On the Unrecognized Aspects of Our Parents

I've been helping my Mom clean out some of my Dad's belongings this summer. It will be four years since his passing and every day there are more things found to deal with: to shred, to file, to store, to destroy, etc. etc.

As I was cleaning out a box that was full of miscellaneous paperwork in desperate need of filing, I ran across an envelop addressed to my Dad from the American College of Surgeons, dated 1967. There is a myth about how my Dad, as a young construction worker, fell on a pipe and was nearly killed, but because my Dad never talked about it, the story always seemed surreal. When I opened the envelop to see what was to be done with the contents, the reality of my Dad's story was visible in a picture taken by the Fire Department of Chicago.

In the picture, a younger version of my Dad (who looks a lot like my brother Kevin and I) lays on a stretcher, his faced wrenched in pain. He was surrounded by a lot of concerned looking officials and one guy smoking a cigar (which dated the picture, as no one these days would smoke a cigar around a bleeding neck wound). There, centered in the picture, is a pipe protruding from my Dad's neck, piercing his bloodied shirt - the pipe that was never really talked about, but clearly existed. My first though: Shit. My Dad's a badass.

With the picture was the March and April, 1967 edition of the Bulletin of the American College of Surgeons, Vol. 52. This issued dealt with ambulances and trauma, and featured a small write-up on my Dad in the section titled, "What's New in Trauma in Your Area?" Here are the first two paragraphs:

Keep the Wound Plugged. Just two months after Chicago Fire Department ambulance drivers were instructed in the technique of handling a person who has been impaled they were summoned to give first aid to a construction worker with a reinforcing rod through his neck, and take him to the hospital. A tuckpointer, the man had fallen 16 feet onto the rod.

As instructed in the annual course given by the Chicago Committee on Trauma for those who are first to see the injured, the firemen left the rod in the tuckpointer's neck. With an acetylene torch the protruding part of the rod was cut off a given number of inches from the man's body, and he was gently transported to St. Luke-Presbyterian Hospital where doctors removed the rest of the rod. He recovered, returned to work, and is now in college.

It goes on to say that the procedure done in the hospital was to be used as an example in future courses taught on the subject of impalement.

My Dad had a lot of admirable qualities. He was a hard working, loyal man who cared a lot for his family - both his brothers and sisters, and his own children. Finding this picture and the clinical, emotionless retelling of the events added a lot of shading to the picture I had drawn of my Dad. He, evidently, was the type of man who could take a pipe to the neck - a pipe THROUGH the neck - in stride, not letting a near death experience detract from his work, school or family. Hell, if that had happened to me, I would have had turned completely inward, seeing life through some sort of pseudo-religious lens. I would have talked about the wonderment of fate, and questioned what my role in life was.

I have had three "serious" injuries in my life: I tore my hamstring in my junior year of high school (a class two tear, the size and depth of the average pinky finger) while running track; and I dislocated the second knuckle on my right index finger, fracturing the joint - this happened while playing pick-up basketball as a sophomore in college; my forehead exploded when I bumped it against another man's forehead at a Flogging Molly concert. When I tore my hamstring, six weeks of electro-therapy fused the muscle back together; and while I never regained the spring in my jump, I walk just fine now. In college, my finger was bound for a few weeks, a bone fragment fell out some six to eight weeks later, and then was fine. I had five stitched put in my forehead, which left a now mostly faded scar.

I like telling the stories of these injuries because they make me feel athletic and, at times, a little tough. I mean, I took a blow to the head that required the concert venue to close down while they mopped up the floor; the in-house doctor said he could see my skull. That's tough, right?

In light of my Dad's injury, documented by a major medical bulletin, which he never talked about and was only made obvious by a thick scar that sometimes was seen above the collar of his shirt, I find two things are true: 1) I now don't feel so tough; 2) I have more respect for my Dad who lived his entire life like he never had a pipe pushed through his neck. Regardless of the reason why, that he never talked about it speaks volumes about how my Dad lived his life: he bore his problems and hurtles with a quiet resolve to continue moving in his life, focused on what was more important. [Note: later in his life, diagnosed with a terminal, muscular degenerative disease, my Dad would rarely complain about his lot in life, working until he could no longer physically make it to the building (and even then fielding phone calls). In light of the neck injury, this makes a lot more sense.]

And finally, I miss my Dad quite a bit now. There were times I really fought with my Dad who did not really understand me. It sucks that now, almost four years after he's gone, I'm finally starting to put together a picture of the man. I wish he were here now so we could talk about how badass he is.

