little red-haired girl.The lovely couple

Resembling the Picture

Another academic year is in the books, and as I will gladly be shifting into sabbatical mode in six weeks, I’m reminiscing about how I became a teacher. It is a good thing when your conviction that you are perfectly suited for your profession is confirmed by an objective source. That’s not exactly what happened to me the other day, but when I took yet another internet personality test—“What career should you actually have?”

What Profession Should You Have?

I was pleased to be told that

enhanced-buzz-7133-1390948755-1YOU GOT PROFESSOR! You are a thinker, in constant search of knowledge and answers to life’s most illusive [sic] questions. You love to analyze everything, testing out theories and pushing mental boundaries. Basically you’re an Einstein, but then again you probably already knew that.

I probably should not put much stock in a quiz that does not know the difference between “illusive” and “elusive,” and had a student made this error I would have directed them to a thesaurus, but I’ll take affirmation wherever I can get it. Several of my colleagues also got “Professor,” while a couple of others got ‘Writer.” I would have been happy with that as well, as long as I could keep teaching to pay the bills. One of my colleagues in the music department got “Astronaut.” That sucks. It’s going to be annoying for her to have to quit a tenured professor position and start all over again.

Isoros200-438336cae96965c46c594c60bc99df0c15ee161c-s6-c30 have said to anyone who would listen that I was born to do what I do for a living for so long that I think I actually believe it. But I was not always this confident in my classroom abilities. free_angela_buttonI remember clearly the day, over twenty-five years ago, when it occurred to me that I had painted myself into a corner that I was not at all sure I wanted to be in. All of have heard of famous persons in all walks of life with philosophy degrees (George Soros, Angela Davis, Thomas Jefferson, treeeAlex Trebek, Susan Sontag, Steve Martin—just to name a few), but their philosophy degrees were a BA. Once you are deep into the several additional years of earning a PhD in philosophy, available options narrow. The day I learned that my graduate assistantship for my second year at Marquette would be a teaching assistantship rather than the research assistantship I had during my first year, it dawned on me—I’m going to be a teacher. And I had no idea whether I’d be any good at it or if I would even like it.

I had been a TA for a couple of years during my Master’s program at the University of Wyoming, where the job consisted of doing everything the professor of the 150+ student Introduction to Philosophy course didn’t feel like doing. ta_teaching_assistant_chemistry_element_symbol_t_mug-r11846fd890814a1583e540dd34d61964_x7jgr_8byvr_512That included all of the grading and trying to explain every Friday to two groups of twenty students what the hell the professor had been talking about on Monday and Wednesday. My Friday students seemed to like me, but that’s probably because anyone with fifth-grade level communication skills could have been clearer than that particular professor. At Marquette, however, a TA had her or his very own class, designing it from scratch, giving all the lectures, seeing all of the students, and grading everything from beginning to end. Just like a real teacher—except that I had never been in front of a classroom in my life, except to make a few five or ten-minute presentations over the years. So how is this ultra-introverted student, who is far more confident in his writing skills than his people skills, supposed to morph into a teacher?

Although the graduate program in philosophy at Marquette did have a large safety net spread under its TAs, the process was pretty much like throwing a person who wants to learn how to swim into the deep end of the pool and seeing what happens. aristotle-success-largeSince in most PhD programs there are no courses in “How to Teach,” the assumption being that the ton of esoteric and possibly useless information in a grad student’s brain will somehow magically be communicated effectively to a bunch of undergrads who don’t care. I decided to teach by shameless imitation of the best professors I had, a decision that Aristotle—who said that a key to the moral life is to imitate those who are already the person you want to become—would have been proud of. My two mentor/models could not have been more dissimilar.

