From the outside, it appears that the collector has such a deep appreciation of the object that the acquisition of it fills what would otherwise be a void in mind, body and soul. I’ve come to realize, however, that in many cases, what is more valuable than the object itself, is the story that the holder of the object can tell.

Think about it. What do you do after you’ve acquired that one piece that you’ve always wanted in your collection? If you’re like me, with a seemingly insatiable desire for music, you swoon over it for a moment, perhaps give it a spin or two and then put it on the shelf with the other albums. But, by acquiring the piece, you’ve joined the club of people who have experienced, and can tell first-hand, the story of that piece. And that, in many instances, is more valuable than the piece itself. I’m thinking here about a rare record, a collectible trading card, or a numbered print; something that is cool to own, and perhaps a bit hard to come by, but not outrageously expensive.

Then there are the items that drive collectors crazy; those pieces whose monetary value goes so far beyond any satisfaction you could possibly glean from bragging rights, that it approaches the absurd: an un-pasted copy of the Beatles “Butcher Cover,” an Action Comics #1 in mint condition, or, the hero of our story: a little stamp with an upside down airplane on it, known affectionately as the Inverted Jenny.

In 1918, the U.S. Postal Service inaugurated its air service. To commemorate the historic event, they released a stamp with the image of a Curtiss Jenny—the bi-plane chosen to transport the mail—on it.

In a twist of fate, the little stamp that may well have gone on to the annals of postal obscurity, has instead inspired multi-million dollar deals, and solidified itself as one of the most famous images in the history of collecting, as a sheet of the commemorative stamps was printed and sold with the image of the plane inverted.

You have to look closely to spot the error, but once you do, it’s obvious that the plane is upside-down; an error that keeps auction-types on their toes, and poor collectors in what can only be a state of resignation, that the coveted piece will, most probably, never be theirs. Single Inverted Jennys regularly fetch nearly a million dollars at auction, and a block of four stamps sold, in 2005, for $2.7 million.

Back in the day, inverted stamps were not terribly uncommon. When two colors were used on a printing press, the paper—in this case a sheet of stamps—had to be fed through twice; once for each color. If you’ve ever tried to make double-sided copies of something, you know that getting it right can be an exercise in trial and error, and that you usually end up sending a couple of trials to the recycling bin. It’s kind of like that.

Printing errors happen. The throwaways are scrapped, and the intended prints are kept. The story of the Inverted Jenny, is that the printers caught their mistake early in the run, and destroyed at least three sheets. But one sheet slipped through, and was purchased, at his local post office, by a collector by the name of W.T. Robey, who, interestingly enough, had mentioned to another collector friend that he should be on the lookout for inverted stamps.

When Robey requested a sheet of the commemorative stamps and spotted the inverts, his “heart stood still” and he asked to see the other sheets, all of which had the intended, right-side-up design. The story gets a bit vague here, as Robey told a few different versions of it, but apparently the next week included contact with journalists, collectors, and the postal inspector, and the hiding of the now-famous sheet, before he sold it for $15,000 to someone who immediately flipped it for $20,000.

The third owner was advised that the stamps would be worth more split up than in a sheet, so a block of eight and several blocks of four were pulled out, and the rest of the stamps pieced off to collectors individually, thus furthering the allure of one of the great stories in postal (and printing) history.

What sets collectible, inverted stamps apart from their printer’s scrap pile counterparts is the fact that they were, at some point, sold to the public; an occurrence that holds a regular spot in postal lore. There are stories from around the world of mis-printed stamps that have slipped past the eye of the printer and out into the public, but none—from what this non-philatelist can tell—more famous than the Inverted Jenny.

This is the kind of tale that collectors live for. The stamp, in and of itself, would not even get your letter from here to there. The entire value of the Inverted Jenny is in its story, and what a great story it is. The question is: would you pay a million dollars to tell it?

A day spent on-set for the making of One Way Home composing images.  I chose to carry only my film camera with me .  This simple decision of limiting my materials created a distinct framework for me to work within.  There are only so many hours of light and this many frames of  film to work with …
I reluctantly get out of the WWII jeep at the end of the day brimming with the excitement of the undeveloped film in my pockets and perfectly consumed by the images I have just made.

Follow this link to view all the images from this shoot:On-set photographs ONE WAY HOME

“Let’s play!” he shouts after Ashanti, the black girl whose mother makes her flatten her hair every two weeks. Ashanti touches her head the way people repeatedly touch things that hurt.

“No way!” she says. “You’re a cheater!”

“I’m not a cheater!” Oscar says. “I’m just better!”

Deshawn, the bucktoothed kid that no one plays with because he’s so quiet, walks to Oscar.

“Let’s play!” Oscar says.

Deshawn nods, and Oscar hides a coin underneath a cup and commences with the shuffling. Ashanti gradually drifts over to them. A few other kids follow, and soon, Oscar’s surrounded, and he’s shouting, “Find the coin! Bet you can’t find where it is!”

I’ve been teaching this summer program for five years now. I worked in banking for ten before I burned out, started questioning the worth of my work, didn’t like the answer I came to. My wife Tina, a cardiologist, was supportive when I decided to get my credential and teach for a fraction (and a small one, at that) of what I used to earn. Past tense. We get by on her salary. “You owe it to yourself to discover what you love,” she said as if the words were foreign, as if she were trying to convince herself. Last week at my cousin’s red egg and ginger party, when my parents and grandparents asked her how I was doing (because they never believe me when I say I’m fine), she told them that I was thinking of going back to banking. I’ve never mentioned that. Sometimes when you lie, you reveal your true desires, what’s underneath, like when the cups are shuffled and you inadvertently show the coin.

A class of fifty is a lot for one teacher to handle. This year the district gave me a partner. Her name is Ashley. She’s dark-haired, of some mysterious ethnicity. She’s two years out of college, all earnestness and enthusiasm. Her voice cracks and chirps like a broken wind instrument. She comes to school wearing pencil skirts, crisp collared blouses beneath cardigans, like she’s off to interview after class. That’s her generation, the millenials. They take it for granted that we slave to please invisible coin counters in glass towers, even as the streets crumble with neglect. Her generation, they’re practically born yuppies (at least that’s what we used to call them).

Ashley and I talk, text, coffee after class. We find moments during the school day to look into each other’s eyes like intimates. She loves children, feels very passionate about fighting to make their lives better despite the many obstacles our education system seems designed to raise. I tell her to never lose that passion, never give up, and she seems to react positively to that message. What I don’t mention is that I’ve always lacked that passion. In a few years, when she grows more comfortable with herself, when her passion is self-evident, Ashley will be a very beautiful woman. She and I are having what I call a microaffair. Her generation is appalled by adultery in a way I don’t remember being appalled by it, not that I’ve ever been ballsy enough to commit it. I’m pretty sure that if I were transported to the late-sixties, I’d vote enthusiastically for Nixon.

We’ve instructed the children to write a letter to the President. Oscar ignores the assignment, retrieves the Monopoly board from the game chest, and has begun coercing other kids to play. I stare at Ashley, who’s explaining the assignment to one of the girls. Just the thought of separating Ringleader from his latest show exhausts me. I wait for Ashley to catch my look. I help one of the girls, LaShaundra, because she’s generally docile. Meanwhile, I wait for Ashley to discipline Oscar. He’s already got four kids around him.

“LaShaundra,” I say. “Have you ever wanted to ask anything of the President?”

“My name is Karla.” She points across the room at one of the other bespectacled black girls. “She’s LaShaundra.”

I look at LaShaundra and then at Karla. The two look almost nothing alike. LaShaundra is light-skinned with curly tresses. Karla’s wearing cornrows.

“Write,” I tell her.

