The Weblog

I confess that I am very impressed by the dining room table The Girlfriend has made out of a door (found in a dumpster in front of a building that was being rehabbed) and some legs ordered from IKEA. I confess that my first week as a househusband has gone well — I love the new place and the new neighborhood.

I confess that I can’t really think of much to confess just now, which is reminiscent of how I can’t really think of anything concrete to do this summer.

I confess that although grading remains, my first year in the classroom ended yesterday. I’ve posted some reflections elsewhere, but for those needing the executive summary: it’s been an extremely valuable experience.

I confess that one effect of teaching this year has been to reinforce my tendency to distrust members of my own gender: there are excellent male students, but the worst students, in my experience, have all been male. For the female students, there’s just a higher baseline of competence, simple things like actually showing up to class regularly, acknowledging that deadlines exist, checking their e-mail every day — whereas the guys can often be total wrecks, including one plagiarist and a couple who essentially never showed up for class. I confess that I don’t like to keep track of attendance formally, but include a disclaimer in my syllabus that a “clear pattern of absenteeism” would hurt their grade. I worried that the standard was too vague, but in one of my classes this quarter I found one unambiguous standard — if you show up to class and I don’t recognize you at all, that’s a “clear pattern of absenteeism.”

I confess that I am keeping my apartment in Kalamazoo until the end of my contract and that I am somewhat worried about the fact that it will be sitting mostly idle for over three months this summer. I confess that part of me wishes that I could move all the way out now (and hence move all my stuff to the new apartment in Chicago) and just find a furnished studio for next year, but that leaving things basically as they are was seductively easy. It probably won’t make much difference either way, honestly.

I confess that I have become weirdly obsessed with the distinctive foods of midwestern cities, particularly the Flint-style Coney Island hotdog, and that I have bored countless friends talking about it. I confess, however, that everyone I’ve talked to views their local food tradition as “natural” — including a Chicago-area native who, implausibly enough, finds nothing strange about the full salad that is put on top of a Chicago-style hotdog — just as I view the Flint Coney as the only true one.

I confess that I have gotten tired of the new Domino’s recipe. After having it a few times over the course of the quarter, I’ve decided that it’s too gimmicky — it’s as though the entire pizza has been built on a foundation of garlic bread. Of course people are going to like it better! The more basic Papa John’s is likely to be my go-to when I return to Kalamazoo next year. Until then, I’ll be eating pizza that’s actually good — such as Stefano’s and Pizza DOC in Lincoln Square or (the supposedly “best” pizza in the country) Great Lakes in Andersonville — and, when I’m in the mood for corporate pizza, Sarpino’s.

I confess that I’m probably fortunate that there is a paucity of fast food chains in the immediate area of our new apartment and that some remarks from colleagues to the effect that I’ve obviously lost weight since the beginning of the school year and look so much better will hopefully motivate me to exercise more and over-indulge less this summer than last. I confess that my continued love for fast food leads me to believe that it’s unlikely that I’ll ever be anything other than a midwestern boy. My one clear counter-example, namely my strong preference for walking over driving, is not so much a change as a return to the patterns of my childhood, when I walked to school from first [sic] to eighth grade. I even carried my band instrument (the baritone — like a mini tuba, for those who are uninitiated in the ways) on a luggage rack for a couple years. It’s a miracle I was never beaten up.