The Art of Wearing T-Shirts

Comic-Con, like most of you would assume, is packed full of nerds. Despite the fact that the convention has been drawing a less nerdish crowd, and despite the fact that comic books in general have been gaining cool people credibility, the majority of people who read comics are generally more concerned with knowing the minutiae of fictional worlds featuring a surprising number of super powered people than they do about social conventions, like showering and the art of conversation that does not revolve around the question of who could beat whom in a fight.

I know that all of you who see me a suave, globe-trotting academic will find this surprising, but these are my people (and for those of you who know me, you can stop laughing now). Take for example, my high school obsession with The Simpsons. I came into adulthood with The Simpsons, both of us maturing and growing old together - both of us fading from relevance at about the same time (and I know that they are still making new episodes, but really...when was the last time The Simpsons mattered?). This was also the time that The Simpsons were really popular, appearing on Fox at least three times a day. I knew everything about that show, could quote most episode from beginning couch gag to end credits, and would have endless discussions about the cultural relevance of each episode. I once dated a girl that said I quote Simpsons episodes like Catholics quote the Bible.

Because the show was so much my life, I tend to own quite a lot of Simpsons paraphernalia: Simpsons Chess, Simpsons Clue, several releases of Simpson toys, Simpsons ties, Simpsons boxers, etc. etc. I owned all The Simpsons episodes released on VHS, and up to Season 5 on DVD (I was really bothered by the DVD packaging on Season 6 because it does not match the rest of my collection; Homer's head was not at all like the neat, cardboard packaging that I was used to, nor did it fit on the shelf as nicely; and I can't buy the seasons out of order - that would be crazy). I owned and read all The Simpson encyclopedias that detail all the episodes. My friends and I used to have Simpson's parties where we would watch hours of The Simpsons; this was in the age before DVD players, and before they appeared sporadically on VHS, so I would bootleg the episodes off the TV. Armed with boxes of VHS tapes, we would watch, quote and discuss the afternoon away. Hell, I wrote a paper on how The Simpsons comment on American masculinity, and I have been crafting a cultural theory class around the show.

So, I can really appreciate the crowd at Comic-Con. I get waiting in line for hours to see your heroes. There was certainly a time when I would have waited hours to meet Dan Castellanetta or Hank Azaria.

One thing that I like best about Comic-Con are the t-shirts. I am a man that likes t-shirts. If ever you are thinking you would like to buy me something that I would 1) appreciate, 2) love, and 3) get a lot of use out of, then find a clever t-shirt (such as those found at Snoorg or TopatoCo [especially those at TopatoCo for the webcomics I like]).

But, as any one who has studied rhetoric can tell you, there is more to a t-shirt selection than one might imagine, especially when the t-shirt features so prominently in your cultural group (here, read: comic nerds). The key is: you want to show this community that you belong, that you speak it's language and share it's interest; while at the same time, you want this inclusion to seem natural and unforced. In other words, as anyone who has seen PCU knows, you never wear the shirt of the band you are going to see (I looked for the clip where Jeremy Piven said that line, but it wasn't on YouTube; I thought this clip was relevant). In this case, when going to hear about comic books, I find it overkill to wear comic book t-shirts (though I do own several). So, to show that I am part of this community, I need to pick my garb carefully. In fact, I am nearly as worried about what t-shirts I am going to bring with me as I am about the talk I am giving at the conference.

So what I am left to do now is rifle through my closet stuffed with t-shirts making esoteric references to associated nerd things like video games (like my shirt that has a huge, ultra-green Triforce of Power emblazoned on it), and cartoon shows (like my Aqua Teen Hunger Force or Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law shirts); or t-shirts that are clever (like the t-shirt I have with a Venn diagram on it, the consonants in one circle, the vowels in the other, and "y" in the intersection).

It might seem like I am making a lot out of very little, that the clothes one wears couldn't possibly matter that much, but think about going on an interview: the clothing choices made speak a lot about the individual. Wearing a tie could say that you are a professional person, or could suggest that you are stodgy. If a woman wears pants to an interview it could say that she is a modern woman dressed to be taken seriously, or it could suggest a lack of femininity that may or may not be true. This convention is like an interview for me. Here is where I will meet with other academics and publishers who take this stuff very seriously. If I show up looking like I've never read a comicbook, or am distant from that culture, I might not be taken a seriously as if I show up wearing a shirt that features a large dinosaur in a mortar board, clutching several large books with the words "THESAURUS" blasted across the bottom.

International Banking

I opened a TCF after college, seduced by the 7 - 7, 7 days a week availability and free checking. It was nice having a bank branch in every Jewel, which, for a while, was on almost every corner of Bolingbrook. I've stuck with them through a lot of their trouble (they had a run of identity thefts due to lack of account security, and their customer service is historically atrocious). Their free checking and convenience was more important to me than nice people on the phone.

