I was informed today by a child that our president was "taking everyone's money away and is going to make them into hobos."
(Wait, hobos? Consarn it! All riled up on giggle juice, I'll wager! Fetch the railroad bulls and march 'em off to the hoosegow!)
Another teacher said to this boy, "I'll bet your parents watch Fox news."
He said immediately and with gusto, "Yeah! It's so boring!"
Man, I know people enjoy sacrificing reason on the altar of righteousness and greed, but do they have to tell their kids about it?
***
Oh, and also today a boy looked at my lunch bag and said, "That lunch box sure has a long strap."
I said, "Yes, it does."
He replied, "Let's go ahead and call it a purse."
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Meme from Electronic Cerebrectomy
Where I got it
1. Name someone with the same birthday as you.
I have no idea and I don't care.
2. Where was your first kiss?
By the pool at Muffin's house, with the usual gang I hang out with 22 years later, minus a couple who have become lost to us over the years, including the girl in question: a whiplash-inducing buxom blonde with a sultry smile I remember to this day. For whatever reason, ugly scrawny nerdy me attracted the hot young ladies back then. It was doubtless my rapier wit. Here's my thoughts on the subject, from October 2006.
3. Have you ever hit someone of the opposite sex? If yes, why?
Um... not in anger. Ahem. Not that I think women are utterly sacred and untouchable when it comes to physical violence --- there are certainly a lot of loudmouthed nasty pieces of female work who probably should have been backhanded a few times in their developing years, and you can see some of them on reality TV these days --- but mostly that Shouldn't Be Done.
4. Have you ever sung in front of a large number of people? When?
Probably, because I don't have shame about that kind of thing, but don't remember any specific occasions. I have a horrible voice and no sense of pitch, key, or rhythm. People wince even when I attempt something as simple as "Happy Birthday." But I don't care. If I feel like singing, I'll belt one out, dammit!
5. What's the first thing you notice about your preferred sex?
Eyes. Big wide eyes kill me. Then mouth. Then what comes out of it.
6. What really turns you off?
Lack of empathy.
7. What is your biggest mistake?
I think I've answered this in more than one meme. Here's a good example of the kind of emo bullshit I tend to start spouting when forced to think about such things.
8. Have you ever hurt yourself on purpose?
Oh my, yes! I used to slash my arms and face with a knife. The cool kids call it "cutting" these days.
9. Say something totally random about yourself.
Here's an odd thing --- my digital camera has gone wonky and only takes pictures in the dark. At night or in a dimly lit bowling alley, the pictures are fine. But in the day, indoors with or without flash, they come out all washed with light and staticky horizontal lines and whatnot. It's not condensation on the lens, or the batteries, or anything. I've messed with the settings in an exhaustive array of combinations, with no luck. Oh, and here's the truly weird part: the video setting still works perfectly no matter what the light. Just not the photos. So obviously there's something wrong with the shutter exposing too much light or something? Oh, I don't know what I'm talking about. But you have to admit that was random.
10. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity?
As mentioned here (proving there is nothing new under the e-sun), various sources of questionable repute have said I resemble Christopher Reeve, Tobey Maguire, and Tony Curtis. Usually these are older ladies saying these things, women whom one can only assume are in desperate need for cataract surgery.
11. Do you still watch kiddie movies or TV shows?
Sure. I own The Incredibles and The Jungle Book. I thought Toy Story 2 was one of the top 100 movies of all time. And it wasn't so long ago I was watching "Justice League Unlimited" on DVD. The other day, a woman said defensively to me as I was talking about the wonderful book The Phantom Tollbooth (which she'd never heard of, naturally), "I don't read children's books." I could only reply, "How sad for you."
That's it for me, as it's getting late, I have recommendations to write, and I don't have good answers for the rest of it.
1. Name someone with the same birthday as you.
I have no idea and I don't care.
2. Where was your first kiss?
By the pool at Muffin's house, with the usual gang I hang out with 22 years later, minus a couple who have become lost to us over the years, including the girl in question: a whiplash-inducing buxom blonde with a sultry smile I remember to this day. For whatever reason, ugly scrawny nerdy me attracted the hot young ladies back then. It was doubtless my rapier wit. Here's my thoughts on the subject, from October 2006.
3. Have you ever hit someone of the opposite sex? If yes, why?
Um... not in anger. Ahem. Not that I think women are utterly sacred and untouchable when it comes to physical violence --- there are certainly a lot of loudmouthed nasty pieces of female work who probably should have been backhanded a few times in their developing years, and you can see some of them on reality TV these days --- but mostly that Shouldn't Be Done.
4. Have you ever sung in front of a large number of people? When?
Probably, because I don't have shame about that kind of thing, but don't remember any specific occasions. I have a horrible voice and no sense of pitch, key, or rhythm. People wince even when I attempt something as simple as "Happy Birthday." But I don't care. If I feel like singing, I'll belt one out, dammit!
5. What's the first thing you notice about your preferred sex?
Eyes. Big wide eyes kill me. Then mouth. Then what comes out of it.
6. What really turns you off?
Lack of empathy.
7. What is your biggest mistake?
I think I've answered this in more than one meme. Here's a good example of the kind of emo bullshit I tend to start spouting when forced to think about such things.
8. Have you ever hurt yourself on purpose?
Oh my, yes! I used to slash my arms and face with a knife. The cool kids call it "cutting" these days.
9. Say something totally random about yourself.
Here's an odd thing --- my digital camera has gone wonky and only takes pictures in the dark. At night or in a dimly lit bowling alley, the pictures are fine. But in the day, indoors with or without flash, they come out all washed with light and staticky horizontal lines and whatnot. It's not condensation on the lens, or the batteries, or anything. I've messed with the settings in an exhaustive array of combinations, with no luck. Oh, and here's the truly weird part: the video setting still works perfectly no matter what the light. Just not the photos. So obviously there's something wrong with the shutter exposing too much light or something? Oh, I don't know what I'm talking about. But you have to admit that was random.
10. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity?
As mentioned here (proving there is nothing new under the e-sun), various sources of questionable repute have said I resemble Christopher Reeve, Tobey Maguire, and Tony Curtis. Usually these are older ladies saying these things, women whom one can only assume are in desperate need for cataract surgery.
11. Do you still watch kiddie movies or TV shows?
Sure. I own The Incredibles and The Jungle Book. I thought Toy Story 2 was one of the top 100 movies of all time. And it wasn't so long ago I was watching "Justice League Unlimited" on DVD. The other day, a woman said defensively to me as I was talking about the wonderful book The Phantom Tollbooth (which she'd never heard of, naturally), "I don't read children's books." I could only reply, "How sad for you."
That's it for me, as it's getting late, I have recommendations to write, and I don't have good answers for the rest of it.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Many times we've shared our thoughts
Yesterday, dinner at a nice Mexican place with the usual crowd. Thirteen people including kids --- three couples, two kids each, and me.
