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:

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.

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.

It's been a week of photography around here, for those of you who aren't following the stream-of-consciousness log over at solecist.net. When I came to work yesterday morning, Melissa popped her head in the door and said, "Did you see those clouds on the way in?" I nodded; the dark, billowing shapes had caught my eye, too.

But Melissa had keys in her hand, and a plan in mind. "Come on. Let's go to the roof. Bring your camera."

I came back with only three usable photos, but they were three photos I hadn't expected to get. For dark and moody, here's a shot of the First Baptist Church's bell tower, one of the most recognizable parts of the Huntsville skyline:

I also got two shots of the Huntsville skyline that, while not terribly inspired, are also very different from any other downtown photos currently on flickr:

I suited up early this morning, intending to be out the door well before 7. I know that my daytime minutes start at seven a.m., and that any call that starts prior to 7:00 gets entirely counted under night and weekend minutes.

Jody lives in Atlanta, and works the overnight shift. I don't call him as often as I should, but the timing of our lives means that he is finishing up his day as I am readying to start mine. I take a perverse delight in making sure my calls to him start just a couple of minutes before 7, with earpiece tucked securely in my left ear as I drive.

Weird. It's not spring yet, but the chickens have all gathered outside and are screaming their fool heads off while staring at the skies. Everyone in Huntsville seems to have gotten the memo that the sky is falling. However, I feel obligated to point out some obvious things amidst the frantic clucking.

The Huntsville city schools closed at 12:30 today, provoking a mad scramble among my co-workers who are parents, in order to make arrangements for all snowflakes to arrive safely home (or to the loving eyes of caregivers elsewhere). The only problem with this scenario?

I've said little publicly about an event that happened at the Huntsville main library last month, but now that a local TV station has provided a video article about the armed kidnapping and robbery of a librarian, I feel a little safer in acknowledging that the incident happened.

(Link will probably spawn a popup, requires Flash, and has audio. However, I don't think it has cooties.)