Now, though, the ugly head of the TCF monster has turned it's gaze on me.

The first to go was the free checking. One would think that, having had an account that was built on free checking, I would be grandfathered in as they changed from free checking to heavily fined for going below a certain dollar amount checking. That was not the case. Unceremoniously, I was told that I could either have my account type changed, or I could bank with someone else. I am smarter with my finances now, so it didn't bother me that I could no longer empty my account to zero and leave it that way for several months without a charge.

Now, though, they have added a straw, breaking my proverbial camel's back: overseas ATM fees.

Anyone who has done any banking internationally knows that a certain percentage of the money transferred or withdrawn will be pulled from your account. TCF charges 3%. My account was riddled with $.26 fees as I withdrew money at the end of the year, having drained my British account. I expected that, and wasn't too upset.

What was a little more disconcerting was a sudden $90 fee for using the overseas ATMs. In America, we are used to ATM fees, sometimes getting as costly as $2.50 when in a congested, or heavily used area. In Britain, ATM fee are like albino sheep: everyone has seen one and know they exist, but most of your life is spent without ever seeing one. I can think of one ATM that charges, and it's just outside the Inn on the Pier. In fact, when I use my American ATM card at the UK ATM, it is quick to remind me that they won't charge me a fee, but my American account would. And they did: not only did they charge a 3% fee, they also charged me a flat fee of $5. 5$: every ATM transaction, every time.

Here, though, is where I decided I needed to pull my account. I called TCF looking for an explanation (they explained to me what I explained above for the first time, despite asking before I left if there was going to be much of an issue; I would put an extra $5 per withdraw as a pretty big issue), and the woman acted very concerned. Her advice: just take out as much as I feel comfortable carrying every time, and to avoid just running back and forth between the ATM. Ah...good. Thanks for explaining to me, slowly and in great detail, what would be common-sensical to anyone with half a brain.

In short: I need a new bank account. There are rumors that some banks have agreements with UK banks, allowing me to pull from, say HSBC ATMs without accruing withdraw fees. Or maybe I just put everything in my British bank account and use that for the few months I am here. Any suggestions from people more familiar with both banking systems would be greatly appreciated.

The Art of Flying

I have criss-crossed the Atlantic now eight times now since going to Aberystwyth. I don't want to suggest that I am by any means an expert in flying, but I have learned a lot since I piled into Ohare Airport a year and a half ago.

Here's the first thing that I learned: I don't need as much as I thought I would while on the plane. My first time across the Atlantic, I packed three novels and four comic trade paperbacks. I think, by the end of it, I read one comic and half of a novel. The thing is: an eight hour flight sounds like a daunting task, particularly when you put in a plane change, as I tend to have. Honestly, though, that time is not empty time.

For example, when I saw that I would have a two hour layover in Frankfurt, I imagined needing to fill two hours. Truthfully, it took me about an hour to get from one terminal to another, which included two trips through security. By the end of it, I think I had about twenty minutes to fill at the terminal, and I spent most of that making sure I had made it to the correct terminal.

On the plane, of course, there is a lot of time. On average, my flights take about seven and a half hours from Heathrow to Chicago (a little more if I fly from Zurich or Frankfurt, but not too terribly much; less if I can snag a direct flight from Birmingham, but again, not by much). Most flights, though, punctuate your journey with food and snack services. I find that just shy of two hours of my journey is filled with eating and drinking. Then, the first twenty minutes and the last twenty minutes are spent taking off and landing, during which time I sit completely upright with no electronic items in use. Likewise, all my overhead gear needs to be stored, so I a really stuck to a book. I don't know about you all, but I have trouble focusing on much when the plane is banking and turning, engines full bore. Once in the air, the flight crew starts with the snacks. Then, at least on international flights, the movies start.

A brief aside about movies: I see a lot of movies. At home, I am lucky enough to have access to a pass which lets my Mom see as many movies as she wants for free, and take two other people with her. My Mom and I tend to see about four or five movies a week, and then I'll rent from the Redbox or watch on Netflix another two or three movies. All in all, there is not a lot that I haven't seen. In the old days, airplanes used to get movies that were recent, but not particularly new. For instance, when I fly to London for New Years Eve in 2006, I had seen all the movies I was interested in and the ones I was left with were movies I never wanted to see. This past few trips, though, the movies have been pretty recent. For example, on one trip, I saw Never Let Me Go, a Kiera Knightly movie (sorry Lizzie) that was actually pretty good. The thing was, it had not been released yet in the UK. This past trip I saw No Strings Attached,Rango, and Unknown, three movies I missed at the theatre, but which had not been released on DVD yet. In my eight trips across the ocean, there has not been a single trip where there wasn't at least two movies that I wanted to see.