Father Jack Treloar was a Jesuit who looked like a short Marine drill sergeant, with less than two percent body fat and a grey flat-top. He scared the shit out of undergraduates; we graduate students who got to know him knew that he was a softie at heart. His favorite thing to do when he came to the house for dinner was to sit on the floor and play with my sons (8 and 6). His brilliance in the classroom was built on a foundation of crystal clarity and organization bordering on obsessive. Fr TreloarFr. Treloar’s flow chart “road map” through the labyrinthine thickets of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason was so effective that I have shamelessly used it regularly, with only minor changes, over the past two decades with my undergraduates. As I often tell my students, “when you use someone else’s ideas, its plagiarism; when professors steal each other’s ideas, its creative pedagogy.” Fr. Treloar asked me a number years ago to stop calling him “Father Treloar” and call him “Jack”—I couldn’t (and can’t) do it. I’m not comfortable being on a first name basis with an icon.

Dr. Trene-descartes-and-immanuel-kantom Prendergast was undoubtedly the most enthusiastic teacher I have ever encountered. His obvious love of his subject matter of expertise (Early Modern Philosophy—Descartes through Kant) was so infectious that it spread through the classroom like a virus. The virus became so rooted in me that I took three seminars with him and he ended up agreeing to be the director for my dissertation on Descartes’ ethics. His class was energized by passion, not organization or necessarily even logical precision, qualities that he also lacked in his life outside the classroom. Two stories will suffice.

Tom (I had no trouble calling him that at his request) lived in one of the Lake Michigan lakeside suburbs of Milwaukee; we would meet at his favorite restaurant every other week to discuss the latest draft material from my dissertation. It was always Dutch treat—I usually only got a beer because that’s all graduate students can afford. But our final meeting before my dissertation defense happened to fall on my birthday. indexJeanne behind the scenes let Tom know that it was my birthday, and Tom greeted me at the restaurant with a hearty “Happy birthday! It’s my treat—get anything you want!” We celebrated both my birthday and the completion of my dissertation with dinner—very cool, until the bill came and Tom realized he didn’t have his wallet. I didn’t even have a credit card, but through some beneficial grant from the gods of philosophy I happened to have just enough cash to pay the bill and avoid washing dishes. I didn’t have enough for a tip, though—Tom promised he would return and leave a tip after he retrieved his wallet from home. I doubt he remembered.

On the evening after my successful dissertation defense a few weeks later, Tom and his wife Barbara took Jeanne and me out to dinner to celebrate. Yes we made sure he had his wallet. It was beginning to snow, so Tom dropped the three of us off at the restaurant door and went to find parking on the street, joining us within several minutes. Snow in BrusselsWhen we left the restaurant a couple of hours later, three or four inches of new fallen snow had covered everything. Barbara joked “I’ll bet Tom won’t remember where he parked the car!” She was right—he couldn’t remember. We spent the next ten to fifteen minutes brushing snow off all the cars in the surrounding blocks until we discovered theirs. That was Dr. Prendergast.

As I started thinking about teaching my first class, I sort of figured that if I could combine a bit of Fr. Treloar’s organization and clarity with Dr. Prendergast’s passion and enthusiasm, I might become a serviceable teacher. The organization and clarity came much more naturally to this extreme introvert than the passion and enthusiasm—I brought the energy of a performer to the front of the class, playing a role that ultimately became my own. Almost twenty-five years later, with many mistakes, embarrassing failures, increasing joy, and a imagesTeacher of the Year award behind me, I can, if I step back for a moment, see the imprint of both of these master teachers and generous mentors on everything I do for and in the classroom.

Was I born to be a teacher, or did I become the teacher that I am through necessity and the extraordinary blessing of having models of what I wanted to become smack in front of me? Iris Murdoch writes that “Man is the creature who makes pictures of himself, then comes to resemble the pictures.” Just as Ernest in Story of Great Stone FaceNathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Great Stone Face” came to resemble what he had spent his life looking at, so I have come to resemble those teachers who I observed so closely many years ago. Perhaps I observed too closely. I am extraordinarily organized in my planning for a class, a semester, or future blog posts as well as in my administrative duties, but often can’t find my reading glasses or wallet.

