Loaded XVIII

Hypotheticals: If you created a new flavor of ice cream, what would it be?
I'm pretty sure all the possible variations of ice cream have already been invented. How about I just stir crushed Heath bars in some mint Häagen-Dazs and call it a day.

Anything Goes: What celebrity makes you glad you are not a celebrity?
Lindsay Lohan.

No-Brainers: Besides a cat or dog, what animal would you want as a house pet?
I've had ferrets before and love them, though they are stinky and tend to be destructive. If had a vast acreage and my choice, I'd have some baboons as guard animals. Who wouldn't want to walk a baboon on a leash?

Personals: Which of the following do you feel yields the greatest benefits - extraordinary wealth, strong friendships, true love, or a loyal, loving family?
True love. Sadly.

Say yes to a real life ambition

The first graders in Ms. N's class are doing a unit on Australia. I do a pretty decent Australian accent (as long as the Australian is a drunk and very excited Steve Irwin), so Ms. N invited me to her class to read a book on koalas and talk to the kids about the local fauna, all in character. I thought it went all right, though as with everything in my life the event suffered from poor to no planning. For example, Ms. N asked me, as if I were a real visitor the kids didn't know, my name. I stared in blank panic for a couple of seconds before blurting, "Uh... Cassowary Brisbane?" Smooth!

Ms. N was looking even lovelier than usual, if that's possible, in a short-sleeved pink dress. She has said to me, jokingly, on a few occasions since our conference in Arizona that she's "going through withdrawal" from not hanging around me and feels "deprived" without me making jokes constantly. This cannot mean anything more significant than she enjoyed my company as a coworker, and it would be very bad for my health to become fruitlessly enamored of yet another gorgeous woman who happens to like talking to me occasionally.

In reality, women like her just don't settle for guys with my... features. She's a literate, funny, Ivy League-educated goddess, while I am a witty curmudgeon who looks like a hobbit with Down syndrome. (In the past, people have said I resemble Tobey Maguire, but now that I think about it, he looks like a hobbit with Down syndrome too.) It's ridiculous of me to even be writing about this. In fact, I have to go.

In the foul furrow that you dig

So we here in Texas are all gonna die from the swine flu, or as the conservative racist folk have it, the illegal alien flu. We who work in a school are on our toes --- Fort Worth has closed its entire district in what may or may not be a bit of early and unnecessary panic --- and we're keeping the kids washing their hands every time they sneeze or wipe their noses.

Today L was passing out our snack, pretzel sticks. As he walked around, I saw him take one out, lick it, and put it back in the bag. "What on earth are you doing?" I squawked in horror. He shrugged. "I forgot I licked that one," he said. I dumped all the pretzels in the trash, then as an afterthought tossed the bag in too.

Does anybody really know...

Doing a lot of assessment this week. Of course, Prestigius doesn't administer Satan's test, the TAKS, but we do have benchmarks and goals we need the kids to meet. By now, with less than twenty school days left in the year (how the hell did that happen?) the kindergarteners are expected to:

• identify all major money and its value
• count by twos and fives to at least fifty
• create and extend three-part patterns
• read simple phonetic words in isolation
• recognize several sight words
• do addition and subtraction sentences with and without models
• identify the main idea of a story, its characters, and setting
• come up with rhyming words and opposites
• write all the lowercase letters without a model
• tell the time in hours and half hours
• understand one-half, one-third, and one-fourth
• recognize the place values of three-digit numbers
• and so forth and so on...

Most of my kids are reading at exceptionally high levels, so I've been spending most of my time finding out how much they've picked up in math. I was surprised to find that a lot of them, although they could tell the time easily, didn't know which was the hour hand or the minute hand. How do they know what time it is, then? I guess that shows they don't really understand how the clock works, they've just memorized the positions.

Vocabulaire: maugréer

maugréer - to grumble, complain

La tarlouze était toujours s'occuper à maugréer contre son sort.

I was a bit of a self-pitying whinger yesterday.

Where danger is double and pleasures are few

Well, today was an abysmal kick in the neck.

I was told by Miss Busty that some people were "offended" and complaining about something I did, or rather, a habit I have in the classroom. The whole thing is so irksome and inane, I can't even write about it. Basically, I'm offended back at them for sticking their noses where they don't belong, I think anyone who's "offended" by what I was doing is pathetic and needs mental help, and I'm mildly resentful at Busty for refusing to tell me who's got their fucking panties in a bunch over nothing. (What, now she doesn't stoop to gossip? What a laugh.)

Well, it's reminded me that these people are not in any way my friends, to be trusted or opened up to; they're co-workers, and as such should be kept at a respectful, professional arm's length. Friends are understanding; co-workers --- especially women --- are backbiting and quick to gossip. And yes, this is partly gender-based: I was told that I'm not entirely accepted because this was a woman's field and it's "still strange" to see men in early childhood. Yay, 2009 and equality! And what really got me is how this appalling bias is totally okay, yet if it were a bunch of, say, surgeons or CEOs hassling a woman because she wasn't in her "traditional field," that would be obviously wrong to all but the most clueless chauvinist.

And just think, the other day I was idly wondering if I should talk to my doctor about getting off the Prozac; everything was going so swimmingly and I was so cheerful that I thought I had my head on straight. Now I'm pissed off and thinking all over again about how much my life sucks and there's no need to live it. Yes, it's irrational. That's why I take medication for it. But that's how it is. Pass the vodka and the bullets and write me a refill, doc.

Vocabulaire: la gueule de bois

la gueule de bois - a hangover

Le seul moyen d'éviter la geuele de bois est d'engloutir cinq citrons après chaque verre d'alcool. Trop peu de gens ont la patience de mettre en pratique cette méthode infaillible.

Sitting back trying to recapture a little of the glory

Tonight was my 20th high school reunion.

I'm old.

I didn't go, of course. All the people I care to converse with from that era are already in contact with me, and have been for the past two decades.

(One of the Prestigius parents, who happens to be an '89 graduate of Alma Mater as well, saw me at work a few days ago and asked if I was going to the reunion. "No," I said. He nodded. "Prior commitment?" he asked. "No," I said.)

After the reunion festivities had concluded, I met up with T-Bone and Courtney, 74, Friar, and Auric and his sister at Hangout. We took a couple of taxis to Hangout II --- a place also owned by Mr. Hangout, a much more pleasant and adult bar with seats, tables, and board games, and few to zero frat boys --- and whiled away the wee hours reminiscing and asking each other Trivial Pursuit questions.

We're old and geeks.

Then, it just wouldn't be Good Old Nostalgic Times Like the Old Days if we didn't go have a 3:00 a.m. meal at Denny's. So we did, and I had another Sodium 'n' Cholesterol Slam. In retrospect, I question the prudence of this decision. Late-night Denny's in Devil-Town was just a wild and wonderful as ever. It's where white high school kids, cowboys, tough dudes decked out like pimps, Mexican guys in gang colors, and large black ladies in very tiny, tight dresses all come together to enjoy artery-clogging fare under sickly fluorescents.

Most of the evening is a pleasant blur. I recall defending the Hold Steady as one of the best American bands of all time and deriding Journey. Auric said that if the Hold Steady were in the running, his band ought to be as well. I think maybe it's really the Beach Boys, or maybe the Band. Or R.E.M. or the Ramones or Rancid. Also, when we got back to the Original Hangout and were turned away due to it being well past closing time, Friar insisted on setting everyone straight about how we were allowed in there whenever we wanted and making the bouncer apologize to us. Good times.

It's never touched a frying pan

Even though it was Free Pizza Friday today, Assistant and I ordered a colorful array of sushi rolls for lunch from a place down the street. It's taken me a bit to get over the very idea of eating sushi here in Devil-Town, but you gotta make do with what you have. This city may not boast the high quality freshness of Portland or New York, but there's a few halfway decent spots that must suffice.

As we ate our expensive fishy goodness, some of the parent volunteers stood in the hallway, apparently sniggering at us for eating our fancy foreign fare while good old American pizza from a good old American chain restaurant was available for free to all. Well, they can cram it with walnuts.

After lunch, I held a lottery among the kids to hand out all our decorative plastic grass and the two extra chopsticks sets we always get. (This latter may be a comment by the restaurant on how much we order at a time; if the charge is being a big old piggie, nolo contendere, I'm afraid.)

One of the girl remarked how strong I was, as she tried in vain to snap apart her wooden chopsticks as I had done.

Later on the gym teacher, a large and powerful lady, scooped me up in a big bear hug and spun we around the room as I might have done a child. It was humiliating and oddly exhilarating.

After work I ate a big rare mushroom-swiss burger and a bunch of cheese fries at Cheesefries with Friar and T-Bone and their respective wives and children. It was basically a trough of sodium, starch, and LDL cholesterol, so it didn't do my heart any favors. Still, I rarely eat like that, and it's a good thing too or I'd be dead by now. Yes, big old piggie, that's me.

I'm a dream walker, or maybe just a dream stumbler

Two coworkers and one child independently told me today that they I made an appearance in their dreams the previous night.

