Nobody ever thinks about tenure growing up. It's the kind of adult possibility that doesn't register on kids, and rarely registers on college students. If you end up in a social circle of people in which post-graduate education is common, eventually the reality of tenure becomes all too real for you.

A few years ago, I watched the drama of tenure unfold for a friend of mine, and it caused me to look back at my college professors in a different light, knowing every one of them who had gotten tenure went through this process. In academic circles, tenure is "go big or go home" on a grand scale. You've just finished undergraduate and post-graduate work. You've survived the thesis process, and you're out in the work force armed with your brain and enough college loans to float a Third World country or two. Your tasks are as simple to describe as they are difficult to execute:

Saturday lunch is a long-standing favorite of ours. It's a chance for Jeff and me to talk without the artificial constraint of a lunch hour, or the tiredness that comes after a work day. Most are unmemorable quick outings; today's will stick in my mind for a while, but not in a good way.

Our last experience at Spice of India was a little odd at times, but the dinner showed some promise. Enough to give it a second try, anyway. Everything I've heard and read indicated that it was better visited at lunch.  That's what we did this time, except this time it was on a Saturday. Thirty minutes after opening we were the first customers in the door; the satellite broadcast of a Bombay radio station was switched on as we walked in the door.

Your last night away from home puts you in an unfamiliar place, across the table from a face you haven't seen in six years and forty pounds. He is older and bearded, and the baskets of wings vary from sweet to hot, and the pomegranate margarita is exactly the kind of sweet, fluffy drink you want at the end of the trip when beer tastes too much like effort.

You explain your life to his girlfriend, with all its complexities and oddities and self-determined ethics, and what should have been a completely substandard hot tub visit due to lack of 'hot' turns into utter hilarity when the preteens invade the tub. The four of you mock them mercilessly, their senses of self-preservation so woefully undeveloped they do not even recognize your mockery.

I shared this with a few people last night but it's worth re-linking here.  The Huntsville Times is running a tongue-in-cheek contest to provide new slogans for our sleepy, geeky city. The current suggestions are here.

My favorites:

I've left a tab for this article open on my laptop ever since I first read it.  I wasn't sure if I should just tag it on delicious so it would show up on solecist.net, but you know what?  This is just too damned weird to leave unacknowledged.  For the non-squeamish, (you've been warned!) or just those who delight in the foibles of human nature and/or northern Alabama, read on from this al.com article:

Date night is a bit overblown for what we do. If what you're doing is more accurately described by "grabbing chow" instead of "going out for dinner," consider throwing the moniker 'date night' out the window.

On our way to Jason's Deli for sandwiches and salad bars, Jeff mentioned Stephenie's tweet. We weren't the only people we knew heading to see Benjamin Button that night.

[Fountain & Monaco Pictures by my coworker Tamara]

The Monaco has tapped into something that was missing here in Huntsville: stylish, art deco, with the kind of plushy amenities you never really realized you were missing in your theater. Go up the staircase to the 21-and-up section, get the boozahol of your choice, and settle into the leather rocker recliners with armrests big enough for both you and your neighbor's arms.

Since pixels don't come with smell-o-vision, I must tell you that these words are being typed in a quiet house that smells of fresh salsa and roasting bell peppers.  The laptop (old, beaten up) is positioned so as to block out the setting sun, which does not come directly through my front door but close enough to force my pupils to readjust.  I have a small party to be at in an hour's time.  I must not be late, so I must write fast and speak rightly the first time.

The place, now: Huntsville, Alabama.
The place, then: rural Arkansas.

I was a child of the late 1970s, whose memories just missed Jimmy Carter but remembered Reagan dimly through an apolitical child's eye.  Those who read this site know my story well; I came from a union family in a former mining town.  My tiny hometown, well under three hundred souls at the time, all looked like me because they were almost all related to me.

For those of my friends living in Madison County, Alabama, the Madison County Circuit Clerk's office has made the 2009 sample ballot available in PDF format.  Get it, study it, do your research on the minor races and cast an informed vote.

For those friends NOT living in Alabama, I'd encourage you to take a look at the amendments proposed on the ballot to understand why we rage about the sheer unbridled awfulness of Alabama's state constitution.  It is, in a word, embarrassing.  Wikipedia:

I hauled myself out of the house on a gorgeous, clear Father's Day and drove to the eastern side of Huntsville for an afternoon of photography.

Photos after the cut, so as not to make my entire front page explode. Full set is available on flickr as usual.

Saturday afternoon. The day's rains were half-completed before we ventured out. Ask anyone who has lived here long enough and they'll tell you it's true: it never rains just once in Alabama summertime. Always twice. First time it comes down as rain, and the second time it comes back up as steam.

Homeowners with sense have all their outdoor projects completed before the onset of June, because the heat and humidity have a persistence and insidiousness that can hand you heat exhaustion before you're done with your work.