How I Know That I Am Getting Older

I recall once when I was barely thirty hearing my father describe himself as in his “later fifties.” “What am I going to feel and look like when I’m that old?” I wondered—then immediately dismissed the question since me in my “later fifties” sounded like something in a futuristic fantasy. Guess what? That future is here, so much so that this is my last year of my “later fifties.”imagesCAL3HKNZ

A couple of years ago a colleague told me “it’s time for me to retire, Vance.” I asked her why—“because I don’t like the students anymore,” she replied. That strikes me as a very good reason for a professor to retire. My colleague is probably eight or nine years older than I am. I don’t think I will ever get to the point where I don’t like my students—my plan is to die in the classroom at age ninety or so—but I have recently been noticing a few signs that I am getting older. Here are a few from the past few months.

The Good WifeI know I’m getting older when Super Bowl Sunday is an annoyance because it means that “True Detective” and “The Good Wife” will not be on. At least “Downton Abbey” had the guts to compete with the game.

I know I’m getting older when a new friend asks me how old my “boys” are and I say “33 and 36.”  I still refer to them as the “midgets” (they got their mother’s vertically-challenged genes and are both several inches shorter than I am).

untitledI know I’m getting older because here is how I react to the inexplicable recent insistence that each winter storm be named: “When I was a kid growing up in Vermont, we had real storms, not these wimpy posers! We didn’t name our storms because there were so many of them that we would have run out of names in one year! And if we had named them, they would not have had pussy names like “Nika” or “Janus” (or was that “Anus”?). Our storms would have had names like “Winter Storm Buryyouuptoyourfreakingeyeballs” and “Winter Storm Freezeyourfuckingassoff”!328833_original

I know I am getting older because I would rather watch skiing in the Winter Olympics or World Championships than go skiing myself.

I know I am getting older when I not only am not the slightest bit tempted to watch the Grammy awards, but do not recognize the names of a single group or solo act in the list of winners online the next day.Picard

I know that I’m getting older because I felt more manly when I found out from the “Which Star Trek: The Next Generation character are you?” personality quiz that I am Captain Picard.

Which Star Trek: The Next Generation character are you?

really fat squirrelSpeaking of such quizzes, I know I am getting older because I felt smug and superior when I found out from the “What Arbitrary Thing Are You?” quiz that I am “a really fat squirrel” rather than the “box of dead AA batteries,” “a bunch of random hangers” or “Baha men” results that some of my Facebook friends got.

Which arbitrary thing are you?

Albigensian crusadeI know that I’m getting older when my reaction to a snow day off from work is to be pissed because my lecture on the Albigensian Crusade is cancelled. How are my nineteen year old students supposed to live a flourishing and successful life now?

I know that I’m getting older because this past winter, during an different storm, the thought crossed my mind that “Maybe I’ll stay home and watch the Friars play basketball on TV rather than driving downtown in the snow to see them play.” I know that I’m not getting that old because five seconds later I thought “What the hell is wrong with you?? Get your ass in the car and go to the game!” which I did, then sent smug Facebook posts from the Dunkin’ Donuts Center to my friends and colleagues who had stayed home.retirement

I know that I’m getting older because when Jeanne and I realized that our mortgage will be paid off when we are both seventy, I thought for the first time in my life “That might be a reasonable time to retire.” Retire?? Retire?? I thought I was going to die in the classroom at ninety! Fortunately I have a bit under eleven years to seventy—more than enough time to come to my senses.

The Sausage Sisters

It has been a rough ten days at our house. Not because Jeanne had knee replacement surgery a week ago Tuesday and has been rehabbing, first in the hospital then in a short-term facility, until returning home yesterday afternoon. Not because I have been worried about her, about the piles of grading that never seem to get any smaller, and about overcoming my visceral dislike of health-care facilities as I visit her every day. 100_0712No, it’s been a rough ten days because the girls at home, our three four-legged daughters, have been missing Mom more and more as their suspicion that Dad is a sub-par canine care provider is confirmed more fully as each day passes. Why doesn’t Dad do things—feed us, entertain us, talk to us, sit on the couch with all three of us, give us treats because we are breathing properly—in the manner to which we have become accustomed? What the hell is Dad’s purpose, anyways?