Today, with crowd but sans kids, bowling at an obscenely "hip" and "trendy" bowling alley that blares the latest hip hop and empty bubblegum pop videos at the end of the lane, behind the pins (how is that helping?) and has a full bar and black lights that make your vodka look blue and your yellow shirt look white. I guess it sounds kinda fun when I write it down like that. Friar and Palfrey. T-Bone and Courtney. Muffin and her husband. Me.
It's nice I have friends. But not sure about the seventh wheel part.
Today, with crowd but sans kids, bowling at an obscenely "hip" and "trendy" bowling alley that blares the latest hip hop and empty bubblegum pop videos at the end of the lane, behind the pins (how is that helping?) and has a full bar and black lights that make your vodka look blue and your yellow shirt look white. I guess it sounds kinda fun when I write it down like that. Friar and Palfrey. T-Bone and Courtney. Muffin and her husband. Me.
It's nice I have friends. But not sure about the seventh wheel part.
Friday, January 15, 2010
It's sweeter than the ripple wine
The other day the Spanish teacher told the kids she'd been out because of an operation (she'd gotten her appendix out in an emergency procedure a few days before). This prompted R to share that his mother has ovarian cancer --- he knows all about it, including the fact that she can't have any more children --- which somehow led to H gleefully proclaiming, "I love to feel my mommy's boobies!"
That's where I stepped in and asked, "Kids, have you ever heard of the phrase T.M.I.?"
***
This morning, during the circle time, E asked if she could take her shirt off because she was hot in the room (she was wearing a spaghetti strap top underneath). "I guess," I said complainingly, "but I'm hot too, and you don't see me taking off my shirt."
She giggled. "No! 'Cause then we would see your boobies!"
Say, why do they all call them "boobies," anyway? And why do they think I have them?
That's where I stepped in and asked, "Kids, have you ever heard of the phrase T.M.I.?"
***
This morning, during the circle time, E asked if she could take her shirt off because she was hot in the room (she was wearing a spaghetti strap top underneath). "I guess," I said complainingly, "but I'm hot too, and you don't see me taking off my shirt."
She giggled. "No! 'Cause then we would see your boobies!"
Say, why do they all call them "boobies," anyway? And why do they think I have them?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Take a look now at what your boy has done
I was trying to guide W1 through a story problem today. This kid, although a decent reader and apparently bright in several ways, is sporadically clueless. Everyone else groks what's going on, even my youngest little whiner, H. But this kid, who can read the thing himself, is just lost. The problem says A has 4 blocks and B has 3 blocks. How many all together? I remind him the key words that make this an addition problem. I help him work this through the number line. I direct his drawing of four blocks of one color and, separated by a gap, three of another. And then we get to the part where he writes the number sentence, and he acts as though he just woke up, in his hermetically sealed pod, which arrived from Alpha Centauri a thousand years ago.
He writes, "5 + 4 = 3." I suppress the urge to kill and read through the problem with him, again. Recalling, of course, that he can read it himself. I get him to point out the numbers that the problem gives. "Where'd you get five from?!" I screech at him in my head. I trace the number line activity. "See? We start at four and add three. Three jumps on the line. So the numbers in this problem are four and three. Four blocks, and three blocks." I show him the picture that he drew. I look at him, and he nods. "So..." I prompt through gritted teeth, "what are we adding?"
"Numbers," he mumbles.
After throttling him mentally, I go over it again. Finally, he has it. he writes the equation.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Another math fact pounded unwillingly into the blunted brain of a blockhead.
Until it's time to write the answer in tally marks. And W1 puts down twenty-five of them.
He writes, "5 + 4 = 3." I suppress the urge to kill and read through the problem with him, again. Recalling, of course, that he can read it himself. I get him to point out the numbers that the problem gives. "Where'd you get five from?!" I screech at him in my head. I trace the number line activity. "See? We start at four and add three. Three jumps on the line. So the numbers in this problem are four and three. Four blocks, and three blocks." I show him the picture that he drew. I look at him, and he nods. "So..." I prompt through gritted teeth, "what are we adding?"
"Numbers," he mumbles.
After throttling him mentally, I go over it again. Finally, he has it. he writes the equation.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Another math fact pounded unwillingly into the blunted brain of a blockhead.
Until it's time to write the answer in tally marks. And W1 puts down twenty-five of them.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
My independence seems to vanish in the haze
My talented and lovely assistant, pregnant with her second child, is almost certainly not going to be back next year. This means (as long I'm coming back, but hey, who knows, right?) I will get to help interview and choose a new one. But... but... Who will order food for me and fax stupid forms so I don't have to go upstairs and uncomplainingly pour the juice while I lord it over the kids? The next person might want to grow in their new job and actually have some kind of teaching time!
If this does come to pass, I will very much miss her. She puts up with my bizarre behavior and we complement each other very well (both of us being pretty laid back and uninterested in sweating the small stuff). She's going to have a girl, and being the tomboy that she is, told me, "I hope she'll be bald for two years so I don't have to do any hair stuff." So you can see how she and I kind of fit together in this school of gorgeous, shoes-obsessed fashion plates.
If this does come to pass, I will very much miss her. She puts up with my bizarre behavior and we complement each other very well (both of us being pretty laid back and uninterested in sweating the small stuff). She's going to have a girl, and being the tomboy that she is, told me, "I hope she'll be bald for two years so I don't have to do any hair stuff." So you can see how she and I kind of fit together in this school of gorgeous, shoes-obsessed fashion plates.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
I tie myself below the deck
Today I missed almost all of our after-school faculty meeting because carpool came and went, and B was still in the room. "Who's picking you up today?" I asked. "I don't know" she said in her tiny, precise little voice.
We waited a bit, I took her down to the office, hung around until some other late pick-ups had left, then we headed back to the room to contact somebody. I tried to reach her mother's cell phone --- which B helpfully recited, along with her father's --- but I couldn't get through. I said, "I'll try your father," and started dialing.
"My father is at China" said B in her tiny voice.
I broke off and looked for her home number. I reached her mother, who speaks English passably. "Hello, J," I said. "B is still here!" Her mother said, "It Tuesday. She has Yoga class in, ah, gym." I thanked her and hung up.
I looked at B, astonished. "Why didn't you tell me that?!" I thundered.
She put a finger in her mouth and grinned mischievously. "Tee hee," she giggled. She knew all the time she had an after-school activity. She just didn't want to go! She'd rather have hung around watching me make small talk and call people. Kids are such sneaks.
I caught the last ten minutes of the meeting and hit the snacks. I saw the Head, and he greeted me with an amiable, "Oh, you still work here?" I found out later that I'd also totally forgotten about a meeting of the Environmental Awareness team I'm on. Whoops!
This was made more ominous by his final announcement of the meeting, which was that teacher contracts will be postponed until returning students have all be accounted for. "It's just prudent, in this economy, to make sure the numbers are three," he said. Then, not quite so reassuringly, "I can't promise that everyone will be guaranteed a spot, or that nothing unfortunate will happen."