Ms. Tall, a pre-K teacher, dreamed that she and I had bit parts in a Broadway revival of "Shrek: the Musical." We didn't sing and only had brief speaking lines. Apparently in the dream we were discussing how the show didn't seem to be working. Oh, and Regis Philbin played the title ogre --- a role, I'm sure you'll agree, he was born to play. Still, I feel slighted, as I'm bursting with thespian talent. Why didn't I have more lines?

Assistant G also dreamed about me. She has previously dreamed that I was yelling and screaming at her over some slight (behavior not exactly second nature to me --- if I want to degrade someone I just mock them with snide, cutting remarks and abstruse vocabulary). This time around, though, I was a doctor, balding with a comb over, she said, and I was giving her bad news. How utterly creepy.

Finally, young B told me that he dreamed that I was with him at a hockey game and the puck hit me in the leg and I fell down on the ice.

Say, these range from kinda disappointing to utterly loathsome. I wonder if it portends something foul.

You were always changing your shape, now you're not an eel anymore

Today we had our weekly faculty meeting. We had a speaker invited by the Head, a retired ex-employee. She talked to us about fostering our creative thinking. She had tiny feet and frizzy hair and talked in a stream of consciousness run-on and no one understand a word she was saying. Miss Busty turned to me and whispered, "Is she on coke?"

She had us line up in alphebetic order and form groups and then we had to discuss "out of the box" thinking. For one exercise she gave us a list of unrelated words and we had to put them together for an advertisement for an imaginary product. I was enlisted to be our group's spokesman, so I went up and shouted some nightmare ad copy I made up off the top of my head in an Australian accent.

Another exercise was for our group to discuss "what we'd like to tackle in the near future." I said I wanted to tackle Fen, our fetching young administrative assistant.

I think my sanity is questioned more with every day longer I stay at Prestigius.

On the other hand, the Head and the Vice-Head left halfway through Ms. Frizzy's presentation, so I suppose that while I may have been the most explicitly obvious in not taking it seriously, I wasn't the only one.

Just a fine and fancy ramble

So, my class went to the zoo today. It was very hot. And tiring.

If there's a better method to corral sixteen kindergarteners than bellowing constantly, I'm not aware of it.

The following brief anecdote reveals everything that escorting kids this age to the zoo is all about:

We get to the monkey area, and there's a long row of cages with various kinds of simians, leaping and cavorting about their trees, swinging from a branch here, grabbing cage bars with their tails over there, engaging in dizzying aerial gymnastics in all directions.

And just at the moment we draw near, one kid calls out in a voice of wonder and excitement, "Oh, wow! Look! A doodlebug!!"

And sixteen kids cluster around a small patch of dirt just under the cages, jostling one another as they crane their necks to get a better look.

Later, I asked everyone what their favorite part of the zoo was. Mostly, it was petting the rabbit at the children's area. One girl liked the fact that a chimp at the zoo shared her name. And a couple of others thought the merry-go-round ride was the best.

No one mentioned seeing any animals. Kindergarteners are very tactile creatures.

It's just my job five days a week

Today we had Kite Visits, which is when the kindergarten classes take these big kites they colored and flies them out in the field with their parents. It was good fun. I rescued no less than three kites from trees. Some of the parents were duly impressed. I acted like I knew some big secret about how to untangle kites, but really I only had one crucial strategy: pull the string hard and hope it doesn't break.

Tomorrow we're going to the zoo. Man, I wouldn't trade being an elementary teacher for anything. I feel sorry for suckers in cubes.

Newbery IV

In 1925, the book that snagged the Newbery was Tales From Silver Lands, by one Charles J. Finger.

A collection of mostly unrelated stories from South American countries. Based on his narration, Finger presumably traveled all over the continent collecting these stories and tales, unless he's just making up everything out of whole cloth.

That's about it, really. There are explanatory stories ("A Tale of Three Tails," which explains how the rat and deer and rabbit got their tails), fairy tales of recognizable structure and climax ("The Hungry Old Witch," "The Wonderful Mirror"), trickster tales ("El Enano," about a fox who tricks the titular greedy monster into leaving a village) and hero tales ("The Hero Twins” and "The Four Hundred," which tell of how some heroic lads killed three giants).

While the stories are pleasant enough and Finger's authorial voice is kindly and inviting, I didn’t think there was anything remarkable in their characters, plot, or the execution of the telling. Fairy tales can be timeless and enthralling, but there's nothing suspenseful or dramatic about them. And their simplicity isn't a huge draw for me. Hey, the little orphan kid met a magic lady who tells him how to defeat the evil witch! And she's right, because people who seem to be good always are, and bad people are vicious crones or ugly giants! And heaven forfend the hero actually figure out anything on his own. Let the oracle tell him exactly what steps to take.

If I'm in the mood for such things, I'd rather read Kipling or Grimm, who did the same things better. Of all the stories, only the last – "The Cat and Dream Man" – stands out, remarkable for its surreal nature (a destructive, monstrous cat dreams of a fox-faced man who grants wishes in an ironically cruel manner) and the unusual use of a particular magic item (an axe which splits everything it hits into two replicas of the original). For the most part, though, this is pretty ordinary stuff; perhaps in 1926 the then-atypical provenance of the stories made them stand out enough to snag the award.

Recommended for children: Sure, reading fairy tales and folk stories from all over the world is a terrific foundation for kids.

Recommended for adults: Not so much, unless you're a folktale obsessive.

Loaded XVII

Hypotheticals: If you wanted to test the limits, how many slices of pizza could you consume?
Depends on how big the pieces were. A typical delivery-chain's idea of a large, maybe? I know I could polish off a medium easy, so I think I could handle a large if I wanted to pull a Cool Hand Luke, pizza style.

Anything Goes: What natural disaster would you be most frightened of?
Tornadoes. I may be gradually getting over my worry about windstorms and tornadoes (contemplating suicide can make you indifferent to natural disasters), but they've always been my bugbear. The very idea of other disasters doesn't bother me like tornadoes do. In fact, a small earthquake is kind of fun.

No-Brainers: What is your favorite soft drink?
Dublin Dr Pepper, made in Texas with real cane sugar. Or Coke, hecho en Mexico with real cane sugar. Or sometimes I like Virgil's Cream Soda. Oh, Hansen's natural sodas are pretty refreshing in a way other sodas aren't.

Personals: What one person would you trust with your most personal possession?
I don't think I have personal possessions in the sense that they have sentimental value. Nor could I even begin to gauge the "trustworthiness" of my friends in that sense. Pretty much any family member or close friend can watch my stuff while I'm on vacation. Is that what this means? I don't know.

Idle musing

Tonight after work the school hosted International Night, where kids and their parents had booth showing off the food and customs of various countries. It was pretty fun, if chaotic. The French booth had very good brie on crackers and unaccountably delicious tiny eclairs. Amongst the crowds I found two lost children (one in my class, one from last year) and returned them to their grandparents. I did this despite the fact that I was wearing a faded, slightly wrinkled T-shirt and a very wrinkled short-sleeved button down.

***

Sure, my father may have pissed away a full scholarship to Oxford and a bright future, two high-prestige jobs, his robust health, his once-unimpeachable mind, his marriage, and his relationship with his adult children for a life-destroying total obsession with every intoxicant known to man. But that's his only indulgence! Everyone's allowed one vice. I mean, I never saw him gambling. Or, say, counterfeiting currency.

***

Why is it, when you're eating at a restaurant, these people --- total strangers --- are always coming over and breezily introducing themselves and asking if you're doing okay, or checking to see if you're still hungry? No matter how deeply you may be engrossed in conversation with your dinner party, or enjoying your meal --- it's always some Smiling Joe popping up and asking if you have room for dessert! Well, that's none of your fucking business, mister! Do I go over to where you eat and bother you about "refills" or "taking those plates out of your way"?

Through many dangers, toils, and snares

There's a girl in our pre-K program who is tall, smart, and will turn six over the summer. This means that she'll be seven at the end of her kindergarten year. That isn't so amazingly unusual (I have one like that), but it is too bad because she doesn't need to be held back. The reason she's still in pre-K is because she has a twin brother who was recommended for a second year of the program and her parents didn't want to split them up.

I saw her drawing and writing, and it's clear she's already able to handle what would have been her kindergarten year. Clearly, at this rate she's just going to continue to shine and leave her brother in the dust. Since it's obvious that we can't improve the little fellow's mind, in order to narrow the gap I think we need to embark on a serious regimen of tearing down the girl's self-esteem.

The teachers should be pointing out how her work sets her apart from the others, how her age gives her an unfair advantage, how her young peers resent her successes. This won't reduce her intelligence, of course, but it should block any further advances in achievement. Then the brother won't have to worry about being compared to his much more able sister, and soon they'll both be coasting along at a nice level of acceptable mediocrity.

Just a modest proposal.

Parents just don't understand

Today I got an email from V's mother. Apparently, V had come home saying she'd added a penis and vagina to her human body project during health class. Her mother wanted to know what, if anything, she'd distorted in the retelling. (Also, she made up some crap about V acting up during the observation, which the two administrators with her at the time saw no sign of.) I asked Ms. Blah, the K teacher who runs the Health lessons, and she said they'd added a kidney and a bladder to their anatomy posters.