Our three daughters—Frieda, Winnie, and Bean—have shared the space a foot or two above the floor with each other in our house for the past six years. Frieda came first, nine years ago, with Bean and Winnie joining the pack about eight months apart in 2008-09. And it is definitely a pack. IMG_9677Frieda, a late-middle-aged dachshund with perhaps a bit of chihuahua thrown in (don’t tell her we noticed) is clearly the alpha dog—indeed she is the alpha living creature in the house, trumping not only her sisters but her parents in both will and importance when necessary. Bean (Boston Terrier) and Winnie (another dachshund—pure bred) are still trying to figure out who is second in the pack; after six years under the same roof they still fight over who gets to sit closest to Mom and who gets to drag the most raggedy toys around. 100_0685Winnie and Bean are both rescue dogs, with all the personality peculiarities and peccadilloes that accompany such a start in life. Bean’s need for serious therapy is so great that she will get her own blog post soon. This one’s about Frieda and Winnie—the “Sausage Sisters,” as my oldest son has named them—and how my years of observing and loving them gave me unexpected insights into Plato’s Republic.

When I unexpectedly took on a Philosophy of the Human Person course as an overload just a few weeks before the beginning of the current semester because of a colleague’s unexpected illness, I decided that this was my opportunity to do something I’ve wanted to do for many years—teach an entire introductory philosophy class with no text other than Plato’s Republic. republicNow, a few days from the end of the semester, twenty-five students and I have pulled it off—our text for today’s penultimate class is the final ten pages of the dialogue, and my students will join the ranks of the .01% of human beings alive who have read this greatest of all philosophical works in the Western tradition from cover to cover. The overall question of Republic is What is justice?—a question Plato investigates from various angles, including the comparison of justice in various communities as large projections of justice in similarly structured individuals. Over the past few weeks, as we compared Plato’s favored form of governance—aristocracy (“rule of the best”)—with his next-to-least favorite—democracy (“rule of the many”)—while also contrasting individuals with aristocratic and democratic souls, I thought “I know these people. They live in my house.” And I brought my illustrative tale of two dachshunds to class.

Although it takes three hundred pages for Plato to fully answer the What is justice? question, he provides his definition of justice just a little more than a third of the way through the dialogue. Justice in a community arises when the various classes of rulers, soldiers, artisans and providers play their differing assigned roles effectively without striving to be anything other than what they are. JusticeThe hallmark of justice, in other words, is harmony between the factions and each group knowing its place in the pecking order. Social classes in a less-than-just society would be at odds and in competitive conflict with each other. Similarly in the just and “best” (aristos) individual, the various parts of the soul are in harmony, ruled by reason, energized by directed passion, and served appropriately by the satisfaction of the appetites. The person with the just, aristocratic soul, in other words, has her priorities straight, in proper ranking, and does not stray from them.