Hey! What? Huh? Wow!
Well, actually, I feel as secure as an insecure fellow like me can feel about this job, but it's the first time I've head anyone at Prestigious talk like that.
We waited a bit, I took her down to the office, hung around until some other late pick-ups had left, then we headed back to the room to contact somebody. I tried to reach her mother's cell phone --- which B helpfully recited, along with her father's --- but I couldn't get through. I said, "I'll try your father," and started dialing.
"My father is at China" said B in her tiny voice.
I broke off and looked for her home number. I reached her mother, who speaks English passably. "Hello, J," I said. "B is still here!" Her mother said, "It Tuesday. She has Yoga class in, ah, gym." I thanked her and hung up.
I looked at B, astonished. "Why didn't you tell me that?!" I thundered.
She put a finger in her mouth and grinned mischievously. "Tee hee," she giggled. She knew all the time she had an after-school activity. She just didn't want to go! She'd rather have hung around watching me make small talk and call people. Kids are such sneaks.
I caught the last ten minutes of the meeting and hit the snacks. I saw the Head, and he greeted me with an amiable, "Oh, you still work here?" I found out later that I'd also totally forgotten about a meeting of the Environmental Awareness team I'm on. Whoops!
This was made more ominous by his final announcement of the meeting, which was that teacher contracts will be postponed until returning students have all be accounted for. "It's just prudent, in this economy, to make sure the numbers are three," he said. Then, not quite so reassuringly, "I can't promise that everyone will be guaranteed a spot, or that nothing unfortunate will happen."
Hey! What? Huh? Wow!
Well, actually, I feel as secure as an insecure fellow like me can feel about this job, but it's the first time I've head anyone at Prestigious talk like that.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Here he comes with a green one once again
Today at school R wanted to use the Rubik's cube. He couldn't remember the name of it, and hemmed and hawed until finally he said, "Mr. Chance, can I play with the... uh... Mucus Block?"
Why isn't our new puzzle toy selling well? There are quintillions of combinations! Imagine the endless possibilities! So why aren't bright kids picking up a brightly-colored, challenging Mucus Block®?
Why isn't our new puzzle toy selling well? There are quintillions of combinations! Imagine the endless possibilities! So why aren't bright kids picking up a brightly-colored, challenging Mucus Block®?
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Newbery XIII - 1929
Welcome to the eighth installment of what is unquestionably the Internet's finest collection of all the Newbery winners reviewed in chronological order.
The year was 1929. In October, a stock market crash marked the beginning of a global depression. Canada's high court ruled, in what most jurists regard as a moment of sheer lunacy, that women legally counted as people. And the first Academy Awards were handed out, to the interest of hardly anyone outside of Hollywood.
Meanwhile, the ALA's choice of best juvenile book was The Trumpeter Of Krakow, by Eric P. Kelly. In keeping with the Association's love for stories from far-flung lands and eras, they chose one set in Poland, 1461. The main character is one Joseph Charnetski, a fifteen-year-old, who travels with his family to Krakow after their home and fields in the Ukraine are destroyed. And yes, he becomes the trumpeter of the title. Oops, spoiler.
The family befriends a wise scholar and goes to live in the house of an alchemist and his daughter. Joseph becomes a watchman in the Church of Our Lady Mary. In the tower there, he plays on the hour the Heynal, a theme that is traditionally broken off in mid-note out of respect for a brave Polish lad who was killed by an arrow while playing it as Tartars advanced. (Click on that Wikipedia link for an interesting side note to this ancient legend, which may not be one at all.) The family is shadowed and accosted several times by a mysterious rogue, who turns out to be the dreaded Ukrainian warlord whose men originally drove them from their home and is out to steal a priceless treasure which, to Joseph's surprise, his father is guarding for the king.
This is a fine historical adventure, written in a clear but highly literate style, full of drama and suspense. Krakow is also made central to the story, as Kelly lovingly details its various buildings and streets. Nor is this a story that could be transplanted to another time, as lesser historical tales can be; alchemy plays a great role in this book, as part of the drama stems from Kreutz, the alchemist, and his attempts to find the secret of transmuting base metals to gold. It's fun to read, and the brisk pacing and suspense keep the pages turning --- a perfect young adult adventure story.
Recommended for adults: Yes.
Recommended for children: Yes.
The year was 1929. In October, a stock market crash marked the beginning of a global depression. Canada's high court ruled, in what most jurists regard as a moment of sheer lunacy, that women legally counted as people. And the first Academy Awards were handed out, to the interest of hardly anyone outside of Hollywood.
Meanwhile, the ALA's choice of best juvenile book was The Trumpeter Of Krakow, by Eric P. Kelly. In keeping with the Association's love for stories from far-flung lands and eras, they chose one set in Poland, 1461. The main character is one Joseph Charnetski, a fifteen-year-old, who travels with his family to Krakow after their home and fields in the Ukraine are destroyed. And yes, he becomes the trumpeter of the title. Oops, spoiler.
The family befriends a wise scholar and goes to live in the house of an alchemist and his daughter. Joseph becomes a watchman in the Church of Our Lady Mary. In the tower there, he plays on the hour the Heynal, a theme that is traditionally broken off in mid-note out of respect for a brave Polish lad who was killed by an arrow while playing it as Tartars advanced. (Click on that Wikipedia link for an interesting side note to this ancient legend, which may not be one at all.) The family is shadowed and accosted several times by a mysterious rogue, who turns out to be the dreaded Ukrainian warlord whose men originally drove them from their home and is out to steal a priceless treasure which, to Joseph's surprise, his father is guarding for the king.
This is a fine historical adventure, written in a clear but highly literate style, full of drama and suspense. Krakow is also made central to the story, as Kelly lovingly details its various buildings and streets. Nor is this a story that could be transplanted to another time, as lesser historical tales can be; alchemy plays a great role in this book, as part of the drama stems from Kreutz, the alchemist, and his attempts to find the secret of transmuting base metals to gold. It's fun to read, and the brisk pacing and suspense keep the pages turning --- a perfect young adult adventure story.
Recommended for adults: Yes.
Recommended for children: Yes.
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Loaded 19
Hypotheticals: If you had to run a marathon, how many miles do you think you could last?
If I had to actually run? Probably one before I died. I could walk it, but it would take a while.
Anything Goes: What is life's greatest mystery?
Why women enjoy the company of men who treat them like dirt without seeming to offer anything to compensate for it.
No-Brainers: What is your favorite flower?
See number 47 here.
Personals: What do you generally sleep in at night?
When it's cold, a long john type shirt and flannel pants. When it's hot, I go commando, baby!
If I had to actually run? Probably one before I died. I could walk it, but it would take a while.
Anything Goes: What is life's greatest mystery?