Well, really. Is V's mother an imbecile as well as an attention junkie? Does she really think that we're going to take it upon ourselves to tell five-year-olds about the penis and vagina, much less have them attach paper models of same onto an anatomy project? I mean, what the hey, am I right? (Words fail me.) It's as if the moment a person has kids, the previously dormant Stupid Gene kicks in and they suddenly lose all rationality. (No offense, Churlita.)

Also, one father said he wished the school would let him come watch me at work when I didn't know he was there. The Vice-Head told him that would be unethical, and assured him that what the parents see is what happens daily; if that weren't the case, the students themselves would loudly point out the discrepancies in their routine during observation times (of which they are unaware).

So gee, how nice that some kid's parent thinks I need to be watched on the sly, and that it would be totally okay to watch people at work without them knowing it. Makes you proud to be an educator and an American.

Kissing to be clever

As soon as I entered the school this morning, one of the early drop-off kids, a fourth grader named Zeke, asked me: "Mr. Chance, do you know what 'make out' means? Because Mr. Max says he doesn't know."

I said, "Of course I know. It means like if something is far away or if it's in a fog, if you can just barely see it, you can make it out, like, 'Can you make out what that sign says from here?' That's what it means."

I walked away as he stared at me in puzzlement. I later learned that before I'd got there, he'd asked both Mr. Max and Ms. LN what 'make out' means, and they both professed not to know. Ms. LN said, "What does it mean to you, Zeke?"

"Oh, you know," this fourth-grader had replied, "it's when you're with your girlfriend and you're under the covers and you start kissing and maybe doing other things..."

Wait. What. Excuse me? When I was nine, we didn't have girlfriends we kissed or did "other things" with. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the kids are sure playing at being grown up real early these days.

Later that same day, Zeke was questioned by his teachers and the Head for writing anti-Semitic graffiti on his classroom bathroom's wall. He did it. They know he did it. But he denied all, the little vandal. Also, this particular vandal is Jewish himself. Huh. Mixed-up sort of fellow.

Thews that lie and cumber sunlit pallets never thrive

At work, had the second observation. It seemed to go fine, though I was a bit less ebullient than usual in the classroom. After work, I pretty much collapsed as soon as I got home. I set my alarm for an hour nap at 4:00 p.m. but didn't wake up until 6 p.m. I must have been drop-dead exhausted. I didn't take Dog for a walk, which is very rare.

Instead, I went to H&R Block, where for $60 a nice lady did my taxes. Apparently I get $700 back. How lucky! I was yawning all throughout the session, and the tax lady said, "Almost done, and then you can go to bed." I said, "I'm yawning because I just woke up from a two-hour nap after work." She made a shocked face and said in a sort of half-joking, half-complaining tone, "I have to rush between two jobs and don't get home until bedtime, and you have time to take long naps after work? And you still get money back on your taxes?"

I could be snide here, but it is true that mine is a charmed life in several ways. I'm a white male American; I'm financially stable if not rich; I have a good standard of living; I survived 38 years through a typically fatal birth defect, a shitty childhood, hurricanes and earthquakes, cross-country trips, flights on rickety Indian airplanes, and mind-warping depression. And here I am, doing kind of okay.

I'm waiting for the shoe to drop.

Sunday Warbooks: This Man's Army

A review of This Man’s Army: A Soldier’s Story From the Front Lines Of the War On Terrorism, by Andrew Exum.

The author, a gung-ho sort of all-American boy, went through ROTC at Penn State, then through Ranger School. After 9/11, he was deployed with the 10th Mountain Division into Afghanistan, where his men patrolled the Shah-i-Kot Valley and ferreted out al-Quaeda dug in there (a mission dubbed Operation Anaconda).

This brief memoir is perhaps a little light on the military side (9/11 does not occur until page 70, Exum's platoon leaves Kuwait and lands in Bagram on page 120, and he's back home by page 200). However, the strength of this book is not in its descriptions of combat. Instead, it's a book that, perhaps more than most "country boy goes to war" stories, reveals not so much what it's like to be in war as what it's like to be transformed by war.

Exum, a deep, educated, and introspective writer, muses thoughtfully on the dedication to serve; his need to deliberately put God out of his mind while on patrol and his disdain for those who try to graft war and Christianity; what it means to kill in combat; and the bonds between soldiers formed by combat. The book is an excellent testament to how, even when war doesn't destroy or maim a man, it leaves indelible marks on him. "After the shooting stops, how does the soldier settle back into society and modern civilization?" he asks at the end of the book, and then says, "I'm still looking for the answer."

This book is out of print, which is a shame, because out of the massive glut of Iraq and Afghan memoirs, this one stands out as a much-needed philosophical take on war in modern society.

***

Sunday warbooks scoreboard:

Greco-Persian wars: 2
WWI: 2
WWII: 4
Vietnam: 2
Iraq wars: 2
Afghanistan war: 1
General warfare: 2

Don't give a damn about my reputation

I started watching the complete "Freaks and Geeks" on DVD about a month ago, and just finished the last disc. At first, I didn't think much of the series; it got off to an unremarkable start, and as I'm a 38-year-old man (albeit an incredibly immature one), I found it hard to care much about these high school kids' problems. But as the story progressed, and the scripts got sharper, and the characters came into focus, I got drawn into each emotionally complex mini-drama gradually revealed behind the sullen or arrogant exteriors.

At first, I'd smugly told myself that I hadn't been like that as a teenager, that I honestly didn't give a damn what anybody thought, unlike everyone else who just acted like it --- but then it all started to come back to me. The fear of saying what you really mean, the fear of standing out inadvertently, the fear of reaching out to someone: these are all real and timeless.

And then the series just ends! It got canceled without so much as a wrap-up finale! The big story arcs --- Nick and Linday's quasi-romance; Daniel's slow and painful discovery of his abilities through layers of self-loathing; Sam's reluctant acceptance of himself as he is --- all come to nothing. And that final scene, where Lindsay secretly ditches her academic camp to go follow the Dead in a hippie van with Kim and some goofy hippies...

Curse you, Judd Apatow, for drawing me into your world of adolescent pathos and then cutting off the story flow abruptly! I need closure, dammit!

Seriously, in all this mania for remakes, can't someone go ahead and redo this show? They can duplicate the first season verbatim, like Van Sant did with Psycho, and then go ahead and make an original second season. Is that so much to ask?

Vocabulaire: un cagnard

un cagnard - a lazy person, a person on the margins of society

Le vieux cagnard s'est endormi sur le lieu de travail après une brève prestation. Comme je l'admire !

That ice is slowly melting

Today school was closed because of Passover. Hurray for Jewish holidays I don't observe!

I got up early and drove my car to the repair place. It had been running perfectly 90% of the time, but a couple of times it stalled while in park and the "check engine" light went on. So apparently it's the crankshaft sensor or the fluxometer or the dilithium chronometer crystals or something, and it costs $650. I've got a pretty honest mechanic, so I'm reasonably sure I'm not being ripped off, but that's quite a chunk of change. Oh well, it's better than having to buy a whole new car. And at least I have a car. And a job. And a house.

For my day off I mostly just lay outside on my deckchair, reading or possibly dozing slightly under the sun. It was a comfortably warm 80 degrees, with the heat ameliorated by a refreshing slight cool breeze. Texas may be one of the states that's most actively trying to kill its inhabitants with the weather (though it probably lags behind Florida and California in that department), but when that balmy spring weather settles in, and the new generation of mosquitoes hasn't been born yet, it really can be an all-too-brief brief paradise.

I wish I could break the spy glass, set it free

Today I was playing math tic-tac-toe with R, the class' only seven-year-old. He picked a square with the problem: "the age of both players added together." He asked how old I was, and I told him to guess. He thought for a bit, then said, "Ninety?"

Some of the kids nearby watching started giggling. "Ninety?!" I sputtered. "Do you think I'm an old grandfather with wrinkles and white hair?"

"No," R said, and thought some more. "Ninety-two?"

But then, this is the same boy who earlier volunteered that sixteen plus five was twelve. After I'd pointed out that he was adding so should get a higher number than he started with, he reconsidered and guessed, "Eleven?" So I don't think I should worry about being elderly. However, I do have to worry about R's numeracy.

***

Today was the second parent observation, an event I was first treated to back in October. (The parents watch the kids at work from another room behind one-way glass.) This time it was a much less stressful affair --- I just went about the usual daily routine, and everything went very smoothly. I didn't do any special planning. Nor did I wear a non-wrinkly shirt. I am what I am, dagnabit.

***

I talked with our admissions director Max about 74's daughter the other day, and today he said she was offered a spot. I actually had nothing to do with the process --- again, I have no power whatsoever --- but it looks like I did, so I can pretend to be the Big Man with 74 and Zaftig. "Yep, I got your daughter to the top of the list. Just used a little of the ol' influence with the boys upstairs. 'Tweren't no big thing. ...'Course, now you owe me."

Also, I've been revising Palfrey's resume and cover letter for her, as she's hoping to get a job with private schools. And what halfway-decent teacher wouldn't? The public schools here are appallingly managed and basically a joke.

So now I'm the employment expert with the good job connections or something. The chronically unemployed loser twentysomething me --- indeed, the underemployed, underpaid, uninsured loser thirtysomething me --- would never have seen this day coming. Life sure has its zigs and zags, don't it?