“Oscar!” I hear Ashley chirp. She scurries to the back of the room, where he is jumping up and down on the seat of his chair like he’s a Rich Uncle Pennybags on speed. I catch Ashley’s eye as she’s telling Oscar to sit down. I make an effort to look appreciative that she’s saved me, even though I had no intention to take any action. She smiles, like she enjoys helping me. The millenials are forever eager to help.

My eighty-five year-old grandmother calls my wife once a week to discuss their favorite topic: me. Why don’t I want to give them great-grandchildren? What is going on in that boy’s head? Why am I teaching? That’s a hopeless, poor person’s profession. Do something in life that has a chance to succeed. Let better, dumber people do the death march!

“I know, Grandma,” Tina says in Mandarin. “You’re right…Sounds stupid…Yes, we should be having children soon. We’re both so busy…Yes, I know adoption is not the real thing…We should be taking care of our own kids, not someone else’s.”

I’m lying on our chaise longue, reading, doing what I do best: nothing worthwhile.

Tina hangs up with a sigh. I smirk. “She’s at me again, huh?”

“She’s at us,” she corrects as she plops on the couch and begins fiddling with the remote to find a show to watch – no doubt one with larger houses and babies. “When you don’t do what they want, it reflects badly on me as a wife as well.”

Her snipe surprises me. More and more often, I realize that Tina is supportive in a way that suggests that support is a wifely box one checks. But when you withdraw money at the cash machine every week, and there’s half of what there used to be, checking the support box suddenly doesn’t seem so prudent. Tina’s always been a pleaser. As a Chinese guy, I’m supposed to find it charming that she speaks perfect Shanghai-nese, goes out of her way to pour tea for our elders at banquets, gets enthusiastic about extended family trips to the homeland, and basically wouldn’t mind if we move in with my parents after we have kids. When we got married, Tina did everything both families expected and more. She’s perfect for them. She loves serving others, and more importantly, she loves being told she’s great at serving others. For ten years, it was just the two of us, and we were great at serving each other. Now I’m just one of many family members she’s in service of, just like I’m one of many poorly paid, charred-to-a-husk teachers of kids who have no desire to learn what we have to teach.

I’m reading a book of depressing Richard Yates stories. The thought of turning another page makes me nauseous. The book almost puts itself down.

“Maybe I’m not turning out to be the man you married,” I say.

Tina runs a hand through her shiny hair and plays one of her shows. Another home renovation. Another nursery.

“You don’t even try to be,” she says.

“People in my generation don’t try to try,” I say, attempting to inject some levity into our conversation, the room, our lives. “It’s the journey.”

Tina rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, you don’t enjoy that either, do you?”

This afternoon’s playground time. Thank God. Randall, a guest science teacher, will demonstrate how to blow large bubbles using a tub of soapy water and twine. Outside, it’s sunny for the first time all summer, and Ashley and I prod the kids from the classroom to the playground in a sinuous single file. There’s a fence that runs three sides of the blacktop. A perfect corral for tomorrow’s animals. Once we get outside, Oscar begins a headlong sprint around the playground in circles, tagging the arms of people he wants to join his Olympic relay.

“Oscar!” I say sharply. But he pays me no mind. Soon, he’s got a train of kids doing laps. Ashley tries to block him, but Oscar just runs around her. Half the kids are whooping like they’re celebrating that their lives are officially going to turn out the way they want now that they’ve decided to follow Oscar’s goddamn train. I throw my hands up and exchange helpless looks with Ashley. Correction: I’m the one that looks helpless. She just looks determined. People her age love to look determined even though they’ve inherited an even less impressive tomorrow than they originally settled for. Randall, the old science guy, stands on the grass, grimacing behind his spectacles at the sun, dangling his impotent rope in the sud bucket. This guy has been a teacher for decades. How the hell has he not given up?

“Alright everyone!” he calls out. “Bubbles!”

Of course, just like that, Oscar leads his troops right to Randall’s bucket, and they sit cross-legged before Senor Science like they’ve discovered their deity.

Ashley sidles over to me with her hands on her hips.

“I think we’re losing them,” I say grimly.

Ashley examines me for a moment before smiling. “Are you okay? It’s a beautiful day out. All we have to do is keep them inside the fences. Randall’s got this today.”

I smile back. At Ashley, I have no trouble smiling. She’s pretty. Her teeth are perfect. She’s a product of miscegenation, which I suspect makes her genetically superior to me and consequently, mildly frightening. I don’t know what the deal is with her thirteen-year-old boy voice, but life is a puzzle. With the kids, I have to force smiles. I’m not sure I ever liked children. What made me think I’d like teaching? When I left banking, teaching seemed a way to do some good in the world. As a banker, all we were doing was trading handshakes with rich people. Anyone who wasn’t rich was irrelevant. The other bankers would joke, “What else are you going to do, teach?” Well, yeah. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m going to do! But now I realize my choice was the product of laziness. Reactionary. A conservative choice in a risky one’s clothing. One made to piss off my chief financial officer father. What a cliché! A weak one at that!

“You’re right,” I say. “How’s the roommate?” Ashley’s got a roommate who’s in a contentious relationship with a boy. Asking her about her roommate makes me feel young, hopeful and ignorant.

“Ugh, I’ve resorted to hanging out at the bar on the corner at night,” she says.

I have a series of brief and fond memories of when I used to hang out at corner bars at night. Faces of women flash before me inside dimly lit taverns, beyond rapidly emptying drinks. There seemed to be possibility at the bottom of every pint. I wonder what would happen if Ashley and I had a drink together tonight while Tina’s at the hospital. Would that violate the terms of our microaffair? You know what? Nothing would happen, because 1) I’m too old for the corner bars Ashley and her cohort frequent and 2) I’m too lazy to deal with Tina’s inevitable questions. Instead, I’ll choose the road with the widest berth. Stay home, read depressing fiction, and take occasional breaks to masturbate joylessly.

“Sounds like you’re doing the right thing,” I say.

“My friends say I should move out.”

“Yes, of course.” Unhappy? Do something about it! An option that rarely occurs to me. “Well, that’s another option.”

With his wands, Randall raises the twine from the bucket and slowly parts the loop while backpedaling, and a large, rainbow-tinted bubble rises and swoops through the air. The kids ooh and ahh and run after the globule. Though I see this experiment every year, even I have to confess to a certain sense of wonder at the bubble’s size and trajectory as Randall makes another smaller one and it bursts almost immediately. Why are some bubbles bigger than others? Why does one rise while others burst? Oscar the Future probably knows. In fact, he’s wandering behind the rest of the class, tugging on his goalie gloves like he’s about to start an imaginary World Cup match.

“I’m pretty fuzzy on my sciences,” I tell Ashley.

“So am I,” she says. She pulls out her phone, touches the screen a few times and finds a website with information about bubble-related science projects for schools. I’ve asked Tina for a smart phone for my last two birthdays. I’ve received flowers instead. “I read up on bubbles last night.”

“At the bar?”

“A bar can be a really good place to read,” she insists with a smirk. “Especially when you’re bored by the company.”

I almost say that, in that case, I should do my reading at corner bars instead of at home.

“Did you know that bubble skin is a thin layer of water sandwiched between two layers of soap molecules?” she asks.

I admit I had no idea. It’s amazing how little one needs to know to teach. I find myself identifying with the freeloading layer of water being carried along by molecules of soap.

Randall calls out for us. “Can one of you get that other bucket? We’ll show them how to merge bubbles.”

Ashley hops to action, trotting over to Randall. I feel suddenly lonely without my micromistress. I’m a married man. Ashley’s a goddamn baby. She’s too young to even be my friend on Facebook! I watch her make a large bubble. It rises to meet Randall’s, and together, they form a giant one that awes the children.

“You going to let her do you like that, man?” someone says. It’s Oscar. He’s standing next to me. His soccer gloves smell like feet.

I laugh. “Did you hear that line in a movie or something?”

“They’re making bubbles together,” he says. “Like they’re married.”