Now, I will say this: some flights are better about their movies than others. For example, United and Delta just run the movies, so you have to be on the channel when it starts to see the whole thing. American will start the movie, and then start it again about ten minutes later, so you have a few opportunities to catch it. Swiss Air is probably the greatest of them all, offering each passenger complete control. Each seat comes with an on-demand remote that allows you to choose the movies; pause, rewind or start whenever you choose; and offers a range of languages and subtitling. The Gold Standard for in-flight movies has to be Swiss Air.

Between the movies, the food, take off and landing, I was really left with little idle time. And honestly, the crew tries to push you to fall asleep as soon as dinner has been served. The plane is usually dark, and the crew asks that all the blinds be closed. Because most people are watching movies, not many of the overhead lights are switched on. The darkness and the white noise of the engine usually gets me to drift off for a bit.

With each successive trip, I have found that I can pack less and less in my carryon. This past trip, I packed my laptop (obviously), two novels and a comic book. Had I been able to get to the airport without a five hour train journey (no movies or food there) and without a night at the hotel alone, I may not have even packed that much.

Despite getting better at the carryon luggage, my checked bag continues to be an issue. It helps that I can store some things overseas, but I still feel that I need to bring most of my life with me when I come home for the summer. In all honestly, I probably don't.

Last summer, I checked two bags, both of which exceeded the weight limit. One bag was so heavy, I needed to unpack some of it and add it to my carryon. I brought half my comic collection and a ton of criticism books, expecting that I would spend the summer writing my dissertation. This summer, I realized the folly in that thinking, and only packed the novels I'd finished reading through the year (and wanted to leave here in America with the rest of my collection), one criticism book that is germane to the one chapter I want to get written, and the book I need for my presentation at Comic Con.

One thing that I still struggle with, though, is clothing. Here, I have found a genius solution that creates as many problems as it causes: vacuum bags. These packing bags allow me to pull all the air out of the bag, which collapses things like clothing and bedding (which I leave in Aberystwyth) to a much smaller size. In this way, I can bag two bags worth of stuff into one suitcase. Seems great, right?

Unfortunately, packing all that stuff into a smaller size reduces the size of the clothing, and increases it's weight. Fitting two t-shirts into the space of one makes that same space two t-shirts heavy. In this way, my suitcase becomes nearly twice as heavy as it should be. I have yet to pack my suitcase in such a way that it does not exceed the weight limit.

My problem is the length of time that I am going for. On short trips, like this one I am currently on in New York, I pack exactly what I need with little extra clothing. However, for four months, time in which I might not know what I will need to do, it's hard to know what to pack. I have a wedding to attend, a presentation to give, two vacations to take, etc. etc. If I hang out with just my friends, then I won't need too much more than a few button up shirts and a boat load of t-shirts. But if I end up going out like I did last year, I need a lot more fancy clothing. With all this time, it's hard to know what I am going to need.

The problem here is that over-weight bag charges are more expensive that extra bag charges. A smarter man would figure out how to get the same amount of stuff into more, lighter bags. Because I am by myself, though, I tend to need free hands. As I see it, fewer bags are more important than lighter bags. What I need to realize, to get the bags down to the minimum number, and have these bags meet weight limits, is that I don't need as much stuff as I think.

There is this scene from Up in the Air where George Clooney's Alex is showing Natalie Keener's Anna that she doesn't need all the baggage that she brings. He throws away the pillow that she's packed, the enormous winter coat she has and so on. He eventually pares her down to what can fit in a carryon.

The more I travel, the more I realize that Alex might have it right. I think I value my possessions to greatly. I pack almost every t-shirt I own (around 40 or so) and a dozen or so other shirts (button ups, polos, et. al.). I pack a lot of socks, which really, I don't need. I was trying to think about why I have such anxiety over getting rid of my things and I settled on one conclusion: ownership.

I don't have a house. I don't even have an apartment. My stuff is in two different storage units across two continents. My things, my books and clothes and what not, that is the only stuff of mine that I have. Having things is a sign of having a place in the world, and since I don't have a place in the world, I feel like I need to bring my stuff with me everywhere. Literally load up all my baggage and drag it across the country with me to show the world that I do exist. What I need to do is realize there is more to being a person than just having things. Once I can feel secure with myself, separate from my things, then I can get down to one bag, one carryon, and all of it meeting the maximum bag weight.