Frieda is a case in point. “Herself,” as Jeanne and I often refer to her, has three Friedalinapriorities—food, sleep, and affection. In that order. And she does not waver from them. Frieda is obsessed with food—there are apocryphal stories of her eating a whole pie when she was a young thing—and she will materialize immediately in the kitchen from anywhere in the house if she hears or intuits a promising food-related vibration. She eats Bean’s and Winnie’s food if she gets the chance, often before her own, just because she’s the alpha dog and she can. She gets a heart pill once every morning, an event starred on her daily calendar because she receives it embedded in a piece of human food (hot dog, banana, anything handy that’s edible). 500074-R1-050-23A_024Frieda sleeps at the top of the bed between Jeanne’s and my heads, a location that has been “hers” since time immemorial. And her affection requirements are specific and unwavering. She loves to be rubbed under her chin, often leaving her snout pointing at the sky after such a chin rub if it hasn’t lasted long enough, frozen in position until the person doing the rubbing picks up the cue and continues. She has specific locations that she must occupy when sharing a piece of furniture with a human—on my right side in the recliner (even though I prefer her on my left) and behind Jeanne on the couch (although Jeanne would prefer her to be anywhere but behind her). Frieda has shown interest in only one toy in her life, the “piggy” that dissolved from overuse some time ago—playing with toys or playing at all, for that matter, is beneath her. 500074-R1-010-3A_004She is the alpha dog, the queen of all she surveys, and she has her priorities straight. The embodiment of Plato’s aristocratic soul.

Plato’s regard for and opinion of both democracy and those with democratic souls is, shall we say, rather low. We love democracy for its freedom, for its theoretical commitment to egalitarianism and the equal value of all human beings, its openness to variety and new ideas, and for its facilitation of choice. And these are all reasons that Plato rates democracy toward the bottom of his types of government. democracyHis primary critique is that democracy is selling itself and others a lie by pretending that everyone is the same and that all human concerns are equally valuable, when deep down we know that none of this is true. In the soul of a democratic person, all things are equally valuable—the democratic person flits from interest to interest, from idea to appetite, from today’s passion to tomorrow’s obsession, while lacking the ability to prioritize, to rank, or to place the details of her or his life in proper order. It’s interesting, it’s attractive, it’s chaotic, and it’s a recipe for disaster. Democracy is no way to run a society or a life.

100_0870Consider Winnie, for instance. Winnie is cute, loveable, a classically marked black-and-tan dachshund who loves affection and biting strangers on the foot or ankle for no apparent reason. Winnie loves to eat, but also loves toys with squeakers in them, following Mom around about a foot behind her heels, burrowing under blankets, barking at nothing, and endless affection. Just like the democratic person, Winnie has many interests and obsessions. And just as the democratic person, they all are equally important. dynamism-of-a-dog-on-a-leash1Winnie has a difficult time walking a straight line because her attention can so easily be attracted by the slightest thing. We sometimes describe her as “skittish,” but she’s really just a democratic soul incapable of prioritizing. Food, toys, attention, barking, simultaneous fear of and aggression toward strangers (and Dad walking in the back door after having been gone for thirty seconds throwing out the trash) occasionally send Winnie into sensory overload, marked by running around the house frantically squeaking a raggedy toy until she collapses flat on her back with all four legs straight up. 10382538_742444875835442_7623295977732445797_oIt is amusing to watch, just as it is amusing to observe on Facebook the inability of many people to prioritize in terms of importance between sharing a picture of their latest meal and participating in a discussion about global warming. Democratic souls in action.

Some years ago books like “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten” were all the rage. “All I Really Need to Know about Plato I Learned from My Dachshunds” is not quite as catchy, but I’ll bet it would attract philosophy majors. Now if the Sausage Sisters could just help me with Hegel or Heidegger.198889_112520288827907_1958039_n


Random Thoughts as the Semester Ends

Assignments: You would think after twenty-five years of teaching that I would have learned not to have sixty-four final papers/projects spread over my three classes, ranging from eight to fifteen pages long, due within ten days of each other.


  • How I know I’m more than ready for the semester to end—irregardlessI used the word “like” incorrectly more than once last week and am using the word “awesome” way too much. I’m beginning to sound like my students.
  • I just found out that “irregardless” is either not a word or, if it is, it means the same as “regardless.” Who knew?
  • A Facebook acquaintance recently shared a link shouting The Top Ten Reasons Why You Will Never Want To Eat McDonalds Again! I commented that “I never have wanted to eat McDonalds. I also have never wanted to eat at McDonalds.”