“I’m married,” I say. “She’s not.”

Oscar slapped me on the belly. “You’re not married.”

I’ve been gaining weight, and I’m chagrined at how the skin on my paunch ripples and shudders from Oscar’s slap. Now he’s softly smacking my belly with both hands like I’m a stuffed animal he’s beating.

“Hey, that’s enough,” I say with a smile, not wanting to be too harsh on Oscar the Future, but he persists.

“You’re not married,” he sings repeatedly, pivoting his head left and right while slapping my nascent fat man’s belly like we’re convivial frat brothers.

“Hey, Oscar, stop!” I say more loudly. Ashley and Randall are looking at me and I sense that both are wondering why I can’t discipline this squat kid, this ringleader, this eight year-old. This scene is reflecting poorly on me. On them as well. As I’m thinking this, Oscar runs away, making a beeline for the wide gap in the playground fence. He’s headed for the streets.

“Oscar!” I shout. To my disappointment, he doesn’t stop, and I realize that, despite the fact I haven’t engaged in any physical activity since I was a banker and had subsidized gym membership, I have to run after The Future.

“You’re not married!” Oscar yells as he runs.

I trundle after him, and after a few steps, I’m closer but already wheezing. My lower back feels like a sack of ball bearings.

“You can’t stop me!” Oscar the Future says. “I know better!”

“Come back here!” I say, suppressing a goddamnit. I grit my teeth, pick up speed, and I know I’m going to catch Oscar before he leaves the playground.

“You’re married to Ashley,” Oscar the Future says as I’m about to head him off.

I grab Oscar hard by both his smelly, gloved hands. “You think you’re better?” I shout. “You think it’s going to be so fucking easy for you? Well, it’s not! It’s not!”

Before I know it, Ashley is prying me away from Oscar and only then, do I see the boy’s frightened, reddened face. “What’s gotten into you?” Ashley asks. Out of breath, I look at her, and I see the pearls of sweat on her wrinkle-free brow. She’s been running after me all along, and she’s not even breathing hard.

“Oscar,” Ashley says with a voice that’s suddenly strong and unbroken. “Go back to Randall. Now.”

Oscar’s eyes are downcast. “Okay, Miss Ashley,” he says softly as he runs back to the group.

My partner escorts me to the classroom. My hands are clammy, I’m sweating profusely, my mouth tastes like room temperature milk. I know I’ve lost my job; I’ve made my choice. Tina will be pleased by my decision. Judging from the way Ashley’s keeping her distance as we enter the room of empty desks, I’m pretty sure our microaffair is over, if it ever existed. People in her generation know the rules, and are calloused by the shovel’s handle. When the rules are broken, do not hesitate to bury the rulebreakers, even if they’re your peers, your friends, your micromistresses.

Instead of sitting behind my desk, I choose a student’s desk. As I slide in the too-small chair, I sigh. I want to say many things to Ashley. I’ve lost my way. I can’t begin to tell you who I am anymore. You seem to know who you are, have it figured out. Can you help me?

“What happened?” she asks.

I shrug. “I should have let someone else do the death march.”

“That’s what you think we’re doing?”

“You’ll learn,” I say. “When you’re older.” I used to be a banker. They’ll always win. Without even trying. We lose. No matter how hard we try. Any little victory we enjoy only happens because the bankers let us win. Even Oscar the Future knows this.

Ashley offers me a piteous look. “I have to get back,” she says. “If I don’t get to say this later, I want to tell you that it’s been a pleasure.”

“Of course.” I stand and hold out my hand.

“Good luck.” Her voice chirps on the word “luck.” She pumps my hand. I feel something inside me warm, and the deck of my world cantilevers, and it feels like I’m backsliding down a steep hill. I try to pull her into my arms, but she wriggles away.

“Oh god, really?” she says. “You’re going to do this now?”

“I don’t get people your age,” I say. “I really don’t. All earnestness and repression.”

“What about your wife?”

Tina. Yes. Right. “This would definitely reflect badly on her as a wife,” I say.

Ashley laughs sardonically, and I can tell she’s hitting backspace on all the characteristics she thought I had. Composed, experienced teacher. Good husband. She’s ready to replace those words with others.

“You’re an old loser,” she says. “People like you are the reason we have so much to fix.”

“Grip the shovel, start digging,” I say, my voice a growl. “Show leadership, don’t give up.”

Ashley shakes her head and looks at me like I’m insane. She informs me that the principal will arrive momentarily. Like the rest of her generation, she thinks my problems are no one’s fault but my own.

Photo by Bart Boudreaux’s Photo on Picasa; used under a creative commons license

The easiest and least time consuming way to handle a lot of fruit is to pickle or preserve it in a syrup. It is as simple as cutting the fruit in quarters, layering them in jars, and covering them with the prepared liquid.  After that you can choose to store them in the refrigerator or process them in a water bath.  Below are two of my favorite recipes for this process:

Fruit Pieces in Honey Vanilla Syrup:
(use for stone fruit, pome fruit, berries or grapes)
(makes 6 8oz jars)

Ingredients:

• fruit
• ½ cup white sugar
• 3 Tablespoons honey
• ¼ inch vanilla bean, sliced open
• 2 cups water
• jars

Method:

• cut the fruit into ½ inch slices and layer them gently into a jar, leaving about an inch of head space at the top
• in a saucepan, combine the sugar, water, honey and vanilla bean. Simmer until the sugar has dissolved
• pour the solution over the fruit, tapping the jars on the counter to release air bubbles. Leave about a ½ inch of headspace on the top.
• seal the jars and process for 15 minutes in a water bath
• store for up to 18 months
• Serve over ice cream, yogurt, cake, etc.

Pickled Fruit:
(use for stone fruit, pome fruit, berries or grapes)
(makes 6 8oz jars)

Ingredients:

• fruit
• 2 cups of vinegar with the standard 5% acidity (preferably cider vinegar or wine vinegar)
• ½ cup sugar
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 2 star anise

Method:

• cut the fruit into ½ inch slices and layer them gently into a jar leaving about an inch of headspace at the top
• in a saucepan, combine the vinegar, sugar, salt and spices and simmer until the sugar has dissolved.
• pour the solution over the fruit, tapping the jars on the counter to release air bubbles. Leave about a ½ inch of headspace
• seal the jars and store in the refrigerator for up to 3 weeks, or process in a water bath canner for 15 minutes. Processed pickles will keep for up to 18 months.
• serve with cured meats or cheese

Next we have my personal favorite, the crumble.  A crumble is often confused with a crisp, a betty or a cobbler. So before we get into the recipe, lets go over each of these. A crumble is a crustless pie with a crumble topping made from sugar, butter, and flour (or oats). A crisp is similar only made with brown sugar, while a cobbler is made with a biscuit topping. A betty is a completely different dessert made from layering a spiced breadcrumb crumble with several layers of fruit, alternating between the two, then baked. Of these, the crumble is by far the easiest. It is my favorite because you can make it with a single piece of fruit, or 20 pieces of fruit.

Ingredients:
(use for stone fruit, pome fruit or berries)
(makes 1 9”x9” crumble)

• fruit
• lemon juice (for some fruits)
• 1/3 cup white sugar
• ¾ cup flour
• 6 tablespoons butter
• (pinch of salt if using unsalted butter)
• ¼ teaspoon of cinnamon (optional)

Method:

• sift flour sugar (and salt) into a medium mixing bowl
• cut in the butter with a knife and fork or pastry cutter (you can make a pastry cutter by removing the top and bottom of a can), then mix it with your hands until it begins to stick together
• cut the fruit into thin slices (about ¼ inch to 1/8 inch) and layer into 9×9 pan
• if using drier, sweeter fruit like apples, pears, peaches, add juice from 1 lemon. Omit from watery fruit like plums or berries.
• sprinkle the crumble topping evenly over the fruit
• bake at 425F until the top is golden brown, usually about 30 minutes
• serve with ice cream or in a bowl with some milk poured over it.