Celebrate some emptiness between you and me

Rumpled up and left behind
Out of sight and out of mind
I sank into the floor's decor
--- Gerald Collier, "Rumpled Up"

Long-term readers with extremely good memories for the minutiae of other people's lives will need but the gentlest of reminders that in the summer and fall of 2007, I fretted over how my interview at Prestigius didn't go so well because I failed to win over the teachers.

Today Miss Busty told me that one of the main points of discussion among several of the teachers after my first interview was that my shirt wasn't ironed. She herself hadn't wanted me on her team, she confessed, because I'd looked so disheveled.

It's nice to know that we all have our priorities straight here in the business of Molding Young Minds.

Secret thinker sometimes listening aloud

Now your smile is spreading thin
Seems you're trying not to lose
Since I'm not supposed to grin
All you've got to do is win
--- David Bowie, "Win"

Guess what I got in the mail today? A photo of me with that puffed-up jackass, Alex Trebek. Big deal! Where's my thousand-dollar loser prize, Trebek? Or I'll settle for some of that Penis Mightier you're always talking about.

Newbery winners III

In 1924, a book called The Dark Frigate, by Charles Boardman Hawes, won the third Newbery Medal. This week, a mere 85 years later, I read that book. And like the Ancient Mariner, I must tell my tale.

This is a pirate story set in the days just before the English Civil Wars. Philip Marsham is the son of a sailor, estranged from his wealthy grandparents and apparently living by his wits. Times are hard for a poor young man, and he sets off to sea with an unsavory character he meets on the road. Marsham makes a fine boswain, but his ship is overtaken by pirates. The kind-hearted lad is forced to sail with them for a while, then escapes only to be captured and tried with the crew

The plot is very simple, but there's more to the book than the bare-boned precis above would indicate. The book is a series of encounters in Marsham's life, and its strength lies in characterization and dialogue rather than complex twists and turns of plot.

It’s an interesting book for the historical detail (down to the quite recondite speech and arcane vocabulary) and for Hawes’ unwillingness to be trite or shallow: some characters loom large and then fade away, as in life, and the villain of the piece is given his due as a brave and clever man, true to his own principles even if he is a violent, bloody thief.

But there’s something to be said for getting drama out of heroism vs. treachery, and I felt as if Marsham was merely an observer to the tale, and not its protagonist; in that sense it compares unfavorably to the somewhat similar Kidnapped or Black Arrow, both by Robert Louis Stevenson, who knew how to craft a truly gripping adventure story.

Recommended for children: It's a decent tale, but I can’t imagine most adults, let alone children, of today reading this book with much understanding: the language is really very obscure, and some of the action bafflingly subtle.

Recommended for adults: See above. I've deliberately cultivated a very extensive vocabulary all my life; also, I was practically raised on archaic Britishisms and sea lingo thanks to my English father and British Navy uncles, and I found the speech hard to fathom at times.

Loaded 16

Hypotheticals: If you could dis-invent one thing, what would it be?

Organized religion.

Anything Goes: What makes you want to vomit?

Oh, lots of things. The dentist sticking those gross folded cardboard bits in between my teeth prior to an x-ray; brushing my teeth too long so it fills up with foam; several vile smells and textures... the usual. One time Jaded, who is utterly insane, showed me a photo of her poop for some demented reason of her own, and the ol' gag reflex kicked in nicely there.

No-Brainers: What is your favorite kind of doughnut?

Glazed doughnut holes.

Personals: Who do you wish gave you more attention?

Women who were interested in me.

There's a blaze of light in every word

I'm good at Love, I'm good at Hate
It's in-between I freeze
Been working out but it’s too late
It's been too late for years
But you look good, you really do
They love you on the street
If you were here I'd kneel for you
A thousand kisses deep.
--- Leonard Cohen, "A Thousand Kisses Deep"

I went in to talk to Max about 74's daughter's chances of getting into Prestigius. I did what I could, which wasn't much, but at least I can say I tried. For lunch my assistant and I ordered from a sandwich shop. I tried their much-vaunted five-dollar peanut-butter and grape jelly sandwich. Goddam! I don't know if it's worth five dollars, but it's pretty fuckin' good.

But who cares? The Friar and I went to see mister LEONARD FREAKING COHEN in concert tonight! On tour for the first time in fifteen years and $150 a ticket. Worth it. Seriously, one of the top five concerts of my experience. And I've seen the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan (several times) and Paul Simon and Arlo Guthrie and Tom Waits (have I talked about that show? It was one of the worst shows of all time) and Steve Wynn and Rancid and the Hold Steady (and you know how much I loves me some Hold Steady) and David Bowie and Devo and Jonathan Richman and Guns and F'ing Roses and even that ridiculous soft-rock band America.

But now, now my concert-going life is complete if I never see another show, for I have seen The Golden Voice live. He wore a fedora and he skipped onstage like a man twenty years younger than his actual seventy-four and he knelt on stage and he flirted with his backup singers with canned patter that he never changes from night to night and he even did a sort of decrepit Chuck Berry duckwalk, and he made those songs a religious fucking experience is what he did. "Hallelujah." "Tower of Song." "A Thousand Kisses Deep." "Chelsea Hotel." Every one alone was worth the price of admission.

Oh, and two people around us told us to stop talking during the show. What? I know he's a literate singer-songwriter, but this a concert, not a prayer function. Take your overly-reverent slack-jawed silence back home and sit in rapt mute wonder in front of your CD player, fella. One guy was nice about it, one told us "if you want to keep up the fuckin' narration, go in the fuckin' hall." Ha ha! What a dork! We ignored him. Hey, man, you're harshing my Buddhist vibe.

Afterwards we met 74 and Courtney at the Hangout. It was fun talking to them --- 74 is almost never allowed out by Zaftig --- but a band on the bar stage was making the most horrible noise I've ever heard anyone make who had the intention to impress rather than repel, and I had to run away and go home, rocked gently to sleep by the comforting arms of Morpheus and vodka.

We teach old hearts to rest

I spent my hatred everyplace
On every work, on every face
Someone gave me wishes
And I wished for an embrace
--- Leonard Cohen, "Teachers"

Today after work we had a mandatory, outdoor get-together with the new incoming families for next year. I talked with some of my kids' parents and had an okay time. It's truly nice to be appreciated, as I am by some of my room's parents. I'm miraculously lucky to be working at a job that I enjoy and am pretty great at, and to have my skills recognized. I'm grateful for all of life's victories, even if I don't always feel that the total balance comes out on the plus side of the register.

The admissions director, Max, told me that one of the incoming fathers had talked with him for half an hour that morning about the father's concern about the presence of male teachers in the kindergarten and pre-K. He was worried that we would do creepy male... things with the boys, I guess. In retelling it, Max made a few sarcastic and hilarious comments about that to me (inappropriate and unrepeatable --- educators often make incredibly crude comments about parents and kids when out of the hearing of parents). But what he said to the father in reality was that the male teachers were totally great, and if the father was worried about that already, sight unseen to boot, maybe Prestigius wasn't the place for him after all. Then Max offered the guy the number of a good counselor so he and his wife could learn to relax. (Really!) The father protested, and said he would see us at the new parent meeting.

I didn't run into him, though. Too bad --- I could have asked if he had any pictures of his kids I could have. That would have been hilarious. Okay, not really.

The three-year-old daughter of my old friend 74 and wife Zaftig were waitlisted at Prestigius, which means they aren't getting in. They called me to beg me to do anything I could to help them get in. I feel bad because I would absolutely love to help them, but what they don't seem to understand is that I have no power whatsoever and no one gives a damn what I think.

Case in point, the arrogant blond kid from this post, whose classroom visit I hosted. Recall that I wrote in the strongest possible terms on his file that he wasn't right for Prestigius. Guess whose smug face I saw cookies being shovelled into the second I stepped outside to the meet and greet tonight? Yes, that kid. They took a grand total of two into his grade this year, and he was one of them. Show how much my vote goes for.

All this pain begins to feel like pleasure

With more tears you'd make a sea a desert
Salt my wounds and I'll keep saying thank you
--- Shakira, "Fool"

A month ago I went to see my doctor and complained of depression. He asked if I thought about suicide and I said quite a lot. He asked if I ever thought about it in detail, like the manner or method. "A couple of weeks ago I was out of town at a hotel and I looked out over the balcony every day I was there and thought about how violent the impact would be if I jumped," I said. He looked quite alarmed and asked if I'd ever been hospitalized for depression. He put me back on Prozac, which is what I'd been wanting to do for some time. It's not a panacea, and it's not perfect, but it does help. It doesn't make you happy, but it makes you... indifferent to things that otherwise would tear you up.

I feel a hella better, and as long as I eschew an abundance of self-analysis, I should be okay.

And but so anyway today after work Ms. N and I gave a PowerPoint presentation about the conference we went to. We made it funny, and it was well received. At the end I talked about how much I'd enjoyed being inspired by the conference's last keynote speakers, the teacher astronaut and the author philanthropist. After the meeting, the custodian came up to me and talked about the astronaut some more. I said, "Yeah, I really was inspired. I came away wondering if a boy in my class would be the first person on Mars or something."