Leadership: Everything I know about leadership from four years of chairing department followed by four years of running a program I learned from Tom. Tom is my hero.Tom

Good idea/bad idea:

  • The Providence College Hockey Friars winning the NCAA national championship with a remarkable display of tenacity, talent, camaraderie and grace from the hockey gods—Good Idea.end of gajme Celebrants flooding neighborhood streets and honoring the spectacular victory by setting furniture on fire and injuring a policeman—Bad Idea.students celebrate The best of times and the worst of times—just a few minutes apart.
  • Valet parking at the hospital when the visitor parking lot is full to capacity—Good Idea. Waiting for twenty minutes while the valet parking guy tries to remember where he parking your car—Bad Idea.

Best laugh of the semester: In my Philosophy of the Human Person class I quoted HobbesHobbes’ famous description of life in the state of nature: Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. I commented that this sort of sounds like my ex-wife.

Sometimes it works: A colleague let me know in an email about a discussion with a group of sophomores about the value of the interdisciplinary program I direct that they had been taking for the past four semesters. In the midst of a conversation about whether or not this program had any success in moving students in the direction of a morally aware humanity (they were studying Dorothy Day), a student of mine from last year said the following: All the history and stuff from first year is a blur, but I really remember how Dr. Morgan challenged me to think in new ways and how and what to question in life. It made a huge impact on me. This student, along with Tom, is my hero.

Dante MarathonRunning a marathon: Observations from the DWC-sponsored “Dante Marathon,” a twelve-hour reading by students and faculty of Dante’s The Divine Comedy in its entirety last week:

  • Hell is more interesting than purgatory or heaven—but then I knew that.
  • Our students are slobs—my colleague who ran the event reports his biggest job was picking up after them all day.
  • The high point of the day was not Dante finally meeting Beatrice or the Empyrean Rose. It was the delivery of five massive pizzas in the middle of the afternoon. Gone in fifteen minutes.

Sartorial splendor:

  • The visiting outside evaluator for the philosophy department, upon seeing me last week dressed in my typical manner (corduroy jacket, dress shirt without a tie, jeans) commented that “for a philosopher, that’s about as good as it gets.” I haven’t decided whether that was a compliment or a criticism.
  • no umbrellasWhen did umbrellas go out of style? Earlier this week as walking from one building to another in the middle of a steady rain while classes were changing, I noticed that of the hundred or so people within immediate view I was the only one using an umbrella. Either umbrellas are entirely out of style (and they used to be so chic!), or the younger generation is a bunch of ducks for whom a mere hoodie is sufficient.

Sometimes it works 2: This semester I am teaching a colloquium with a colleague from the history department called ‘Love Never Fails’: Grace, Truth, and Freedom in the Nazi Era” as one of the offerings in the Development of Western Civilization Program (“Civ”) that I direct. We piloted “Nazi Civ”—as the students have nicknamed it—a year ago. My colleague and I received this email a few days ago from one of last spring’s students:

Hello! I hope that you both are doing well! I wanted to email you and thank you for teaching the Love in the Nazi Era Colloquium last year. This semester I am studying abroad in Rome, and I had the opportunity to go to Auschwitz-Birkenau last week. It was such a powerful experience that allowed me to reflect on what I learned last spring, and truly brought Civ to life. I kept thinking back to Simone Weil, Le Chambon, and St. Maximillian Kolbe who contrasted such evil forces back then. Thank you for teaching me so much about that time period with the strong reminder that good always conquers evil!Awesome

salient salmon[1]

Consider the Salmon

unicorn-iris-murdoch-paperback-cover-art[1]In The Unicorn, one of Iris Murdoch’s characters drops the following into a mundane conversation: “Have you ever seen salmon leaping? Such fantastic bravery, to enter another element like that. Like souls approaching God.” The implications of this simile are striking. Salmon are hard-wired to do what they do, a hard-wiring that drives them to a place in which they are not equipped to survive and, ultimately, to death. This is hardly an attractive picture of the human search for God, but there’s a certain familiarity to it. In the Old Testament God is frequently hiding, in a thick cloudevil-face-captured-in-thick-cloud-of-smoke-500x292[1], in a burning bush, beyond a rock, because if a human actually experienced God directly that would be the end of the human. God’s element is not ours, yet just as the salmon there is something unavoidable in us that draws us toward that divine element and, perhaps, to our destruction. Great news.