Last, and definitely the most time consuming and labor intensive is fruit butter.  To make a fruit butter you truly need an overabundance of fruit, as you will cook it down to about a ¼ of what you start with.  After trying several different methods of making fruit butter I have settled on what I find to be the easiest and the most freeing.  Traditionally you should cook the fruit on low heat over the stove for about 6-8 hours stirring constantly, then run it through a fine mesh sieve or food mill, jar it, and process it.  The entire process takes somewhere around 12 hours of active participation. So, now I use a crock-pot (slow cooker) and a blender. It still takes almost 12 hours depending on the volume and the type of fruit, BUT, it is passive participation. In fact, I often set it up and go to work, or go to sleep, and blend it and can it when I get home or wake up in the morning. It is basically fool proof. Plum butter is one of my favorite kinds of preserves. Thick with an almost velvety texture, it is bursting with intense, flavorful, tart fruit tastes and warm caramel sugary flavors that compliment each other remarkably well. It is especially delicious on cream cheese, or sandwiched between cookies!

Fruit Butter
Ingredients:
(use for stone fruit, pome fruit, or berries)

• fruit (lots of it, depending on the size of your slow cooker)
• sugar
• cinnamon, clove, allspice, nutmeg, orange zest (optional)

Method

• peel and core your fruit, removing all the pits or seeds (depending on your fruit). If using berries with large hard seeds (blackberries, raspberries, etc.) blend and strain them first
• fill your slow-cooker to the top with the fruit and turn it on high. Keep it covered until it begins to simmer, then remove the lid.
• stir occasionally. If left unattended for a long period of time, turn it down to low and cover with an upside-down colander to keep anything from falling into it. Turn it back on high once you are home.
• the mixture will start to brown and reduce. Once reduced to about 1/3 to ¼ of the original quantity, check the consistency. It should be pasty with small pockets of liquid around the pulp.
• add ¼ cup of sugar, stir it in well and taste it. Slowly add more sugar until it is as sweet as you like it.
• pour the mixture into a food processor and blend until smooth. Spoon into jars and process in a waterbath canner for 15 minutes.

Photographs by Rosey Lakos at roseylakosphotography.com.

Odysseus: Hail Zeus! After ten long years, Troy is finally sacked. Come, my fellow Achaeans, let us set sail. Let us return home to our wives and children.

Achaean: Not so fast, Odysseus! Aren’t you forgetting something?

O: Tell me, comrade.

A: Why, a balanced breakfast, my king! Which is why we’ve looted a thousand daily rations of Kellogg’s Special K® Red Berries Cereal. Filled with succulently sweet strawberries, crispy rice, and whole grain wheat flakes, Red Berries Cereal packs ten essential vitamins and minerals into each and every bite! It’s the perfect way to start a homeward voyage—a voyage that’s positively ripe with possibilities.

O: Well . . . okay, surely the men are hungry after yesterday’s brutal and bloody conquest.

A: Kellogg’s Special K® Red Berries Cereal. A berry special part of your daily balanced breakfast.

* * *

Odysseus: Come, men! Cease your pillaging of the Cicones, and let us flee! They are far greater in number, and are clearly skilled in the art of war. Forget their booty, their women. Let us leave at once, to Greece!

Achaean: What if I told you that you didn’t have to leave at once?

O: Brother, there is no time to argue. If we do not flee, we shall surely perish.

A: What if I told you that the Burlington Coat Factory’s 30% Off Sale is extended until Sunday!

O: This concerns me not.

A: Aviator jackets! Trench coats! Bubble vests! 30% off!

O: Gentle Achaean, I implore you, let us make haste.

A: Peacoats! Bomber jackets! Fleece hoodies! 30% off!

O: Dost thou not hear? Their chariots approach!

A: Look at this Multi-pocket Washed Leather Jacket from Calvin Klein. With a 100% genuine leather shell, military-style epaulettes, and carefully distressed finish, it’s the very definition of classic cool. And through Sunday, it’s only $125.99!

O: Yes, truly this jacket is of the finest quality, but unfortunately now is not the . . .

A: And this Ladies’ Single-Breasted Coat from Hawke & Co., with its five-button front, gun flaps, belt with harness buckle, and charming tiered skirt. A fabulously feminine way to keep warm this fall!

O: It is true, this coat’s beauty is unassailable . . . and it would delight my beloved Penelope so . . .

A: And through Sunday, only $55.99!

O: Oh, curses . . .

A: And this Infant Athletic Bubble Jacket from London Fog . . .

O: Fine, fine. It is decided. Men, take one coat each. But swiftly, swiftly! The hour of our doom is at hand!

A: Burlington Coat Factory—we’re more than great coats!

* * *

Odysseus: We have tarried here in the Land of the Lotus-Eaters long enough. Think of your families, how they must pine for you. Let us proceed homeward. Let us not delay here another moment.

Lotus-Eater: Stressed out? Fed up? Monday’s got you down?

O: No, good sir, I simply wish to hasten our departure. My fair Penelope awaits me in Ithaca.

L: Never fear, relief is here: Bath & Body Works’ stress-relieving Eucalyptus Spearmint Bath Salts.

O: My sincere apologies, friend, but unfortunately we must now take our leave.

L: Part of Bath & Body Works’ unique Aromatherapy line, our bath salts’ patented formula contains a unique blend of essential oils and skin-soothing sea salts to nourish both the body and the mind.

O: Your offer is enticing, but if you knew my Penelope you would understand that every moment I am away from her is like an eternity.

L: And for a limited time only, buy any two amazing Bath & Body Works Aromatherapy products and get one free!

O: You are too generous. But, sadly, we must . . .

L: Lavendar Chamomile Pillow Mist! The natural lulling effects of chamomile combined with the sleep-enhancing properties of lavendar!

O: Men! The time is come. Into the ships!

L: Lavendar Vanilla Dream Bath! With aloe to nourish and rejuvenate skin!

O: Men! Do not defy my orders!

L: Orange Ginger Energy Sudsing Scrub!

O: Men!

L: Black Currant Vanilla Sensuality Body Wash!

O: Men! Men! Men!

L: Stressed out? Fed up? Monday’s got you down?

O: In truth, sir, it could be said—yes.

L: Then never fear, relief is here.

O: Men!

L: Relax. Unwind.

O: Men!

L: Let go. Be.

O: Men!

L: Aromatherapy, by Bath & Body Works.

* * *

Polyphemus: Help! Help! Nobody is hurting me!

Odysseus: Men! Quick! Tie yourselves to the bellies of the cyclops’ sheep, and let us escape to the ships.

P: Aiiieeeeeee! Help!

Other Cyclops: Polyphemus, who is hurting you?

O: Good, men, we’re almost there.

P: Nobody! Nobody hurt me. Nobody blinded me!

O: Patience, just a little farther . . .

OC: Well if nobody blinded you, then cease your crying and go back to . . .

Wilford Brimley: It wasn’t nobody who blinded you. It was Odysseus, Son of Laertes, King of Ithaca.

O: Comrade, be silent!

W: And I’m Wilford Brimley for Liberty Medical.

O: Are you crazy, man? Hold your tongue!

W: I’m a diabetic.

P: Odysseus? Wilford Brimley? What men are these?

W: Did you know that diabetes is the number one cause of new blindness in adults? And that people with diabetes are 40% more likely to develop glaucoma, and 60% more likely to develop cataracts?

P: Whence come their voices, diabolical and strange?

O: Master Brimley, be still! Or is your desire suicide?

W: Now, I know how serious this disease is, but I also know a way to control it.

OC: Polyphemus! The sheep! They are hiding themselves beneath the sheep!

W: Check your blood sugar, and check it often.

O: Men! Now! To the ships!

W: Liberty makes that easier.