Why women enjoy the company of men who treat them like dirt without seeming to offer anything to compensate for it.
No-Brainers: What is your favorite flower?
See number 47 here.
Personals: What do you generally sleep in at night?
When it's cold, a long john type shirt and flannel pants. When it's hot, I go commando, baby!
Friday, January 08, 2010
What becomes of the broken hearted?
In late December, flatulent ass Rush Limbaugh was rushed to a hospital in Hawaii following severe chest pains. Disregarding all the prayers of the righteous, God did not strike him down in agony. Apparently, they found nothing wrong with him, and now he's fine. Fine enough to spout the following fatuous crap: "Based on what happened here to me, I don't think there's one thing wrong with the American healthcare system. It is working just fine, just dandy."
Wow, really? The system worked for a famous, white, male, multi-millionaire conservative? That's amazing! It must therefore also work for black welfare moms, college students, underemployed single mothers, and minimum wage-earning heads of families! That's logic! QED, bitches, and check mate!
Seriously, why have the people not risen up as one to slay this menace to all that is good and holy?
By the way, anyone remember that around the same time, conservative apologist Kevin Madden went on the airwaves to make himself look ridiculous with this asinine claptrap: "You have to also remember the fact that the president being on vacation in Hawaii, it’s much different than being in Texas. Hawaii to many Americans seems like a foreign place."
Oopsie! It's a state, and apparently even evil lying conservative media whores go there to relax! Not, unfortunately, to die.
I saw a man driving a BMW convertible with a bumper sticker that read: "Don't spread my wealth. Spread my work ethic!" Why, yes, the driver was white, how did you guess? Perhaps it was this tidbit from the Bureau of Labor: "More than half of black males between the ages of 16 and 19 are unemployed. And that's only counting those seeking work. Economists say legions of other young black men — nobody knows how many — have given up looking."
I really wanted to smash his car with a cinderblock and leave it to break down at night in the poorest neighborhood of the city, so all those lazy black men who just aren't working hard enough, darn it, could enjoy the wisdom of his bumper sticker.
Yep, I'm starting the New Year with a lot of Buddhist-like serenity and good karma.
Wow, really? The system worked for a famous, white, male, multi-millionaire conservative? That's amazing! It must therefore also work for black welfare moms, college students, underemployed single mothers, and minimum wage-earning heads of families! That's logic! QED, bitches, and check mate!
Seriously, why have the people not risen up as one to slay this menace to all that is good and holy?
By the way, anyone remember that around the same time, conservative apologist Kevin Madden went on the airwaves to make himself look ridiculous with this asinine claptrap: "You have to also remember the fact that the president being on vacation in Hawaii, it’s much different than being in Texas. Hawaii to many Americans seems like a foreign place."
Oopsie! It's a state, and apparently even evil lying conservative media whores go there to relax! Not, unfortunately, to die.
I saw a man driving a BMW convertible with a bumper sticker that read: "Don't spread my wealth. Spread my work ethic!" Why, yes, the driver was white, how did you guess? Perhaps it was this tidbit from the Bureau of Labor: "More than half of black males between the ages of 16 and 19 are unemployed. And that's only counting those seeking work. Economists say legions of other young black men — nobody knows how many — have given up looking."
I really wanted to smash his car with a cinderblock and leave it to break down at night in the poorest neighborhood of the city, so all those lazy black men who just aren't working hard enough, darn it, could enjoy the wisdom of his bumper sticker.
Yep, I'm starting the New Year with a lot of Buddhist-like serenity and good karma.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Where do we go from here and what did you do with the directions?
After school we had a meeting about the writing curriculum. Ms. Ice Queen, a first grade teacher who was the leader of the group (I had been installed as co-leader), suddenly quit the group without explanation, at least to the rest of the faculty. So now I'm the main leader. I'm not the type who likes to sit around analyzing where we've been and where we're going and whether that's the way we want to go --- at least not for very long. Those are necessary things to consider, but at some point, I want action to be taken. For example, if we're examining our expectations to see if they're appropriate, consistent, and form some kind of continuum, eventually we'll need to stop examining and start pruning, streamlining, and inserting new ideas.
So, with very short notice, this afternoon I tried to pick up where Icy left off, and asked for input and volunteers to complete some tasks. But man, teachers can be such a contrary, heel-dragging bunch, especially at this school. They were questioning why we needed to do things, and whether it wouldn't be redundant with all the documentation we already have, and so on.
I wanted to say, "Look, jerks, you're right, okay? You know and I know all this is just window dressing, to make us keep our minds on our work, and so the administration can say we revamp the curriculum frequently. We're not meant to move mountains here. So how about just shutting up and writing out the extremely brief page I'm asking for so we can go the hell home." Of course I didn't. Eventually, a couple of people said they'd write the drafts, and I said I'd write the mission statement of writing philosophy, and we called it a day. I'd like to say that I adjourned the meeting, but actually people just started standing up and walking away. I have no power, and garner no respect.
***
After the meeting I picked up some Asian take out food for five and brought it to R's house. His mother has ovarian and carcinoid cancer and may not recover, though she's in treatment. I guess that puts my spine herpes, vertebrae misalignment, heart troubles and neck fungus in a relative light; they're not (as yet) fatal --- though Ganesh on the great greasy Ganges, this zona itches like a mofo. Arrrrgh! Scratchscratchscratch ointment medicine arggh
***
Hey, how come at work I can be patient as Job and Buddha, charming and funny with the kids all day, and then at that one single moment when I've reached my limit, at the fifteenth useless petty transgression, and I call out to a troublesome boy in a clearly fed-up tone --- that's the very moment an admin walks by?
Because there is no why. That's why.
So, with very short notice, this afternoon I tried to pick up where Icy left off, and asked for input and volunteers to complete some tasks. But man, teachers can be such a contrary, heel-dragging bunch, especially at this school. They were questioning why we needed to do things, and whether it wouldn't be redundant with all the documentation we already have, and so on.
I wanted to say, "Look, jerks, you're right, okay? You know and I know all this is just window dressing, to make us keep our minds on our work, and so the administration can say we revamp the curriculum frequently. We're not meant to move mountains here. So how about just shutting up and writing out the extremely brief page I'm asking for so we can go the hell home." Of course I didn't. Eventually, a couple of people said they'd write the drafts, and I said I'd write the mission statement of writing philosophy, and we called it a day. I'd like to say that I adjourned the meeting, but actually people just started standing up and walking away. I have no power, and garner no respect.
***
After the meeting I picked up some Asian take out food for five and brought it to R's house. His mother has ovarian and carcinoid cancer and may not recover, though she's in treatment. I guess that puts my spine herpes, vertebrae misalignment, heart troubles and neck fungus in a relative light; they're not (as yet) fatal --- though Ganesh on the great greasy Ganges, this zona itches like a mofo. Arrrrgh! Scratchscratchscratch ointment medicine arggh
***
Hey, how come at work I can be patient as Job and Buddha, charming and funny with the kids all day, and then at that one single moment when I've reached my limit, at the fifteenth useless petty transgression, and I call out to a troublesome boy in a clearly fed-up tone --- that's the very moment an admin walks by?