He said, "A boy? Oh, you were doing so well up until then."

Now, I'd said "a boy" because I was thinking specifically of J, a tall, healthy, smart boy who is fascinated by space --- the sort of perfect kid astronaut. But he was half-kidding me for apparently playing to stereotypes. So I answered, "Oh, sorry. That wasn't very inclusive, was it? I meant to say that I came away wondering if a girl in my class would grow up to be a secretary at NASA."

He gave me a reproachful look.

I said, "Oh, was that the un-P.C. term? Apologies, again. I meant to say she could grow up to be a typist at NASA."

Man, it's a good thing I have a knack for passing myself off as an affable blunderer, or I'd probably get canned for my loudmouthery.

Dirty deeds never been cheap

Churlita,

Sometimes we must be nailed to the cross in order to get close enough to understand it, but we still don't understand the crucifixion.

I'm a fool. I throw away what I can get and obsess over what I can't. And I can no more stop thinking like a fool just because I know it than I could cheer up just by realizing things could be worse.

there was a time when i had nothing to explain
oh, this mess i have made
but then things got complicated
my innocence has all but faded
oh, this mess i have made

and i don't believe in god
so i can't be saved
all alone as i've learned to be
in this mess i have made

all the untested virtue
the things i said i'd never do
least of all to you
i know he's kind and true
i know that he is good to you
he'll never care for you more than i do

but i don't believe in love
and i can't be changed
all alone as i've learned to be
in this mess
i have made the same mistakes
over and over again

there are rooms in this house that i don't open anymore
dusty books of pictures on the floor
that she will never see
she'll never see that part of me
i want to be for her
what i could never be for you

but i don't believe in god
so i can't be saved
all alone as i've learned to be
in this mess i have made

Back / nadir

Not dead, but thinking about it.

The conference was about what I expected it to be; a few good ideas, mostly a bunch of procedures that ought to be intuitive by anyone with half a brain; some people selling their materials. Listened to a teacher astronaut and a very admirable philanthropist author on the final day.

Aside from academics, ambivalent. Traveled with coworker Ms. N, a drop-dead gorgeous funny witty brilliant woman. We have a lot in common, laughed a lot, took off one day and hired a car and drove around the state (illicit escapades). I had a great time in the day, and felt my soul die a little more each night. It all reminded me of everything I can never have again, and everything I'm too weak to search for but can't live without.

Called a suicide line and talked til I was hungry instead of hurting. Ate some pizza and drank some rum. Thinking of scheduling suicide for the summer, when my kids won't be so traumatized.

Thunder on the mountain, and there's fires on the moon
A ruckus in the alley and the sun will be here soon
Today's the day, gonna grab my trombone and blow
Well, there's hot stuff here and it's everywhere I go

I was thinkin' 'bout Alicia Keys, couldn't keep from crying
When she was born in Hell's Kitchen, I was living down the line
I'm wondering where in the world Alicia Keys could be
I been looking for her even clear through Tennessee

Feel like my soul is beginning to expand
Look into my heart and you will sort of understand
You brought me here, now you're trying to run me away
The writing on the wall, come read it, come see what it say

Thunder on the mountain, rollin' like a drum
Gonna sleep over there, that's where the music coming from
I don't need any guide, I already know the way
Remember this, I'm your servant both night and day

The pistols are poppin' and the power is down
I'd like to try somethin' but I'm so far from town
The sun keeps shinin' and the North Wind keeps picking up speed
Gonna forget about myself for a while, gonna go out and see what others need

I've been sittin' down studyin' the art of love
I think it will fit me like a glove
I want some real good woman to do just what I say
Everybody got to wonder what's the matter with this cruel world today

Thunder on the mountain rolling to the ground
Gonna get up in the morning walk the hard road down
Some sweet day I'll stand beside my king
I wouldn't betray your love or any other thing

Gonna raise me an army, some tough sons of bitches
I'll recruit my army from the orphanages
I been to St. Herman's church, said my religious vows
I've sucked the milk out of a thousand cows

I got the porkchops, she got the pie
She ain't no angel and neither am I
Shame on your greed, shame on your wicked schemes
I'll say this, I don't give a damn about your dreams

Thunder on the mountain heavy as can be
Mean old twister bearing down on me
All the ladies in Washington scrambling to get out of town
Looks like something bad gonna happen, better roll your airplane down

Everybody going and I want to go too
Don't wanna take a chance with somebody new
I did all I could, I did it right there and then
I've already confessed - no need to confess again

Gonna make a lot of money, gonna go up north
I'll plant and I'll harvest what the earth brings forth
The hammer's on the table, the pitchfork's on the shelf
For the love of God, you ought to take pity on yourself

Place holder haiku 3

The silvery jet
Streaks over the cirrus clouds
Carrying me east.

I sit, tranquilized,
Preternaturally alert,
Doubting Bernoulli.

Place holder haiku 2

Haiku to Republicans

You are deluded
Everything you think is wrong
And you're evil, too.

Place holder haiku 1

I'm busy learning
At a reading seminar ---
Or I may be dead.

Sunday Warbooks: Last Citadel

A review of Last Citadel: A Novel of the Battle of Kursk, by David L. Robbins.

In 1943, as the war rages on the Eastern Front and the outcome seems bleak for the Soviets, the biggest tank battle in history occurs in the fields around Kursk and Prokhorovka. Robbins takes his title from Operation Citadel, the German code name for the attack on Soviet forces dug in around Kursk.

Robbins interweaves four basic storylines: first, there's the old (but not obsolete) Cossack Dimitri, a master horseman turned tank driver under the commander, his son Valentin (literally under him --- Valentin steps on his shoulders to get him to steer). Dimitri deals with the war through the eyes of a traditionalist and clansman, who sees his son slipping away to the colder Soviet mentality. Next, Dimitri’s daughter, Katya, is a “Night Witch,” one of the female night bombing crew; she is shot down attempting to rescue her lover, a pilot, and joins a band of fierce partisans led by a gruff bandit self-styled “Colonel Bad.” The war for intelligence is tackled as well: German Colonel Abram Breit is an intelligence officer secretly supplying the Russians with information under the Lucy spy ring. Finally, there’s Luis de Vega, a Spanish SS officer, gaunt and skeletal thanks to a Soviet wound, who hungers for revenge and redemption as the commander of Germany’s new fearsome, supposedly invincible Tiger tanks.

Robbins brings it all together in a tight, fast-paced, dramatic, deeply researched book. At 414 pages, it’s an epic, but it centers on the human interest rather than the big picture. We feel Dimitri’s sense of loss, away from his son, his horses, and his swords, and the way he treats the tank like a living steed; Luis’ rage at being defined by his wound, and his love of bullfighting; Briet’s inner monologue as he betrays his country for all the right reasons; the heroic sacrifices that all the characters make. Robbins doesn’t make any of the characters one-sided; they all have their motivations, histories, and beliefs. We can empathize, if not sympathize, with even the Nazis.

It’s the story of a massive tank battle and an impressive rout, but Robbins tells it as a battle of wills: the differences between the personalities of Luis, who sees his men as faceless tools to be used and discarded in the undying quest for victory and adulation, and Dimitri, who holds clan above all else, are as telling as the technical differences between their tanks. It’s an exciting, hugely successful historical novel.

***

Sunday warbooks scoreboard:

Greco-Persian wars: 2
WWI: 2
WWII: 4 <---winning big now!
Vietnam: 2
Iraq wars: 2
General warfare: 2

Don't know when I'll be back again

Okay, I'm leaving for a sunny, mostly rectangular state tomorrow at the crack of butt o'clock, to attend a reading conference for work. Why do I let people sign me up for this stuff? I hate flying. Everyone always says "You'll be fine," but you know, that's one thing you can say to someone in total confidence, because what am I going to do if we crash, come back and say "I told you so?" Actually, that would be awesome.

People also say not to worry about it, because you could be hit by a bus or die of an aneurysm on the way to the airport, too. But that idea doesn't bother me. It's not the dying I resent, it's the falling.

I know that if my plane goes down because the airline skimped on safety inspections to cut costs, my ghost, fueled by my unquenchable rage, will rise from the burning wreckage and haunt the fuck out of everyone responsible.

So, anyway, if I don't resume blogging at the end of next week, I'm dead. Have a nice day, everyone!

Too many drivers holdin on to your wheel

So let me get this auto recovery straight. American taxpayers didn't buy GM and Chrysler's products, because they were perceived (rightly or wrongly) as gas-guzzling, less reliable, and not a good value as compared to established Japanese brands. (Then, as the recession deepened, they just stopped buying cars altogether, but that's another chapter of the saga). So the heads of GM and Chrysler, brave champions of the free market that they are, appealed to the big bad Federal Government for some of that sweet sweet socialist bailout money, so that American taxpayers, who didn't care for what they had to sell, could support them anyway, involuntarily. And the companies told congress that one way they would streamline so they could continue existing would be to lay off thousands and thousands of American employees --- those same taxpayers who will be footing their bill to keep existing despite the willfully purblind business practices they've been perpetuating for the last decade at least.

It's socialism, pure and simple. Now, that doesn't necessarily mean it's bad, but it is interesting that the heads of companies and Republican politicians are as socialist as Lenin when it comes to getting a handout, but those same people would rather let Americans starve than share out some of that money for public works projects.