P: Brothers, kill them! Destroy them! Devour them!

W: If you’re sixty-five or over, on Medicare, and diabetic, call Liberty right now.

O: Row, men! Row! Row!

P: But leave me the ones who call themselves Odysseus and Brimley. On those I shall mete my own revenge.

W: They’re the country’s largest Medicare mail-order diabetic testing supply company, and they make things simple. They bring your supply right to your door.

OC: Polyphemus, alas! They have escaped. Their ships are beyond our reach.

W: And Liberty bills Medicare and your insurance company. That’s right—no money up front, and no more forms to fill out.

O: Brimley! Stop, I implore you.

P: Father! Poseidon! The raven-haired, Earth-Enfolder!

W: Diabetes doesn’t have to take over your life. Check your blood sugar. Check it often. See there’s just no reason not to.

O: You shall only enrage him further.

P: If indeed I am your son, if indeed you declare yourself my father, grant that Odysseus the city-sacker may never return home again; or if he is fated to see his kith and kin and so reach his high-roofed house and his own country, let him come late and come in misery, after the loss of all his comrades, and carried upon an alien ship; and in his house let him find mischief.

O: This bodes not well, Brimley.

W: And call Liberty. They’re professionals and they can help you live a better life.

* * *

Eurylochus: Odysseus! Take heed! Circe, the woman of the wood, is an evil witch-goddess! She has laced her food with a magical potion and transformed your men into swine!

O: I am grateful for your counsel, dear Eurylochus. I shall gather the remaining men and set out to rescue our comrades at once.

Hermes: Hold it right there, Son of Laertes.

O: Hermes! The great messenger of the gods!

H: Tired of the same old, boring barbecue sauce?

O: <sigh> This is growing tiresome.

H: Then say hello to Kraft Honey Mustard Barbecue Sauce!

E: Hmmm . . . tangy.

Achaean: So flavorful!

H: Different, right? That’s the Kraft difference.

Achaean: You said it, Hermes. Mmm mmm. Now if only we had something to . . . wait a second, you know what this would go great on . . .

O: No. No. Speak not another word.

A: Eurylochus, that Brimley guy? Did he get transformed?

E: Yes, he has been transformed into a particularly delectable swine.

A: Come on, O-Dog. What do you say?

O: My sweet Penelope, shall I ever again gaze upon your beautiful face?

H: Kraft Honey Mustard Barbecue Sauce: Taste the Excitement!

A: Wooo pig! Wooo pig! Soooey!

Wilford Brimley: Oink oink oink oink oink!

* * *

Odysseus: Dearest Circe, the year I have spent with you has been full of pleasure, but I cannot remain here forever. The time has come for us to part.

Circe: No, lover, I pray—stay.

O: I shall always remember you fondly, but my heart belongs to another.

C: Your wife Penelope.

O: Yes, Penelope, Queen of Ithaca, my home.

C: I see. And Penelope, she applies K-Y Touch™ 2-in-1 Warming™sensual massage oil and lubricant to your aching neck and shoulders every night?

O: She does not.

C: But, she cooks you delicious, healthy meals on a George Foreman Champ™ Grill, yes? The grill whose patented sloped design and George Tough™ nonstick coating helps unhealthy fat and excess liquids drain away from you food?

O: No, we do not have such wonders in Ithaca.

C: But, surely, she teases you in bed with lacy thongs, hiphuggers, and fishnet panties from Victoria Secret’s Sexy Little Things® collection?

O: She wears a tunic and cloak in the traditional way.

C: But you like the K-Y Touch™ 2-in-1 Warming™sensual massage oil and lubricant, yes?

O: Yes, I like the K-Y Touch™ 2-in-1 Warming™sensual massage oil and lubricant very much.

C: And you prefer my meals cooked on the George Foreman Champ™ Grill to your meals in Ithaca, do you not?

O: I do, the George Tough™ nonstick coating truly is a cause for marvel.

C: And if you could choose, you would prefer your woman to wear Victoria’s Secret erotic Sexy Little Things® lingerie rather than a drab, heavy wool cloak in bed, is that right?

O: Witch-goddess Circe, you do easily discern my thoughts in regards to the Victoria’s Secret Sexy Little Things® lingerie.

C: So then . . . why does your heart belong to Penelope again?

O: I love her.

C: Such a shame, dearest Odysseus, for Victoria’s Secret has recently launched a new collection of sheer babydolls, corsets, and teddies—the Sirens® collection—and I was so looking forward to modeling them for you . . .

O: Well . . . perhaps I could stay one more night . . .

* * *

Siren: Bad credit? No credit? No problem!

Odysseus: Untie me from the mast!

S: Side effects may include . . .

O: Untie me from the mast!

S: This Christmas, come see the movie that Joel Siegel of Good Morning America calls . . .

O: Untie me from the mast!

S: Fares, taxes, fees, rules, and offers are subject to change without notice. Other restrictions may apply.

O: Untie me from the mast!

* * *

Calypso: Honey!

Odysseus: Yes, dear?

C: Clumsy me, I spilled grape juice all over our new carpet! Now it’s ruined!

O: Ruined? Oh honey! Not if Spot Shot® Instant Carpet Stain Remover has anything to say about it!

Spot Shot® Instant Carpet Stain Remover: Odysseus, you must leave this place.

O: What’s that, little buddy? Did you say that you eliminate the toughest carpet stains—even old stains?

S: You have been trapped on this island for seven years.

O: That you work great on pet stains, coffee, spaghetti sauce, grease and oil, marker, wine, and more?

S: You must return home. To Ithaca.

C: Wow, so you just spray on Spot Shot® and blot the stain away. No need for rubbing or scrubbing.

S: To your wife, Odysseus.

O: Yes, it’s that simple.

S: To Penelope.

O: And the stain-eliminating power of Spot Shot® is available in both an aerosol can and a trigger spray bottle!

C: Hail Zeus!

S: Penelope. Dost thou not remember faithful Penelope? The Queen of Ithaca? Your one true love? The mother of your child?

C: Oh honey! Look! The grape juice is gone!

S: Dost thou not remember her face? Her soft, rosy lips? Her star-kissed eyes?

O: Gone? With Spot Shot® Instant Carpet Stain Remover, it’s like the stain was never even there!

S: Say her name, Odysseus.

C: I can’t believe it! Thank you! Oh, thank you, Spot Shot®!

S: Penelope. Penelope. Say it.

O: Look for Spot Shot® in the household cleaning section of your favorite supermarket, drugstore, or club store.

S: Penelope. Penelope. Penelope.

C: Oh honey, I’ll never cry over another stain again.

S: Penelope.

O: Stain? What stain?

S: Penelope.

O: Spot Shot®.

Previous installments of Mt. Olympus, Miami

We’d just entered the Tate Modern in London, and Tim had gone ahead while I’d stopped in the gift shop to look for a museum guidebook. The Tate Modern is housed in the shell of the former Bankside Power Station, and the entrance takes you immediately into the hall where the turbines were located. The Tate Modern commissions contemporary artists to create installation art at an unusually epic scale, especially for an indoor space, and are guaranteed a large audience of Londoners as well as international visitors. It’s become popular with artists and museum-goers, both relishing the opportunities afforded by this space.

Although I vaguely understood that Tim must be referring to the current installation—there wasn’t anything else around—I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. The art installed in the Turbine Hall when we visited last December was, simply, an enormous dark steel container. It was forbidding in size but otherwise not especially frightening. It stood on legs just high enough for visitors to walk under it and reach up to touch the girded metal, and, at forty-two feet high, it stood more than three times taller than a standard eighteen-wheeler. Tim dragged me around to the other side of the metal box. It looked like its lid had hinged opened, forming a gently inclined ramp that apparently led straight into the heart of darkness.

“What’s in there?” I asked Tim.

“I have no idea. I walked a few steps in, found it absolutely terrifying, and came to get you.”