Because there is no why. That's why.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
I went to the doctor and the doctor said Friend, this should be the middle but it could be the end
Hey, guess what's not fun? Having little crappy things wrong with your health.
First there was the disgusting ringworm, a condition that has recurred (in much milder form) off and on since May. I'm still getting over a bout of bronchitis I contracted in early December. Then there was the neck pain thing which sent me to a chiropractor. I sleep on a memory foam pillow now with neck support, because my neck vertebrae bend out the wrong way.
And now I have the goddamn shingles, or as I like to call it, spinal herpes. (Shingles is some kind of residual chicken pox virus that lives in your spine and decides to give you a nasty rash thirty years later, apparently.) Let me tell you what that's like: weirdly tingly, slightly painful, uncomfortably itchy, extremely unappealing visually. Also: may indicate increased risk of cancer! Isn't the panoply of nature's creation a wonderful thing?
I'm currently taking a shedload of medication, including digitalis for tachycardia, prescription cough drops, Vicodin (which I don't need, but might later?), and two drugs to combat the zona breakout. I have ceased taking Prozac and some other drug meant to lower my blood pressure, which is fine right now on its own. Man, I don't even like taking any medication.
This is perhaps the consequences of seeing the doctor approximately zero times from the age of 23 to 32 or so. I can feel the cold grasp of Grandfather Death already.
First there was the disgusting ringworm, a condition that has recurred (in much milder form) off and on since May. I'm still getting over a bout of bronchitis I contracted in early December. Then there was the neck pain thing which sent me to a chiropractor. I sleep on a memory foam pillow now with neck support, because my neck vertebrae bend out the wrong way.
And now I have the goddamn shingles, or as I like to call it, spinal herpes. (Shingles is some kind of residual chicken pox virus that lives in your spine and decides to give you a nasty rash thirty years later, apparently.) Let me tell you what that's like: weirdly tingly, slightly painful, uncomfortably itchy, extremely unappealing visually. Also: may indicate increased risk of cancer! Isn't the panoply of nature's creation a wonderful thing?
I'm currently taking a shedload of medication, including digitalis for tachycardia, prescription cough drops, Vicodin (which I don't need, but might later?), and two drugs to combat the zona breakout. I have ceased taking Prozac and some other drug meant to lower my blood pressure, which is fine right now on its own. Man, I don't even like taking any medication.
This is perhaps the consequences of seeing the doctor approximately zero times from the age of 23 to 32 or so. I can feel the cold grasp of Grandfather Death already.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Laugh along even though they're laughing at you
So there are a number of brief, on-the-spot games I play with the kids between instruction or projects. We play a variety of hangman, a sort of game like Mastermind except with words, four-in-a-row team tic tac toe, equation solving tic tac toe, and so on.
One of these games is What Do They Have in Common; in this game I ask several kids to stand up, and the class takes turns trying to guess what characteristic belongs to that group, and only that group. The simplest example of this would be: all the girls stand up. A slightly harder example is: asking the kids in striped shirts to stand up. A very hard example might be: have the kids whose names begin with vowels stand up.
In general, kindergarten kids are not very good at this game. The first day I introduced the game, after the more obvious boys/girls and hair color examples didn't go exactly smoothly, I had my assistant and I stand up and all the kids sit. They had a very hard time coming to conclusion that what we had in common and they didn't was "adulthood" or "are teachers" or anything of that kind.
The kids will excitedly and erroneously proclaim the current round's characteristic to be the same as the previous, even when it is clearly not ("no, not all the girls are standing up this time, so that can't be it..."). They will attempt to conflate it with patterns ("there's a girl, and a boy with shoelaces, then a girl, and boy without shoelaces"), which is pretty much the opposite of the idea. They are also largely incapable of figuring out abstract common themes, such as "everyone standing has a double letter in their name." And, finally, when asked to come up with their own characteristics to form a group, usually miss one person who fits the condition, or put in an extraneous one ("A2 is standing up, but he isn't wearing any buttons!").
In short, it's great fun. They're getting better at it. And to be fair, it's a pretty hard game. Today I could not figure out a couple of the characteristics that the kids thought of themselves (everyone with collars, with brown eyes). On the other hand, one of the kids standing up in the former game was not actually wearing a collar. So that made it a bit tougher.
So but anyhow this morning I had the three kids whose names end in Y stand up. There were a couple of desultory guesses, then A3 raised her hand eagerly. "What do you think these three classmates have in common?" I asked her.
"They're all very slow in finishing their work!" she said gleefully.
Cue: Assistant and I convulsing with laughter, amid faux-horrified protests at the idea.
One of these games is What Do They Have in Common; in this game I ask several kids to stand up, and the class takes turns trying to guess what characteristic belongs to that group, and only that group. The simplest example of this would be: all the girls stand up. A slightly harder example is: asking the kids in striped shirts to stand up. A very hard example might be: have the kids whose names begin with vowels stand up.
In general, kindergarten kids are not very good at this game. The first day I introduced the game, after the more obvious boys/girls and hair color examples didn't go exactly smoothly, I had my assistant and I stand up and all the kids sit. They had a very hard time coming to conclusion that what we had in common and they didn't was "adulthood" or "are teachers" or anything of that kind.
The kids will excitedly and erroneously proclaim the current round's characteristic to be the same as the previous, even when it is clearly not ("no, not all the girls are standing up this time, so that can't be it..."). They will attempt to conflate it with patterns ("there's a girl, and a boy with shoelaces, then a girl, and boy without shoelaces"), which is pretty much the opposite of the idea. They are also largely incapable of figuring out abstract common themes, such as "everyone standing has a double letter in their name." And, finally, when asked to come up with their own characteristics to form a group, usually miss one person who fits the condition, or put in an extraneous one ("A2 is standing up, but he isn't wearing any buttons!").
In short, it's great fun. They're getting better at it. And to be fair, it's a pretty hard game. Today I could not figure out a couple of the characteristics that the kids thought of themselves (everyone with collars, with brown eyes). On the other hand, one of the kids standing up in the former game was not actually wearing a collar. So that made it a bit tougher.
So but anyhow this morning I had the three kids whose names end in Y stand up. There were a couple of desultory guesses, then A3 raised her hand eagerly. "What do you think these three classmates have in common?" I asked her.
"They're all very slow in finishing their work!" she said gleefully.
Cue: Assistant and I convulsing with laughter, amid faux-horrified protests at the idea.