Why doesn't the federal government hire the auto companies to make things it needs, like planes and tanks and other heavy machinery, like it did in WWII? That would actually add jobs instead of cut them, and it would be closer to free enterprise than the socialist handout.

And meanwhile, that smirking man-ape Bush is off basking in the evil glow of his self-satisfaction, having helped his very rich friends get richer, and having destroyed the middle class in America, and having apparently convinced the media that the recession was in no way due to his spend-and-spend, gluttonous, plutocratic economic policies.

***

Lots of violence at school today. One kid punched another in the stomach; this same kid refused to listen to an assistant teacher yesterday when asked to give back a toy he'd taken, and then turned and made his fingers into a gun and mimed shooting her when she insisted. The assistant was so shaken by this, she didn't show up for work today. I can see how it might be creepy, especially for one of the very few black employees at a pretty white school.

Also, another assistant was crouching down near a kid and explaining to him why he was in time-out (for some altercation), and he reached out and lightly slapped her nose with his fingers! That is nuts for a five-year-old to do that to a teacher. Mrs. Hatfield, his teacher, asked him if he would hit his mother like that and he said no. Then she asked him if he would ever hit her, and he shrugged and said, "Sure, if I got mad enough."

***

So I'm going to a reading conference for three days next week. My teaching style is pretty spontaneous, so it was out of the ordinary for me to write the detailed lesson plans I did for the substitute. In fact, making them was more work than going to work would have been.

When this grey world crumbles like a cake

My parents and my aunt and her new boyfriend (that term seems so inappropriate for someone her age --- male companion?) took me out to dinner at a pretty nice place for my birthday this month.

I ordered a margarita and our waiter --- an ebullient, perhaps even overly effusive, fellow --- carded me. I showed him my ID, saying, "I'm nearly forty years old."

He said, "Really? You look all of nineteen!"

(Normally, people say "early twenties;" either they're being diplomatic, or my new haircut has shaved off a couple-five years.)

Later, on one of his many stops by our table to check up on us, the Cheerful Waiter said in a chatty way that he was jealous: "I'm 44, and I would love to look as young as you." I glanced up at him; he was a fairly boyish-looking guy himself, nothing like 44 in appearance. Early thirties, at most. I would have said something to that effect, but I decided that our relationship was already at the level I wanted it to be. No need to let things blossom further by throwing compliments around haphazardly.

***

Later, my mother said, "I wish you wouldn't tell people how old you are. It reflects badly on me."

Like her own mother, my mother is terrified of being thought of as old. But, you know, (a) the guy's our waiter --- I'm pretty sure he doesn't give a rat's ass how old she is; (b) he couldn't have known for sure that she was my mother anyway; (c) we're probably not going to see him ever again; and (d) well gosh, some people are sixty-something. That's just how life is.

But, all that aside, my aunt replied, "He could hardly help it. The waiter was holding his driver's license at the time."

"Well," my mother said, "Chance doesn't have to make it easy for him!"

...

Hypothetical scenario based on my mother's thought processes

Me: "It's my birthday! An alcoholic beverage, to celebrate, please, my good man."
Waiter: "I'll need to see some ID."
Me: "But of course! Here you are."
Waiter [looking at card]: "And how old are you today?"
Me: "That's for me to know and you to find out!"
Waiter: "Uh... Okay? You were born in---"
Me [throwing bread rolls at Waiter's head]: "Not finding it so easy to subtract four digit numbers now, are you, Euler?!"
Waiter: "Please stop that, sir."

Now here's my scandal

I'm so behind on everything. I mean everything.

Opening mail. Helping Palfrey revamp her resume, which she asked me to do a few days ago. Writing my conference notes. Writing thank you notes for gifts from the parents to the faculty. Writing my lesson plans for next week (I've been drafted into going to some damn conference out of state); I never write lesson plans. Haven't been keeping up with much reading lately. Should watch movies at a faster rate in order to justify keeping the Netflix account.

I don't even want to go to a conference! I hate planes.

Wisdom is old

We had some Prestigius alumni visit the school today so they could talk to the kids about how Prestigius was back when they went to school there (I didn't go, but I saw a photo of my room from the '70s, and man, the carpets were ugly back then).

Our room was visited by two women, mothers of current Prestigius kids, probably in their mid-thirties. One of the women said that she herself had been a kindergarten student in that very room where we sat now. The kids all oohed and ahhed at the living relic of ancient history, and one asked, "Was Mr. Chance your teacher?"

I said with as much dignity that I could muster that I was probably in first grade at the time.

***

One of the little girls, Z, a bossy type, accidentally poked L hard in the eye while they were waiting in line. She was probably jabbing her index finger in his face, acting all pushy. He screamed and cried (even though he was totally fine), and when I asked him what was the matter, he yelled, "Z poked me in my eye, and it was my best seeing eye!"

***

I introduced simple, three line book reports to the kids today (they write the title, one adjective about it, and then a short description of their favorite part). It went pretty well, but I was disappointed with L. This kid, whose mother is always raving about what a genius he is, and who can read way above his grade level, chose an extremely simple A-level reader with a lot of repetitive text and no story. When I later took L aside and said I'd like him to use that big brain of his to read a more challenging book and tell me a bit about it, he rubbed his chin and said, "Maybe I'll read a book in Chinese."

I'd settle for something with more than twenty words. Man, the gap between what L thinks he's capable of and what he actually produces is like the Grand Canyon over here.

Ability has now been ripped

No school today. T-Bone and Courtney hosted a little get-together for friends to grill, drink, and play games. I got there early and the three of us played Guillotine while their girls cavorted and hit each other in the yard. Then everyone else came with their kids. The kids ran around and everyone ate kabobs and chicken and hot dogs and drank beer and champagne. Then right after the eats, as if on some hidden signal all the parental types got up and moved their brood out the door. So no games were played.

Man, kids are great and all, but they sure take over their parents' lives. What good is a party if you can't stick around and play stupid games with a buzz on?

Loaded XIV

Hypotheticals: If you were nominated for a Nobel prize, what would it be for?
That's hardly likely, but I suppose it would be for literature. I'm hopeless at the other fields.

Anything Goes: What American city does not deserve a place on the map? Why?
What the hell?

No-Brainers: What is your most admired athlete of all time?
Jackie Robinson, for breaking the color barrier with dignity, pride and restraint.

Personals: What is the most common compliment that people give you?
That I'm funny. I know, big deal, right?

Love Cabbage

"Enough! Enough," he cried between blows.

She paused, lowering the umbrella. "You haven’t suffered enough, you little worm," she hissed, and grabbed another implement of destruction. He turned to run, but it was too late --- she’d castrated him. Howling with laughter like a chlorine gas hurricane, she trounced out of the house, her ubiquitous cape (the red one with the quaint yellow "S" in the center) flapping behind her.

A decade later, she saw him again, this time on the street corner. He crouched amid broken glass, peep-show fliers and syringes. He was wearing a tattered American flag over his thin shoulders and his flesh was a mesh of lacerations and bruises. She stepped forward and dropped a silver bullet into his outstretched hand. "Thank you, ma’am," he whispered, his voice a cracked and haunting growl. She couldn’t bear to answer and drove her limousine in the opposite direction.

A year after that meeting, she was sitting in her mansion, swilling pine cleaner. A century of questing extremities, a thousand probing digits, had kneaded her now-pulpy, now-forgotten features. The doorbell rang. Her servant, the President of the United States, hurried to answer it. As soon as the door was open, he rushed past her servant and into her drawing room. "I live for your meandering devices," he said, unable to control himself.

She decided then that she’d had enough, and, reaching into her bureau drawer, pulled out a five-foot-long Pink Pearl eraser and rubbed him out.

Time you straightened right out

Today L (this quirky kid), approached my assistant during free time, while I was out of the room. He handed her a piece of paper, saying "telegram for you."

She opened it. On it, L had written, "blah blah blah butthead butt."

Lovely. It's interesting how this kid can do equations and spell a vast array of second-grade vocabulary words and yet be so retarded.

They didn't know they couldn't make the scene

Well, the second round of parent conferences came and went. They went swimmingly, for the most part; several even had a jocund, relaxed air.

I told L2's parents that his behavior, while distracting, has improved lately (at least he's not writing "boobs" on pieces of scrap paper any more).

I told L's parents, in a gentle euphemistic way that their son, while extremely strong on math and literacy skills, has zero intellectual curiosity or academic pride and rushes sloppily through his work so he can build Lego airplanes all day long.

I told S2's parents that he's completely on target for first grade, despite his late summer birthday and his tendency to drift into reveries and so not finish work.

I told G's parents that his confidence was slowly increasing, which is mostly true.

Now all I have to do is write up the stupid conference notes for every single one of the meetings.

If you like it, don't fight it, just hold it, then light it

It's Draconian Justice Wednesday!

* These Republican fuckers who are only too happy to help themselves to the pork after giving Obama's genuine attempts at bipartisanship the short shrift for no reason other than callous, petulant power plays of the dog-in-the-manger variety --- in essence giving the big fat middle finger to Americans hit hard by the recession --- should be stripped of their salaries, health insurance, and myriad other perks. Let them fend for themselves for a while and see if they value "tax cuts" (nonsense Republican code for "providing for the rich") over actual job creation.