Genetically Modified SalmonTwo salmon are discussing their options:

Bob: Are you ready to start heading upstream? It’s about that time.

Sam: I’m not doing it. You remember all those guys who headed upstream to do this last year? You ever seen them since?

Bob: No, but so what? This is what salmon do. This is what we were made for.

Sam: Not me. You go right ahead—been nice knowing you. I’m staying here.

BBrown bear catching salmonob: What are you, a salmon or a flounder? Any salmon worthy of the name swims upstream and leaps the falls!

Sam: I feel the same urge you do! But not every itch needs to be scratched. I prefer to be a wimpy salmon and alive to being a salmonly salmon and dead.

Bob: You’re no salmon at all. You can’t be a salmon and not leap!

Sam: You know what, I think this whole leaping thing is just a bunch of crap our parents and grandparents put on us. I can still be a salmon and stay in this part of the river. You leaping salmon are a bunch of schooling fish who believe you have to do something just because you were told you do.

imagescaf8jdis[1]I’m reminded of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who once wrote that “when Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” More great news. But how well does this salmon simile work? There’s a lot of effort on the part of the salmon to do something that makes no sense, yet is definitive of what it means to be a salmon. Are human souls hard-wired to seek for God? And is that seeking always a matter of extreme effort that leads to at least a virtual death? What choice do we have in the matter? That’s where the salmon simile breaks down, since despite Sam’s resistance, real salmon don’t have a choice. They just do what they’re programmed to do. We have a choice—or do we?

st-augustine-of-hippo7[1]With an idea probably stolen from St. Augustine, I was told in my youth that all human beings have a “God-shaped hole” inside of them that cannot be filled with anything other than God. I understand this and have often described myself as a “God-obsessed” person. This has nothing to do with any particular idea of God but rather with a gnawing hunger deep inside that nothing readily available can satisfy. I have no specific idea as to what might satisfy this hunger, while the salmon (or at least Bob) are convinced that only leaping will do it. But then there’s Sam, who’s at least considering the possibility of a fulfilled salmon existence that doesn’t involve leaping to one’s death. I’ve encountered Sam-like human beings who appear to have no such hunger, or at least claim not to have one, but that strikes me as odd. I’m obsessed with it and I’ll bet they are too—they just don’t call it God.

At the center of every human being is a yearning and desire for something good and divine and pure, a yearning that is never satisfied by anything in this world. Human beings are free only to the extent that they are free to choose either to work with this longing, without knowing exactly what this longing corresponds to, or to redirect this longing and seek to satisfy it with things closer to hand. Although the former choice is attractive, there’s probably also a lot to be said for the latter choice that, if we’re talking about salmon, Sam is making. Since the leaping choice is obviously a risky one, why not try to reinvent himself and search for meaning as a perfectly fine non-leaping salmon?

Sam and Bob agree on one big thing—there’s more to being a salmon than simply swimming around in a river. imagesCA6IDEGOBob believes he knows what that “more” is and will leap into it with all of his fins, despite the likelihood that he won’t come out alive on the other end. Sam, concerned about the lack of information from the other side, prefers to find another way to investigate this “more.” Dorothy Allison writes that “there is a place where we are always alone with our own mortality, where we must simply have something greater than ourselves to hold onto—God or history or politics or literature or a belief in the healing power of love, or even righteous anger. Sometimes I think they are all the same. A reason to believe, a way to take the world by the throat and insist that there is more to this life than we have ever imagined.” I like that, and I think Sam would too (so long as salmon have politics and literature). It increases our options.