Monday, January 04, 2010
To lamely try to justify for what it is, a lack of drive
Let's see, what have I been up to, then? Not much. Earlier this year, A4's mother stirred up a little maelstrom in a mailbag when she met with me, the Head, the Vice Head, and Ms. Counselor because of the "bullying" she claimed A4 was getting at the hands of other children in my class. She said he was coming home with bruises and was being savagely beaten for no reason. When extended observation by everyone and his brother revealed that nothing of the sort was happening and this was communicated to her, A4's mother told Ms. Counselor that she believed her child's story over any adult's. The Head told me later that I won the prize for having the kookiest parent in the school this year. Then just as suddenly as it began it was over, as A4's mother decided everything was groovy again.
I wrote six recommendations last week for kids whose parents wanted them to go bigger better even more respected private schools (well, and one that wanted to go to a cheaper school). The Vice Head gave us her perennial advice ("don't gush") and I toned everything down a bit, being the corporate sellout that I am.
As I've whined about before, more than once, I've been dragooned into Doing Stuff beyond what I feel is the acceptable call of duty. Now I'm apparently leading some kind of writing curriculum review team. Must I? Curse this effortless eloquence!
I wrote six recommendations last week for kids whose parents wanted them to go bigger better even more respected private schools (well, and one that wanted to go to a cheaper school). The Vice Head gave us her perennial advice ("don't gush") and I toned everything down a bit, being the corporate sellout that I am.
As I've whined about before, more than once, I've been dragooned into Doing Stuff beyond what I feel is the acceptable call of duty. Now I'm apparently leading some kind of writing curriculum review team. Must I? Curse this effortless eloquence!
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Newbery VII
When we last looked in on the venerable Newberys, the winner was the lovable, racist Smoky the Cowhorse.
In 1928, the Newbery Committee in all its wisdom chose as the best children's book of the year Gay-Neck: The Story Of a Pigeon, by Indian-born author Dhan Gopal Mukerji. This would prove to future generations of children to be a problematic choice for two reasons. One, it is called Gay-Neck, and that's just not something you can live down anymore. Two, it is the story of a pigeon.
The plot begins in the early 1900s, with a young Indian boy who raises carrier pigeons. The titular Gay-Neck, named for his colorful neck plumage, is the finest, able to outfly eagles and hawks. When WWI breaks out, Gay-Neck is used as a messenger pigeon under the boy’s friend, Ghond the hunter. The bird finds he must dodge the screaming mechanical eagles (planes) and barking dogs (machine guns) that try to destroy him.
During the course of the war, both the pigeon and Ghond are wounded, and both develop a form of traumatic disorder. So they travel to the lamaseries in the Himalayas to meditate and overcome their fear. The story is told mostly from the boy’s point of view, but occasionally Gay-Neck narrates when the bird is alone, and Ghond is also given his view, during the most harrowing battle. It is a story of a pigeon, in a strict sense, but the plot is really only the steed that the message rides, so to speak.
Mukerji's main concern is promoting Buddhist concerns of peace, courage, and wisdom. Prayers and meditations on overcoming fear are not only included, they're the main lesson of the story – "No beast of prey can kill his victim without frightening him first," and "each being that lives is a reservoir of infinite courage." I like that second one, by the way. Trying saying it to yourself. Go on. I'll wait.
Rarely does a children’s book manage to tread such deep waters without looking ridiculous, but Mukerji manages to imbue his little tale with an enormous amount of inspiration and wisdom.
Recommended for children: Well... oh dear. It's a good book, and kids love animal stories. But, see, it's called "Gay-Neck."
Recommeded for adults: Yes.
In 1928, the Newbery Committee in all its wisdom chose as the best children's book of the year Gay-Neck: The Story Of a Pigeon, by Indian-born author Dhan Gopal Mukerji. This would prove to future generations of children to be a problematic choice for two reasons. One, it is called Gay-Neck, and that's just not something you can live down anymore. Two, it is the story of a pigeon.
The plot begins in the early 1900s, with a young Indian boy who raises carrier pigeons. The titular Gay-Neck, named for his colorful neck plumage, is the finest, able to outfly eagles and hawks. When WWI breaks out, Gay-Neck is used as a messenger pigeon under the boy’s friend, Ghond the hunter. The bird finds he must dodge the screaming mechanical eagles (planes) and barking dogs (machine guns) that try to destroy him.
During the course of the war, both the pigeon and Ghond are wounded, and both develop a form of traumatic disorder. So they travel to the lamaseries in the Himalayas to meditate and overcome their fear. The story is told mostly from the boy’s point of view, but occasionally Gay-Neck narrates when the bird is alone, and Ghond is also given his view, during the most harrowing battle. It is a story of a pigeon, in a strict sense, but the plot is really only the steed that the message rides, so to speak.
Mukerji's main concern is promoting Buddhist concerns of peace, courage, and wisdom. Prayers and meditations on overcoming fear are not only included, they're the main lesson of the story – "No beast of prey can kill his victim without frightening him first," and "each being that lives is a reservoir of infinite courage." I like that second one, by the way. Trying saying it to yourself. Go on. I'll wait.
Rarely does a children’s book manage to tread such deep waters without looking ridiculous, but Mukerji manages to imbue his little tale with an enormous amount of inspiration and wisdom.
Recommended for children: Well... oh dear. It's a good book, and kids love animal stories. But, see, it's called "Gay-Neck."
Recommeded for adults: Yes.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Looking back through time you know it's clear that I've been blind
Ha ha! Won't it be funny, after yesterday's long melodramatic emo post, I suddenly stop blogging again?
Well, one more day, perhaps.
So this morning I went to the chiropractor. Second visit of the week, and of my life. I woke up a couple weeks back with some neck pain that never went away, so now this. I know some people think of chiropractors as nothing short of miracle workers and some think they're dangerous quacks. I've always been a bit leery, myself, but these guys seem very capable and calm and assured. I won't say I'm utterly healed, but over the last few days the pain has lessened and mobility has increased. Hell, the deep muscle massage and heated vibrating chairs by themselves are practically worth the price of admission, anyway. I'm not so much a fan of having my bones crack audibly while some guy pushes my body parts in different directions, but I understand that my neck is in a funny shape, and this seems to help.
And remember how inaction breeds despair and all that? Say yes more; nay, even create opportunities to say yes to? Well, it's been less than twenty-four hours since I wrote that and I already turned down an invitation to dinner... but it was just Friar and his kids and Muffin and her kids, and I just ate with them on New Year's Eve, and anyhow the Green Margarita is a truly disgusting restaurant. Greasy orange cheese and all that, the worst excesses of Tex-Mex and none of the health benefits.
I've been eating no land-based meat, except on Saturdays, for about three months now. I don't really feel any different, but I'm confident that my blood pressure and arteries are thanking me.
***
In Buddhist metta practice, traditionally one trains oneself to cultivate loving goodwill to everyone by starting first with oneself, moving on to a friend or loved one, then a person whom one feels neutral toward, then someone one has bad feelings for, and so on in widening concentric circles until one feels love for the universe. So, basically, inward to outward. I assume that this is meant to be from easiest to hardest --- after all, it's easier to feel love for your good friend than for your rarely-seen next door neighbor, and easier to love that neighbor than the creep who spreads rumors about you at the office.