* Cops who use the Taser indiscriminately and as a first resort and in opposition to what any reasonable six-year-old would see as the basic principles of humanity (warning: very disturbing video) should be fired, fined, imprisoned, and Tasered, in that order.

* This idiot with the eight kids coming on top of the other six kids she already can't handle is getting death threats, which is a bit harsh. She should merely have all her babies taken away and given to infertile couples who long for and can provide for children of their own, and be forced into counseling.

* Someone should really look into giving Hamas more accurate rockets. The numbers say it plainly: only 13 Israelis dead versus 1300+ Palestinians in the recent conflict = Palestine needs its own superpower protector. China, care to step up?

* I think the U.S. justice system needs to seriously consider "burning alive" as a punishment for some offenders. The electric chair literally is too good for some monsters.

* If there's a Hell, the worst place of all --- more nauseating and painful than the Pit of Rapists and more awful and depressing than the Abyss of Assassins --- surely is reserved for those who had the power to help people, like children with no medical insurance, and instead cast aside their needy brothers and sisters only to help the rich hoard ever more filthy lucre. The Bible has harsh words for such people, so there's hope that hell awaits.

In the stars where you are always rolling on

Because of a short winter break next week, our school celebrated Valentine's Day today. The kids decorated bags and exchanged valentines ---after I whipped and browbeat them into completing quite a lot of paper assignments, and self-portraits. We have parent conferences tomorrow, and I wanted to have some work to show the parents. The kids worked on these worksheet packets for two days straight, and while a couple finished the first day, most needed this second day, and a couple didn't come anywhere near finishing even after the second day. I don't really know what to do with these slowpokes. Usually I just call the assignment done, even if it's not complete, and move on to something else. Otherwise the quicker kids wouldn't have anything to do. But then, the slow kids aren't getting the whole picture.

These parents pay a giant shedload of cash to take their kids to Prestigius --- my salary is two kids' tuition --- and sometimes I feel like they're not really getting their money's worth. I mean, it's a great school and a hell of a lot better than the hell that is public school these days, but let's face it, it's still just kindergarten. No matter how much you pay for a hamburger, it's still only going to be the best hamburger you ever tasted, not the finest steak.

As I said, conferences are tomorrow, and I have to present the parents with their kids' progress reports. And if you think I started doing those any time but the very last minute, hi! welcome to the blog. I'm Chance, a procrastinator.

He was an anarchist, he tried his best

Today was the 100th day of school. I wore a T-shirt that I had drawn 100 insects on, because I'm buggy. Or I have the DTs or something. Hard to believe it's been one hundred days of school; the year's flown by so fast. So far, no one has caught on that I'm a fraud who isn't qualified to teach gym.

We had to go back to school from 7:00-9:00 p.m. to listen to some schmuck talk boringly about modern fatherhood (his message, in essence: pay attention to your kids!).

I sure am tired.

Sunday Warbooks: Greek Fire, Poison Arrows, & Scorpion Bombs

A review of Greek Fire, Poison Arrows & Scorpion Bombs: Biological And Chemical Warfare In the Ancient World, by Adrienne Mayor.

Yes, it came time for the Citadel and it's come time for Sunday Warbooks: for the first time, the author is... a girl. I know! Hard to believe, but they say women-folk can be just as handy with the pen as their betters. Let's find out.

Nope! I knew it! Case closed!

In all seriousness, I was slightly disappointed with this book. The subject is, of course, intriguing as hell: the use of poisons and other biological agents in the ancient world is a starting-point surely rife with obscure tidbits. In addition, Mayor promises to refute the commonly-held belief that the ancients had some sort of code against biological warfare and subterfuge.

As to the first, the book is rather heavy on the padding, relying on mythological sources for some stories and rather stretching the definition of "biological agents" to include war elephants and strategic use of terrain such as pushing the enemy toward swamp, or diverting rivers. That's not to say that there isn't fascinating material here --- there is. We hear tales of toxic rhododendron honey, poisonous snakes being catapulted onto ships, red-hot iron scraps flung onto armor, the use of burning naphtha, arrows with detachable barbs dipped in poison and feces, and other horrors. I was particularly intrigued by Mayor's well-supported hypothesis that the Hebrews' Ark of the Covenant was actually a plague box, where elders kept infected items to be distributed to enemies.

The book is written in large part like a doctoral thesis, with repeated passages meant to support main ideas, which is a bit distracting. What is more disappointing is that Mayor doesn't, in fact, refute anything definitively --- the ancient sources she cites are, as is to be expected, ambivalent on the subject of biological warfare, as one might suppose all people are. Some hawks are all for using poison on their enemies, some forward-thinking men hesitate due to moral concern, and of course most end up using whatever is necessary to defend their homes and lives, and "moral standards" go hang.

In the end, this is a book full of interesting anecdotes, but without an overarching idea to tie it all together. That's not a deal-breaker even so, except that Mayor tries too hard, with myth and other less than solid examples, to present the historical material as if there were an overarching theme. There isn't. The ancients used a lot of biological weapons. Some hated the idea and some didn't, but it happened anyway.

Mayor gains a good chunk of validation by bringing us to the present at the end, when she compares our modern attempts at disposing of chemical weapons to the ancient Greeks' "many-headed hydra." We can bury it under a boulder like the hydra's immortal head, but it's still festering there, poisoning the earth.

***

Sunday warbooks scoreboard:

Greco-Persian wars: 2
WWI: 2
WWII: 3
Vietnam: 2
Iraq wars: 2
General warfare: 2

music response meme III

Hard to believe that the last time I did this was way back here.

1. "Time To Kill" [live], the Band
This is the live version off the Watkins Glen artifact of the 1973 concert there. At least, it's presented as such and that's what I've always believed --- but I just conjured up Wikipedia, and its omniscient hive-mind tells a different, more deceptive, story. What the hell? Seriously, what the hell??! I've been listening to studio outtakes with cheap audience sound dubbed in? Now I feel like throwing away this lying disc of lies. Get thee hence, shiny tempter!

2. "Year Of the Cat," Psapp
Psapp is an act that seems to have pioneered "toytronica" --- a sort of twee, childlike electronica created mainly with toy instruments. Here they do a serviceable cover of the Al Stewart classic --- serviceable, that is, until it's totally ruined by totally gay-ass meowing and purring sounds and someone chirping "year of the cat" in a stupid voice that seems to be someone's idea of a cat talking.

3. "Brown Eyed Handsome Man," Chuck Berry
Pretty much everything Chuck does is classic, but this is a biggie. Chuck Berry wrote at least thirty songs that belong in any list of the top 100 rock songs ever written, and this is one of the best. Dig that piano boogie! I own covers of this by Johnny Cash and Paul McCartney, but even those giants can't touch the original.

4. "Your Redneck Past," Ben Folds Five
Off the Unauthorized Biography Of Reinhbold Messner album. Everything BFF does falls into three camps for me. One: surprisingly hard-hitting, an emotional punch in the gut, beautifully sad ("Brick," "Don't Change Your Plans"); two: clever, silly and rollicking ("Uncle Walter," "One Angry Dwarf And 200 Solemn Faces"); and three: too clever to have emotional resonance, but not clever enough to be memorable (this thing, for example).

5. "Cover Me," Bruce Springsteen
I've collected the Boss' albums in a very desultory fashion over the years, to the tune of a whopping four of his albums (out of at least 20), but I do think most everything he does is sonic gold. This song isn't even in the top five best songs on Born In the U.S.A., and it's still the kind of catchy rocker that any musician would sell his soul to be able to write.

Visiting day part II

At school we had another round of visiting applicants. I was given the slightly older ones, ages seven or eight. One of the kids was a typical rich blond smart-ass of the kind that so unfortunately is bred here in Texas by parents inexplicably intent on raising a new generation of arrogant assholes. He called me by my first name repeatedly, wrote on his book response sheet that the book was "boring," lay down instead of sat during a brief instruction time, and just generally acted like the world owed him a favor. It's sad to say all that about an eight-year-old, but honestly, there are so many kids like that here in the rich areas. I wrote "totally inappropriate --- absolutely not" on his application. It's not entirely his fault he's like that, but there it is.

The only other kid who stood out was a black boy who was polite, sweet, hardworking, and friendly to the others. His family had applied for financial aid (one of my parents' neighbors, a woman I've talked with a few times and is incredibly nice, seemed to have overseen the process). I wrote the highest praise on his form.

If there's space for him, they'll let him in. I hope he gets in --- it could really change a less fortunate kid's life to go to a quality school instead of the deleterious idiot factories they have for free around these parts.

***

Best year-end recap ever:

This starts off strong and ends brilliant.

On lobster

A while back, Whole Foods stopped carrying live lobsters in tanks due to customer outcry over the "cruelty" of the practice. It's totally ridiculous, of course. No one was complaining about how the lobsters were treated, or even that they were being eaten. As far as I could tell, the objection was solely that the customers' vision was sullied by the offensive sight of a living creature in captivity, waiting to be eaten. How dare Whole Foods jar their fantasy of a world where food is born in pretty packaging, far removed from any messiness like killing?