We walked up the ramp and slowed as we neared the impenetrable blackness. The inside of the container was lined with black velvet and the floor was painted black, absorbing any light beams that might have lost their way. Tim and I instinctively put our hands in front of us as though navigating a dark hallway. And though I’ve long held the belief that art can’t hurt you, I was surely about to be proven wrong. I’ve had some near-religious experiences with art before, but nothing that made me worry for my physical well-being. Nothing that made me grab my friend’s arm so we could go down together. This was a blackness so thick it enveloped you, like the darkest part of a nightmare, like what the world will look like just before it is extinguished. A blackness that awakened in you any dormant fears of being buried alive, or of being smothered, or of screaming for help into a deaf void.

Unable to see even the shadows of the other museum-goers around us, we moved into the blackness, waving our hands in front of us with what must have been comic urgency. The nervous giggles of the other museum visitors became whispers. I apologized to Tim for making fun of him for coming to get me. We shuffled slowly, scared that we would run into somebody, or something, without warning. Even from the outside, the metal container appeared to stretch forever (only ninety-eight feet, actually).

We stumbled further, getting a little giddy on our own bravery as we resisted the urge to turn around to look for the light behind us.

Thump.

We’d hit, literally, a wall, covered in more black velvet, soft but not padded. It couldn’t have been at more than three-quarters the length of the container, or maybe even half. The artist knew that people would be walking far too slowly to ever actually hurt themselves.

We turned around, and my pupils rapidly acclimated to the light glowing from the front of the box—not so very far away—backlighting the figures who stumbled forward as we just had, arms waving, feet shuffling. It was easy to avoid them, but they had no way of knowing that as they groped through the blackness arms-first.

*     *     *
Miroslaw Balka, the man responsible for this experience, is a Polish-born artist whose intense, spatial installations often carry the tragic undertones of his country’s history. It’s no accident that this installation resembles, both physically and psychically, a shipping container or gas chamber. The work is entitled How It Is, suggesting that the collective memory Balka is tapping into is a grave one indeed. With How It Is, Balka has achieved an experience both vast and suffocating, collective and personal. It echoes the nightmares of a nation and the phobias of an individual.

We approached How It Is later that afternoon, after we’d seen several exhibits in the main part of the museum. Tim was apprehensive, but I insisted. I wanted to know how it would change—if it would change—if we knew that what awaited us was a soft bump against a velveted wall.

Having already walked through How It Is doesn’t erase all the questions. It’s still impossible to gage exactly when you’ll hit the wall. It’s still impossible to see the figures dodging you on their way out. The impenetrable blackness is no less dense, nor does it cease to awaken the fears of your personal or collective conscious, though perhaps the knowledge of the piece gave us more control over our emotions; we still kept our arms in front of us, but stood up straighter, carried less of the weight of the darkness with us.

And after our second trip inside, I turned to face the light, and, despite Tim’s protestations, ran out, easily dodging the people entering for the first time. Maybe art can hurt us, but if it is so powerful, then maybe it can also save us.

Photo “Abstract (Light reflection on metal boxes)” by tanakawho on Flickr. See “How It Is” at the Tate Modern website.

Whereas Charlene’s organic connectors had slowly decayed from decades of her synovial fluid washing against her cartilage, her corrosion-resistant, inorganic parts had proved themselves to be synarthrosic. Worse, few of her friends cared about her increasing restricted mobility. Those associates were usually otherwise occupied celebrating that academic’s career successes.

A short time ago, for instance, her department had held a luncheon to fete Charlene on Cambridge University Press’s publication of her Treaties on Dio Chrysostom’s Orations and on The University of Chicago Press’s declaration that it would print her Social Construction in Zenobius’ Proverbs. At that august entertainment, the professor had been unable to grasp the ordinary utensils that the caterers had provided. While observing her junior colleagues and department chair knock back rare roast beef and virtual mashed potatoes, she had allowed herself the luxury of a few sighs; she occasionally paid tribute to the days when she had been entirely made of flesh.

In fairness, despite the fact that the members of her mentor’s faction had questioned Charlene’s decision concerning her physical remediation, the scholar had gone ahead, anyway, and had exchanged her diothrosic chunks for bits made from titanium and rubber. Afterward, when that research exemplar, as well as the generation that succeeded him, had become as physically obsolete as were the ancient philosophers to whom the group of them paid professional homage, the intellectual awarded herself fresh credence for the way in which she had chosen among available physiologies.

Only much later, Charlene bungee jumped off her intellectual cliff.  Specifically, in the decade that followed the death of so many of her peers and advisers, she took on the electronic persona of a part-time retail employee from Iowa City , Iowa . Under that guise, the researcher began assembling and submitting writings based on all of the wiggly images that burrowed through her brain when she was supposed to be lecturing on western civilization’s cultural history.

Although Charlene developed a forte in both horror flash fiction and in lipstick poetry, she was not at all displeased when Analog Science Fiction and Fact made known that it was going public with her “Eyes of the Uromastyx,” and whenPloughshares advertised that her sonnet, “Georgie’s Pudding,” was going to appear in a future volume. To commemorate those successes, she scheduled additional innovative surgeries. Charlene had deemed it timely to replace her vertebral articulations with more reliable segments.

While Charlene healed from those invasive cuts, she penned “Ramos’ Salvation.” Straight away, that piece, too, was accepted for publication. The editors at Glimmer Train had exclaimed, in their acknowledgment email, that her exposition was so original as to bring to mind the genre of prose created by the AI Effect software, which was currently in vogue at select universities’ writing workshops.

Unfortunately, all of that literary bare branching did not bring Charlene further academic accolades. In the place of such honors, the university lecturer’s most topical placements had introduced, into her life, an interpersonal dilemma. The Iowa City Press Citizen had caught wind that a “local resident” was being extolled for pioneering poetics. A correspondent, from that weekly, had been tenaciously harrying Charlene, hourly interrupting her thoughts, with instant messaging.

To stop his harassment, the elitist was willing to break her façade, to let the news hound know: that she believed her counterfeited experiences to be a justified means to the agreeable end of her appearing more user-friendly in print, that a piece of her chicanery had consisted of her daughter photographing her in borrowed glasses and a wig, and that she had enlisted the help of her son in fabricating a verbal portrait that accounted, in the language of serial divorces and bad hair days, for her decades’ worth of living.

Charlene was hesitant, nevertheless, about making the acquaintance of that reporter.

Even if his publisher was willing to fly him to Princeton for the “scoop of the year,” She believed that their meeting would be ill-fated, since she had already experienced too many encounters with pediophobic people.

Just four neat months ago, Charlene had been subjected to repulsion from a collaborator employed in Brisbane . That fellow, the recipient of a University of Queensland travel grant, had been so intent upon working with the instructor face-to-face, to further their joint efforts on “The Probable Elocution of Judicial Oratory in the Fourth Century,” that he had transversed the globe to meet her. Unfortunately, that professor’s eyes had bulged and his limbs had begun to tremble long before the achiever could even respond to his preliminary salutation. As soon as he said “hello,” Charlene’s distinguished visitor had clutched his abdomen and had raced to the green that was adjacent to Princeton’s East Pyne Building . He didn’t quite make it, though. Instead, he had found himself spewing vomit along the Classics Department’s sacrosanct halls.

There had been other moments, as well, when Charlene second guessed her sham. One such incident occurred when she presented “Gorgias’ Ego” at an annual meeting of the American Branch of the International Society for the History of Rhetoric. On that occasion, two colleagues had been carried out of the auditorium with chest pain, and six had complained of feeling dizzy. C harlene’s only surviving graduate school friend, Ryan Wallaby, mentioned that he had become ill with a chocking sensation.

