Fluff, the magic dragon

For Sunday, July 27, 2008


I’m sitting in a Doubletree Hotel room in Rohnert Park. As I look out the window, I see the greens of the golf course across the road. The setting sun is casting warm shadows of the hotel across the parking lot. As I look over my left shoulder, I see my lovely wife lounging on one of the queen beds. She is laughing, munching carrot sticks, and watching her other favorite man, Keith Olbermann, make news funny while skewering Faux News and Bill-o “The Clown” O’Reilly. Obama just spoke in Germany. Right-wing pundits are trying to tailspin it.
On the desk to my left are the following books: Handbook on Research and Evaluation, Experimental Designs for Research, Issues in Teacher Education, and Integrating Educational Technology into Teaching.

I’m here on an invitation from Sonoma State University, which is footing the bill for this beautiful room. I am teaching a week-long course called Mastering Multimedia. It’s a working vacation. While I go into the classroom each day, Susan stays in bed reading, watching CNBC, strolling down to the spa, and walking the treadmill.

In the evenings we go out to dinner, a new restaurant each night. On Tuesday we also visited the local movie theater and saw The Dark Knight. I’ll predict now that Heath will win a post-humus Oscar.

I’m also writing this column. It’s 5:20 p.m. Thursday and I just got back from the campus. Susan is patiently waiting for me to finish so we can go to dinner again. Tonight -- Outback Steakhouse.
“What are you going to write about?” she asks me.

“I don’t know yet. Not much happening right now.”

“Are you kidding?” she says. “Write about our camping trip last weekend at the Bear River Resort up by Kirkwood. That was fun. You spent 13 hours fishing with Chad on his boat. You were a good grandpa. We got that great cabin.”

“Hm, yeah, I could,” says I, “but nothing special took place. We didn’t meet any oddballs or have any unexpected encounters. What’s my hook?”

“I know. Write about that strange young man we saw dancing at the Chief Crazy Horse Saloon in Nevada City. He was so odd. You said you were going to dedicate a whole column to him one day.”

“Yes. I did. You’re right. I also said I didn’t know if I was capable of describing him in words. He was a visual experience, and so unusual. The way he danced with so many people, but seemed so alone. I still can’t figure out if he was a crazy outcast or the life of the party. I think about him a lot, but writing about him still scares me. I prefer to postpone that topic for now.”

“Well, why don’t you write about the process you went through getting a building permit for your deck. That was definitely an unexpected encounter.”

“Naw. I’d rather not mention that little episode. It’s too embarrassing.”

“So, write about HR 1955 and the new laws on the books to deal with ‘homegrown terrorism’ that has you so upset your veins are popping.”

“That’s a biggie, baby. I do need to write about that. It’s the latest assault on our civil liberties, especially the part about the government building detention centers in every state to deal with growing domestic insurgency. However, I need to do a lot more research on it first. I don’t want to sit on the Internet all evening. Also, it’s depressing. That theory we heard on the radio about Bush declaring Martial Law and refusing to leave office. President for life! That creeps me out. I’m here to relax and have fun.”

“If you want to write about having fun, why not tell people about Tyler Day. People would enjoy a good story about you and me taking our six-year-old grandson to San Francisco. Tell them how much he enjoyed the ferry ride, and all the oysters he ate at the Ferry Farmer’s Market, and his amazement at the IMAX Theater. You were so proud to be showing him all these great things and he was so excited.”

“Good point. That was fun. I could do that. It just doesn’t have a peak. We went. We did. We returned. It was a personal pleasure. Where’s the hook?”

“Well, honey,” says she, rising from the bed and coming over to my side. She runs her fingers through my hair and kisses me on top of my head. “You need to write about something. I’m getting hungry, and the wine has fully chilled. Don’t you want to go outside and play? It’s warm tonight. We have to go home tomorrow.”

“Honey,” says I. “You can’t rush the writing process. It takes time and intense concentration. You’ll just have to wait. I don’t want to write a fluff piece.”