This story is just another shabby example of how far we've fallen from our roots. Removing the lobsters is window dressing, useless window dressing to placate the whiners who want to pretend that eating other creatures doesn't carry a cost or a moral responsibility. It does. I'm not saying no one should eat meat, but everyone who eats meat should be able to look its cost straight in the eye and say, "Yes, I'm willing to pay that." Beef and pork and lobster are living things, folks --- and if you can't stomach that most of us kill to eat, then stick to vegetables.

It reminds me of this poem:

Grace Be Said at the Supermarket

This God of ours, the Great Geometer,
Does something for us here, where He hath put
(if you want to put it that way) things in shape,
Compressing the little lambs into orderly cubes,
Making the roast a decent cylinder,
Fairing the tin ellipsoid of a ham,
Getting the luncheon meat anonymous
In squares and oblongs with all the edges beveled
Or rounded (streamlined, maybe, for greater speed).

Praise Him, He hath conferred aesthetic distance
Upon our appetites, and on the bloody
Mess of our birthright, our unseemly need,
Imposed significant form. Through Him the brutes
Enter the pure Euclidean kingdom of number,
Free of their bulging and blood-swollen lives
They come to us holy, in cellophane
Transparencies, in the mystical body.

That we may look unflinchingly on death
As the greatest good, like a philosopher should.

-Howard Nemerov

Sacred and unholy cows

I was reading this AV Club article about cultural "sacred cows" --- things you enjoy so much you will brook no criticism of them, or that are even potential deal breakers when it comes to friendship. Do I have any sacred cows?

Well, there are some things that I love, but typically, you not liking them isn't going to drastically change my opinion of you. I must admit have little patience with tired old tropes being wheeled out as an excuse for your ignorance --- Dylan can't sing, Elvis Presley was a thief, Shakespeare is way over-played because he's a Dead White Male, etc. Like the man says, at least do your homework before attacking your betters. Dylan can sing, and with greater expression than most of his peers; Elvis was a brilliant musician who excelled as synthesizing genres, and who was greatly respected by many of his black contemporaries; Shakespeare is over-played because he's good, we don't think he's good because he's over-played, dummy.

However, as long as you're not just spouting ignorant inanities, I can understand your reluctance to embrace the things I love, and it doesn't bother me in the least. Like the other man said, if everyone loved what you loved, you'd have a heck of a time getting tickets. And hey, if Dylan's voice is a turn-off to you, I can sympathize. It is something of a hurdle. And maybe they just talk too darn fast in those classic Bogart and Bacall films for you to follow along, too. That's okay. You don't have to enjoy the greats.

There are also, to use a parallel metaphor of my own, cultural "unholy cows" --- really bad stuff that I hate. If you embrace and revere my unholy cows, that too need not be a deal breaker. You enjoy the music of Korn, Creed, Jay-Z, some tween retard shoved into a recording studio because she's got a pair of boobs and a willingness to show 'em? That's okay; I quite enjoy the puerile poseur punk stylings of Green Day, myself. Not to mention Steve Miller. You laugh and laugh at Adam Sandler movies? Um... well, all right. I've bust a gut at a few dumb jokes in my time. That's okay. You're... probably... still not a total loser.

But! If you both reject my sacred cows and embrace my unholy cows --- then, sir or madam, we have a problem. Your favorite film is Night of the Museum, and you turned Seven Samurai off when one time you accidentally caught some of it? You have all of Avenged Sevenfold's albums, but think Tom Waits is a laughingstock? You think "Family Guy" is the epitome of hilarity, and don't understand why people say "The Simpsons" is better?

Well, you better get along back to your village, because you can't stay here, idiot.

I believe I'll go back home

I went to bed at 9:00 p.m. and woke up briefly about every hour on the hour until 6:00 a.m., when I took my temperature (99), got up, and went to work. I was scheduled to do the presentation for book club, which I'd cobbled together in my much less fevered haze the afternoon before. It went over pretty well; everyone said it was well done. Then the Vice Head sent me home because I looked like "Sick" Sicky McInvalid, the sickest man in Flutown. So by 8:15 a.m. I was back home again.

I'm still sick, but at least I got one more damn responsibility I didn't ask for out of the way.

***

This is my new favorite song of all time for the next week or so.

Couch carrot

Still sick, didn't go to work.

Saw for the second time the masterful 1961 historical drama Judgment at Nuremberg, about the post-war trials of German judges who helped speed along the Final Solution --- in Daniel Goldhagen's words, "Hitler's Willing Executioners."

It's an amazing movie, of the kind that simply can't be made these days for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the assumed intellectual level of the audience. This is a film that seeks to say something about morals and law, but is not hobbled by a need to beat the viewer over the head with its message. Everyone is given a chance to argue his point over the guilt and complicity of the German defendants. The writer, Abby Mann, doesn't hesitate to muddy the moral waters with mentions of Nagasaki, American war profiteers, regular German folk who suspected or knew of atrocities but didn't dare get involved, and probably most importantly the political exigencies of the time: America needed to get along with Germany in the face of aggressive Communism.

The star-studded cast is amazing. A very young Captain Kirk is the judge's aide, and Colonel Klink is one of the defendants. The presiding judge, Spencer Tracy, at this point in his life looked like he had one hell of a bad day at Black Rock, and his craggy, stern visage seems to be constantly glowering. Judy Garland is unrecognizable, if you only know her from The Wizard of Oz, as a bowed but unbroken German woman imprisoned for loving a kind old Jewish man; Montgomery Clift is absolutely phenomenal as a mentally deficient German who was sterilized. Burt Lancaster says little as one of the defendants, but gives the definitive rousing speech near the end (which might resonate more closely in light of the modern War on Terror):

Only when you understand [the fear we lived in] can you understand what Hitler meant to us. Because he said to us: "Lift your heads! Be proud to be German! There are devils among us. Communists, Liberals, Jews, Gypsies! Once these devils will be destroyed, your misery will be destroyed." It was the old, old story of the sacrificial lamb. What about those of us who knew better? We who knew the words were lies and worse than lies? Why did we sit silent? Why did we take part? Because we loved our country! What difference does it make if a few political extremists lose their rights? What difference does it make if a few racial minorities lose their rights? It is only a passing phase. It is only a stage we are going through. It will be discarded sooner or later. Hitler himself will be discarded sooner or later.... And then one day we looked around and found that we were in an even more terrible danger.... What was going to be a passing phase had become the way of life.

It's an intensely cerebral film, verbose but not wordy, casting a wide net with an array of characters but never leaving sight of its main arguments. The movies today that might compare to it in terms of scope and purpose are Traffic, Syriana, Babel, or Crash. I don't want to come off like clueless old curmudgeon, and I did enjoy all those films, especially the first mentioned. But Judgment at Nuremberg, and other cerebral films of a generation ago, come off as less frantic, less biased, less mawkish, and in general written and performed by people who had actually lived through a bit of life.

Now you kids get off my lawn!

Also: in a total repudiation of any taste standards I just set, I am to my surprise enjoying very much the fiendishly clever animated series The Venture Bros. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that having watched at least a little Johnny Quest or having read some comic books is a prerequisite to true appreciation of the show. However, if you understand the creators' cultural springboard and can fill in the deliberate narrative gaps, it's hilarious. It's also ironically retro, twisted, deadpan, convention-assuming and then convention-destroying, but mostly hilarious.

Newbery Winners II

In this, the second installment of my newest and possibly most pointless project, I take on 1923's winner, The Voyages Of Dr. Dolittle, by Hugh Lofting. Because of the 1967 movie starring Rex Harrison, this is a book that probably quite a few adults think they're familiar with, even if they haven't read it. Well, as with most of these cases, if you haven't read the actual book, you miss the nuances (like Moby Dick being about more than a guy chasing a whale).

The narrator, one Tommy Stubbins, begins at the moment when, as a nine-year-old lad, he came to meet the man who can talk to animals and became his assistant. Dolittle is a very cheerful man, a little round childlike fellow who doesn't stand on ceremony and has a duck for a housekeeper. He learned the languages of the animals from Polynesia, a parrot. Well, anyhoo, Tommy and the doctor travel together to Spidermonkey Island, which is a floating island, in a search for one of the world’s great naturalists, an Indian named Long Arrow. They encounter him, but find it difficult to leave the island, for reasons which I won't go into in case anyone cares to read the book.

Though I wasn’t highly impressed with the book with the first few chapters, after they get to the island, a plot breaks out. And even before then, there are two memorable scenes involving Dolittle interrogating a dog at a murder trial and pretending to participate in a bullfight in Spain.

In all, it’s an amusing, if lightweight, bit of fantasy, part of the wide British reaction to the horrors of WWI. Two items of interest that people who have not read the book might not know are:

• Although this is the book that won the Newbery, it's actually the second in the Dolittle series, The Story of Dr. Dolittle being the 1920 debut. I was unaware of this even after I'd finished the book.
• The book has mildly racist overtones, with several uses of the N-word and a healthy serving of the white man's burden as a plot point.

Recommended for kids: With the excision of the N-word or a very confident adult who can explain the standards of the time, sure.

Recommended for adults: For its historical and cultural impact, but not its literary value.