As she contemplated such events, Charlene looked at her reflection in the panes of lead glass that insulated her office. Beyond her window, the bare boughs of a sickly elm tree beguiled the eye into seeking out complimentary life forms. Albeit, no chipmunks or squirrels investigated that gargantuan’s immense vertical furrows; no creature was interested in finding out more about the lines that alluded to that tree’s formerly expanding rings. No tourists sat near its roots. No graffiti defaced its bark. A pair of sneakers, a torn plastic bag, and a tattered hair ribbon constituted that mammoth’s sole ornaments.

Charlene shook her head. She had been morally contented with her ruse. Originally, she had meant only to compose and to broadcast. It was not until her piece, “Lice in Love,” had been nominated for a Hugo that she realized a natural lifespan would adversely constrain her creative output. Yet, Charlene maintained that she had not been greedy when she deigned to use her royalties, from the 7^th edition of that limitedly popular freshman text, Humanities for You and Me, to fund her initial elective surgery.

The doctors at the University Medical Center at Princeton had excitedly gobbled up Charlene’s monies, rationalizing that since her maternal grandmother had suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, they were merciful in supplying their client with preventive care. In the same way in which those surgeons regularly excised the breasts of healthy women with family histories of cancer, and in which they performed episiotomies on young mothers with no skin elasticity issues, those practitioners readily replaced Charlene’s sacroiliac joints with proxies.

At the time, the Classic Department’s Tenure and Promotion Committee had been so delighted with Charlene’s participation in the anthropology dimension of the Fulbright Specialist Program and with her nomination to second vice president of the National Communication Association, that they were willing to look the other way on cosmetic matters. Her contiguous articles in Philosophy and Rhetoric and inTraditio helped her cause, as well.

So, Charlene, under her alias, wrote even more creative nonfiction for The Smithsonian and for The Christian Science Monitor. Under her nom de plume, she similarly fashioned further tales of vampires and of golems for The House of Painand for City Morgue. She dashed off intermittent book reviews for Jane Magazine,too.

At present, if Charlene’s exaggerated posture, as a tenured professor in an Ivy League school, gleaned less loathing, then all of the variations of her play-acting would have been as sweet as had been Socrates’ final drink when that great scholar had been confronted by the Sophists. Regrettably, the contemporary state of the academic community’s vagarities disallowed for undefendable fakery. Charlene called to cancel the interview.

It really is like playing God to the astronomy community: “The future of X-ray astronomy now looks bleak,” declared an esteemed former colleague (and X-ray astronomer) on Facebook. By allotting only $180 million¹ over the next decade for the proposed X-ray telescope IXO, research in this highly energetic range of electromagnetic frequencies has been put on hold. As Julianne Dalcanton pointed out at Cosmic Variance:

The real bummer about these recommendations is that entire subfields of US astronomy are pretty much shut out of the only environment where they can operate. X-ray, UV, and high-resolution astronomy . . . are fundamentally space-based enterprises, and when Chandra and HST [Hubble Space Telescope] shut down, there will be nothing left, and nothing in the pipeline for a decade or more.

In other words, thanks to our atmosphere, which protects weaklings like us from dangerous radiation like X-rays and ultraviolet rays, we won’t be seeing anything new in these wavelengths anytime soon. Bleak, indeed.

Meanwhile, cosmologists like me won big: not only was Cosmic Dawn (the early stages of the universe’s existence) selected as one of three major research priorities for the next decade, but also the number one priority for space-based missions/telescopes is the Wide-Field Infrared Survey Telescope (WFIRST), which will be tasked with hunting for a better understanding of the mysterious cosmic acceleration, thought to be caused by something (we really don’t know what) called Dark Energy. As a bonus, the capabilities needed for chasing down answers about Dark Energy can also be used to hunt for Earth-sized worlds in other solar systems, and WFIRST will be charged with that mission as well.

Of course, the 225 page report does more than excite cosmologists and deflate X-ray/UV astronomers. Ground-based optical observers have a lot to be excited about, as do theorists and experimentalists hoping to detect gravitational waves in the next two decades as the Laser Interferometer Space Antenna (LISA) received a tentative endorsement from the committee. Allotments were made for smaller missions as new discoveries require them, and this allows us the flexibility of pursuing research in an unpredictable but exciting area: the whole Universe.

Looking at another set of winners, the chapter on Astronomy and Society introduced topics previously covered in Astro decadals, but never in such great detail or with such explicit recommendations. Growing US astronomy over the next decade and indeed over the decades following it requires ensuring that enough Americans pursue education and research in the field. They note the dire need to accelerate the recruitment and retention of Blacks, Hispanics and Native Americans into astronomy and astrophysics. While this issue was touched on in the previous decadal, this is really the first one to forcefully make this point:²

Black Americans, Hispanic Americans and Native Americans constitute 27% of the US population . . . This cohort accounts for only 4% of astronomy PhDs awarded in the US and 3% of faculty members. To achieve parity would require increasing the annual rate of minority PhDs in astronomy from around 5 to a sustained value of 40 over a period of 30 years . . . Failing to tap into such a large fraction of the population is hurting the country through not accessing a large human resource.

Indeed, if the US wants to maintain the current numbers of people involved in Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics fields (often referred to simply as STEM), then underrepresented people of color have to be integrated in much larger numbers, simply because of changing demographics. Otherwise, we are looking at a future where Americans just don’t do science.

I’ll leave it to the reader to guess at what that would mean for the American economy. Noting that astronomy is often the gateway (drug) to science for impressionable young people, the report emphasizes that ongoing support for the diversification of astronomy is essential to preparing the US for our technological future. The report goes on to mention my two favorite science organizations, the National Society of Black Physicists and the National Society of Hispanic Physicists. By the way, despite this focus on the future of American science, this survey had a notable international flavor, including international members of the committees involved in putting it together.

What is clear from listening to the press conference, reading the blog responses, and looking at the actual report is that, like anything else that involves large sums of money and a lot of people, everything still seems to come back to politics, or human error. I think they may be the same thing, or at least very much related. Was the committee right to gamble on cosmology, largely at the expense of everything else? Or did they do that because Adam Riess, a lead discoverer of cosmic acceleration, was on the committee that made programming recommendations? Perhaps it’s not Adam, but public perception – cosmology is wildly popular right now. Either way, it’s felt that the committee did not always make the most scientific evaluation possible, and I’m willing to believe that.

It’s also clear that things might have been different if certain evil people and organizations, ahem Goldman-$achsholes, hadn’t crashed the economy, leaving us fighting even harder for the budgets necessary to do large-scale astronomy exploration. Even as we practitioners of the scientific art dream big, Congress and the President will continue to spend trillions on unpopular wars while asking the rest of us to tighten our belts. As a scientist, I know I’ve felt this the least, and one thing I can do is try to lighten the load as a cosmologist by helping others to dream of something bigger than bombs, reminding everyone that the Universe outside of this struggling planet is a glorious, beautiful and fascinating place. Or, as the committee wrote:

The universe has always beckoned us. Over the course of human civilization, the night sky has provided a calendar for the farmer, a guide for the sailor, and a home for the gods. Astronomy . . . has revealed that the sky visible to the naked eye is really just a hint of a vast and complex cosmos, within which our home planet is but a pale blue dot.

In truth, this decadal marks an important personal moment for me. As of September, I will be one of the 5 or 6 Black North American PhDs in astrophysics this year, and I will also be one of the first on the scene preparing the WFIRST project for its jaunt in space. That’s exciting, and I hope my excitement will be contagious.

2 This may have something to do with the fact that for the first time white men were not an overwhelming majority on the committee, but that’s just my personal theory.

X-ray shot via NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center Flickr account

And then there are this week’s batch of artists, who seem to hope that if they refer to themselves by one name, we will all either a) assume they are already as huge as the aforementioned superstars, or b) be sucked in by their chutzpah and self-aggrandizement and make them that huge.  Let’s see if any of these albums inspires us to take the bait, shall we?