But what about those of us who stumble at the starting block? Love me first? The whole damn point of trying to make myself serene is that I'm not happy with myself in the first place. I think I'd better start with thinking good thoughts about Friar and his family, and save myself for about third in line.
Well, one more day, perhaps.
So this morning I went to the chiropractor. Second visit of the week, and of my life. I woke up a couple weeks back with some neck pain that never went away, so now this. I know some people think of chiropractors as nothing short of miracle workers and some think they're dangerous quacks. I've always been a bit leery, myself, but these guys seem very capable and calm and assured. I won't say I'm utterly healed, but over the last few days the pain has lessened and mobility has increased. Hell, the deep muscle massage and heated vibrating chairs by themselves are practically worth the price of admission, anyway. I'm not so much a fan of having my bones crack audibly while some guy pushes my body parts in different directions, but I understand that my neck is in a funny shape, and this seems to help.
And remember how inaction breeds despair and all that? Say yes more; nay, even create opportunities to say yes to? Well, it's been less than twenty-four hours since I wrote that and I already turned down an invitation to dinner... but it was just Friar and his kids and Muffin and her kids, and I just ate with them on New Year's Eve, and anyhow the Green Margarita is a truly disgusting restaurant. Greasy orange cheese and all that, the worst excesses of Tex-Mex and none of the health benefits.
I've been eating no land-based meat, except on Saturdays, for about three months now. I don't really feel any different, but I'm confident that my blood pressure and arteries are thanking me.
***
In Buddhist metta practice, traditionally one trains oneself to cultivate loving goodwill to everyone by starting first with oneself, moving on to a friend or loved one, then a person whom one feels neutral toward, then someone one has bad feelings for, and so on in widening concentric circles until one feels love for the universe. So, basically, inward to outward. I assume that this is meant to be from easiest to hardest --- after all, it's easier to feel love for your good friend than for your rarely-seen next door neighbor, and easier to love that neighbor than the creep who spreads rumors about you at the office.
But what about those of us who stumble at the starting block? Love me first? The whole damn point of trying to make myself serene is that I'm not happy with myself in the first place. I think I'd better start with thinking good thoughts about Friar and his family, and save myself for about third in line.
Friday, January 01, 2010
Better can't make your life better
Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.
Okay. So. Yeah.
This is going to be one of those lengthy, meandering, almost-but-not-quite getting to a point posts, so watch out, Future Self. Prepare to smirk.
Yeah, I went back to blogging after taking the summer off, then instantly dropped it again. And although that hasn't exactly left a gaping void in my life that begs to be filled, it's something that ought to be remedied.
Why? Well, certainly in large part the only answer to that seems to be Yes, why? But there's something to it.
When you're depressive like I am, certain things Matter. Actually, no. It's not so much that they --- those things --- matter as that they indicate or represent something that matters. People often make these obsessive little pledges to themselves, especially on New Year's Day, which by no coincidence whatever this is. And whether it's, for example, trying do 20 minutes of elliptical three times a week or logging the mileage and gas costs of your new car or opening bills the day you get them or not drinking soda or blogging about your life every day, it's usually some kind of a connection to the world. Even in the case of avoidance, like quitting smoking or eating meat or what have you, the idea is to replace that bad habit with a better one --- viz., one that builds a better relationship between you and your environment.
You know, I used to be more eloquent. Or maybe things just sound better in my head.
Well but and so what I'm trying to get at is that these obsessive little pledges are, if not meaningful in themselves, indicative of meaning. When a depressive like me drops these habits made with the best of intentions to keep up good connections --- well, sometimes it's because those things were time-consuming and silly and served their brief purpose (like, who needs to log their new car's mileage on a regular basis?). But sometimes the letting go of these ostensibly insignificant things is a symptom. A symptom of an unhealthy disassociation.
To normal gregarious social butterflies, the following may seem an absurd statement, but for some people there really is a slope from quitting blogging (goodbye, introspection) to dropping healthy eating habits (I'm not talking about my eating on the Internet anymore, so who cares?) to cutting out all social activity and retreating almost entirely into the life of a recluse (why should I go out? My mind and body are mush). This is not imaginary. This is not a self-fulfilling prophecy. This is self-destruction through indifference and it is real.
All of which is a very loquacious way of saying that I'd better blog daily again, dammit. It's constructive. Doing is better than not doing. Gnōthi seauton and all that.
***
Right, so that was awkward! Quick, change the subject! What are your New Year's resolutions, Chance?
Actually, Chance, I never make any New Year's resolutions. Whenever I've been inspired to better myself, I've always been the type that tends more toward "Do it now!" instead of "Wait until some arbitrary moment infused with artificial importance!" However, I hope that I'll live a good story this year. And I would like to think about some of the things I need in my life. Maybe three of them.
One thing I need back in my life -- and this will sound the absurdest of all, but I'll plow on --- is Zen. I need my Zen back. Like most liberal arts college students, I studied Zen a bit and because enamored with some of its teachings. I think my Zen got leaked out of me after my ex-wife cheated on me while studying to be a Buddhist priest. Yes, really. Anyway, I think somewhere I lost a certain serenity, and I need it back. Not only was it better for my mental health, I think it made me a more appealing soul. No one likes an uptight snark addict. Nam myoho renge kyo, people. Let's get metta-physical.
But I must also face facts and admit that while I've lived an aleatory sort of existence, the fatalistic life has not necessarily been good to me. Inaction breeds despair. Why have I had so many shitty relationships? Because they chose me, and I shrugged and accepted it. I didn't actively choose them --- or, perhaps more accurately, I lacked the will to deny them. I am far too old and sedentary and unpopular to let things happen anymore. I need not just to say yes more, but to go and find those opportunities to say yes to. That can mean something as little as answering the phone more often.
Finally, you know what I need more of in my life? Relationships that aren't doomed.
Okay. So. Yeah.
This is going to be one of those lengthy, meandering, almost-but-not-quite getting to a point posts, so watch out, Future Self. Prepare to smirk.
Yeah, I went back to blogging after taking the summer off, then instantly dropped it again. And although that hasn't exactly left a gaping void in my life that begs to be filled, it's something that ought to be remedied.
Why? Well, certainly in large part the only answer to that seems to be Yes, why? But there's something to it.
When you're depressive like I am, certain things Matter. Actually, no. It's not so much that they --- those things --- matter as that they indicate or represent something that matters. People often make these obsessive little pledges to themselves, especially on New Year's Day, which by no coincidence whatever this is. And whether it's, for example, trying do 20 minutes of elliptical three times a week or logging the mileage and gas costs of your new car or opening bills the day you get them or not drinking soda or blogging about your life every day, it's usually some kind of a connection to the world. Even in the case of avoidance, like quitting smoking or eating meat or what have you, the idea is to replace that bad habit with a better one --- viz., one that builds a better relationship between you and your environment.