Dondria – Dondria vs. Phatffat

This album art is a bona fide success, in that with one glance at it, I know with 100% certainty that the contents are not remotely geared toward me, and listening to it would be like having my teeth drilled with a Jolly Rancher.  At the same time, if you are a twelve-year-old girl who stays up late every night eating candy and IMing your best friend and tweeting about Justin Bieber or Twilight or whatever, then this album is telling you that it is going to be YOUR SHIT.  Of course, you’re not actually buying the album, you’re probably downloading it illegally or burning your BFF’s copy (returning it only after leaving sugary fingerprints all over it), but you’ll totally spring for tickets when Dondria and Phatffat (is that a person?  I don’t even want to know) hit your town on tour, right?  If your mom is free to give you a ride, anyway.

Doro – Fear No Evil (Ultimate Collector’s Edition)

I had to break one of my rules and do a tiny bit of research on this just to ascertain that Doro is, in fact, a solo artist and not a band – and I think I could easily do a whole column based on her covers alone.  But don’t worry, everything I learned was wiped from my brain as I closely studied this incredibly dense piece of artwork (thank you Amazon and your zoom function).  This really has it all: Hot, mostly-naked lady!  Tribal tattoos!  Lightning!  Castles!  Wizards!  Skulls!  Fetish zombies?  Shiny gold lettering!  So, yeah, a serious soft-core glam metal type situation going on here.  Again, I am warned well away, but I can hear the boners of young metal fans around the nation springing to attention at the release of this album.

Lissie – Catching a Tiger

I like this cover.  In fact, my only problem with it is that I find the name “Lissie” to be somewhat grating, but that’s not necessarily her fault, is it?  It could be her name is Elisabeth, and she elected to have people call her “Lissie,” but let’s assume that’s not the case, and even if it is a nickname, it’s one her parents gave her at a very young age, and she just stuck with it.  Heck, if I were a girl, my name would have been Elizabeth – and I probably would have looked kind of like Lissie here, now that I think about it – and maybe my parents would have called me Lizzie and I would have thought it was a good idea to use that as my nom de rock.  So, there but for the grace of gender, etc., etc.

But yes, the photo is a really nice one.  The composition is great; her expression is kind of confused, maybe a bit worried – I swear I see a little Tippi-Hedren-in-The-Birds there, though not quite that terrified.  Maybe there’s a tornado coming?  I don’t love the handwriting – as with so many covers, I think this would be better without any text – but it works well enough.  We’re not being pounded over the head with genre signifiers, but I feel pretty sure that her voice is pretty and there are acoustic guitars involved.  Unlike the first two installments, this cover would not send me running from the listening station.

Nils – What the Funk?

It’s funny, because “What the Funk?” is not too different – just one letter away – from what I said to myself upon seeing this album cover.  I have no idea if this record is old or new, or who Nils is, or even what gender Nils is.  Normally I would assume Nils to be a man’s name, but this picture has our Nils looking like a cross between Marianne Faithful and Rod Stewart, and wearing some intense shoulder pads.  Design-wise, my eyes just keep coming back to the way the album title is set off by white, standing out jarringly from the rest of the art.  This makes me think “bad Photoshop job,” which makes me think this is a new release going for a retro look.  Whatever the situation, it’s pretty much horrendous all around.

As far as what kind of tunes Nils is rocking, I guess I’d have to take the title at face value and assume there is some attempt at funk or soul or blues being peddled here, but the photo of the alleged funk-purveyor certainly does not have me optimistic as to the funkiness of the contents.

Wason – Alma Mia

I don’t know who this dude is (or how to pronounce his name – does it rhyme with “Jason,” or is there some kinda Frenchy thing going on?), but I like him.  This is another fairly simple photo that totally comes together around the subject’s expression.  There’s so much going on there – disappointment, disgust, bewilderment – that you just keep coming back to that face.  And then the way the background is blown out to give you a sense of place without distracting you from the foreground – the man, the umbrella, the pole – is really nice.  And again, I’m not quite sure what kind of music this guy is doing, but I’m definitely willing to give it a spin.

This is a really good cover, but it could have been better.  I don’t mind the font they used for his name, but the red handwriting font for the album title (and it is a font, unlike the Lissie cover) is just unnecessarily ornamental.  And then for some reason there’s a barely perceptible fingerprint behind the artist name and title, that adds nothing and detracts quite a bit from the overall simplicity of the cover.  Overdesign almost claims another victim, but the photo is strong enough that it’s not totally ruined.

“Belief. What is belief? Beyond belief. ‘What a Fool Believes.’ You don’t believe in me; I don’t believe in you . . .

“People will believe anything. Paul is dead. The moon landing was a sham. God has a beard. Why always a beard? And I quote from Genesis: ‘So God created man in His own image, in the image of God created He him.’ And yet, ninety percent of the time, Adam is depicted as being clean-shaven. What does he shave with? Rocks? Animal teeth? Specialized thistles? And why shave? This is pre-Fruit of Knowledge. Does he have head lice? A job interview? He’s oblivious to the concept of nudity, but he’s still self-conscious about a little bit of chin stubble?

“God’s beard—I guess I can see the logic there. A beard tends to give one a certain gravitas. It’s hard to imagine God creating the heavens and the Earth with a soul patch, or a Fu Manchu, or mutton chops. But who knows? God knows. He is all-knowing. Surely he knows about the Norelco 7810XL. The Braun 790CC. The Remington MS5200. Adam’s shaving with squirrel incisors, while God can’t be bothered for even a light trim. Mysterious ways. ‘Do you believe in miracles?’ ‘I Believe I Can Fly’ . . .

“Angels. People believe in angels. My issue with the angels is why are they always playing harps? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against harps, but I feel like at some point the angels would get tired of being pigeonholed. I feel like, one angel, he gets issued his harp, and he’s like, ‘No thanks, I want to play the electric guitar. What do you have in a ’69 Telecaster?’ . . .

“Genies. People believe in genies too. They’re in the Koran, supernatural beings made of smokeless flame. In Western culture, they’re lamp-dwelling wish-dispensers. Me and this girl were talking genies the other day, and she brought up the issue of airport security. Stay with me, now. Let’s say you travel to Qatar, rub a lamp, acquire a genie. Great. Now you have to fly back to the U.S. If you put the genie in your checked baggage, you’re probably okay. But what if the plane goes down? Or your flight’s hijacked by terrorists? You’re going to want that genie in your carry-on, right? But then you have to get the genie past security. First off, if there’s any liquid in the lamp—residual oil, etc.—you’re screwed, unless the lamp’s less than three ounces, which—not likely. Second, remember, the genie’s made of smokeless flame. You think the TSA is going to go, ‘Oh, it’s alright, it’s just smokeless flame’? The obvious solution is to wish for a magic carpet, of course. But carpet-based travel . . . I don’t know, it doesn’t seem like the optimal means of transportation to me. What if it rains? You’re soaked, and the carpet gets damp, and sooner or later you get that mildew smell. Why do male genies live in lamps, and female genies live in bottles? What happens if a genie bottle gets recycled? For people who believe in genies, are lamps and bottles continual disappointments?

“People believe in love. What does that mean, exactly? ‘I saw her face, now I’m a believer.’ Knowledge is a type of belief, but not the only type. We can believe what we do not know. ‘Don’t Stop Believin.’ Why? What if we all stopped believing? What if we just knew? I know that this Heineken is two for one until 6 p.m. I know that Heineken is a 5% abv pale lager, brewed by Heineken International since 1873. But how do I know these things? Someone told me. They could be lying to me. But I believe them. But what if I stopped believing? Now what do I know? You smell terrific. Can I buy you a drink?

“I don’t believe you.”

To be continued in Part Seven: We’ll Always Have Brownsville

Previous installments of Mt. Olympus, Miami

Photo by Travis Nicholson on Flickr