You know, I used to be more eloquent. Or maybe things just sound better in my head.
Well but and so what I'm trying to get at is that these obsessive little pledges are, if not meaningful in themselves, indicative of meaning. When a depressive like me drops these habits made with the best of intentions to keep up good connections --- well, sometimes it's because those things were time-consuming and silly and served their brief purpose (like, who needs to log their new car's mileage on a regular basis?). But sometimes the letting go of these ostensibly insignificant things is a symptom. A symptom of an unhealthy disassociation.
To normal gregarious social butterflies, the following may seem an absurd statement, but for some people there really is a slope from quitting blogging (goodbye, introspection) to dropping healthy eating habits (I'm not talking about my eating on the Internet anymore, so who cares?) to cutting out all social activity and retreating almost entirely into the life of a recluse (why should I go out? My mind and body are mush). This is not imaginary. This is not a self-fulfilling prophecy. This is self-destruction through indifference and it is real.
All of which is a very loquacious way of saying that I'd better blog daily again, dammit. It's constructive. Doing is better than not doing. Gnōthi seauton and all that.
***
Right, so that was awkward! Quick, change the subject! What are your New Year's resolutions, Chance?
Actually, Chance, I never make any New Year's resolutions. Whenever I've been inspired to better myself, I've always been the type that tends more toward "Do it now!" instead of "Wait until some arbitrary moment infused with artificial importance!" However, I hope that I'll live a good story this year. And I would like to think about some of the things I need in my life. Maybe three of them.
One thing I need back in my life -- and this will sound the absurdest of all, but I'll plow on --- is Zen. I need my Zen back. Like most liberal arts college students, I studied Zen a bit and because enamored with some of its teachings. I think my Zen got leaked out of me after my ex-wife cheated on me while studying to be a Buddhist priest. Yes, really. Anyway, I think somewhere I lost a certain serenity, and I need it back. Not only was it better for my mental health, I think it made me a more appealing soul. No one likes an uptight snark addict. Nam myoho renge kyo, people. Let's get metta-physical.
But I must also face facts and admit that while I've lived an aleatory sort of existence, the fatalistic life has not necessarily been good to me. Inaction breeds despair. Why have I had so many shitty relationships? Because they chose me, and I shrugged and accepted it. I didn't actively choose them --- or, perhaps more accurately, I lacked the will to deny them. I am far too old and sedentary and unpopular to let things happen anymore. I need not just to say yes more, but to go and find those opportunities to say yes to. That can mean something as little as answering the phone more often.
Finally, you know what I need more of in my life? Relationships that aren't doomed.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The funny circus from his head
First day of school with the kids! Um... yay?
They seem like a good group. The day went pretty much exactly like last year's.
The cast:
***
After school, Ms. N, Ms. Counselor, and I put on a little skit we'd prepared at the behest of the Administration about the importance of faculty and staff donating to the school fund. We opened with me giving a few amusingly inappropriate ideas on how to stir up involvement (mostly I favored punching), then we narrated a PowerPoint with some very humorous photos, taken by the development office, that illustrated our ideas. Ms. N and I had been picked for this project because of last year's presentation on our conference, which we mistakenly made creative and engaging, so now we're the go-to people for in-house talks.
And then we all got ice cream floats! It was a cibarious celebration.
They seem like a good group. The day went pretty much exactly like last year's.
The cast:
- A1, boy, 5. Clever, good reader, knows a few French words, has a sly mischievous look about him. Is half-Asian.
- A2, boy, 6. Son of the ultra-involved Sikh parents. Bookish and smart. Seems affable and sweet, not at all the competitive, self-absorbed kid his parents described at the conference.
- A3, girl, 5. Seems sharp. Loves art.
- A4, boy, 6. The second-loudest kid in the room, but not aggressive, just playful. Mother is from South America. She says he can add fractions and subtract two-digit numbers already. So far I'm impressed with his volume.
- B, girl, 5. Daughter of first-generation immigrants. Her mother spoke English fairly well at our meeting, but not quite fluently enough for total communication. B herself spoke perhaps three words in total today, all of them monosyllabic answers drawn very reluctantly from her by me insisting on a reply.
- C, boy, 5. A smart fellow, perhaps has Asperger's. Talks as if someone's constantly adjusting his pitch and playback speed.
- G, girl, 5. Youngest in the class, turned five just a few days ago. Very sweet. Excellent artist.
- H, boy, 5. Second-youngest in the class. Absolutely goes nuts for superheroes (so we have something to talk about). Very poor motor skills, almost no letter-sound correspondence, not strong enough to close the hole punch. I may have to earn my pay with this little guy.
- K1, girl, 5. One of two black girls in the room. Almost zero literacy skills. Has a reputation for being sassy and defiant, but this hasn't emerged yet. It may never, Ganesh willing.
- K2, girl, 5. Big cheeks. Loves animals. Good reader.
- M1, girl, 5. Super cute! Loves art.
- M2, girl, 5. Don't know her ethnic heritage but she's a sort of mocha color. Also has a reputation for being sassy. Poor writing.
- R, boy, 5. Just the sweetest, most helpful little ball of energy you ever saw. His mother has possibly terminal cancer. Is terrific at invented spelling.
- T, girl, 5. The second black girl in the class. A terrific reader. Fell asleep in her chair at the end of the day.
- W1, boy, 5. Nice kid, kinda loud, loves Legos. All I really know about him so far is his mother is really, really hot. Don't judge me!
- W2, boy, 6. Kept to himself, loves to cut and glue paper creations. Very well spoken and seems to read fairly fluently.
- Z, boy, 5. The loudest kid in the class. Ebullient and chipper and loud, but showed streaks of whiny defeatism already. Very poor writing skills.
***
After school, Ms. N, Ms. Counselor, and I put on a little skit we'd prepared at the behest of the Administration about the importance of faculty and staff donating to the school fund. We opened with me giving a few amusingly inappropriate ideas on how to stir up involvement (mostly I favored punching), then we narrated a PowerPoint with some very humorous photos, taken by the development office, that illustrated our ideas. Ms. N and I had been picked for this project because of last year's presentation on our conference, which we mistakenly made creative and engaging, so now we're the go-to people for in-house talks.
And then we all got ice cream floats! It was a cibarious celebration.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Now he's ready to walk a path that is new and he can't turn back
Second day of parent conferences. Overall I'm very sanguine about the State of Parental Affairs this year. They seem like a bright, easy-going bunch who aren't (too) fazed by my rather off-kilter manner, speech, humor, and appearance. (Yes, I kind of cultivate the image.)
The last parent to arrive (rescheduled, having forgotten about her original meeting yesterday until I called her about it) came in looking for all the world like an African tribeswoman in a dashiki, complete with tiny wide-eyed baby (recently acquired from CPS, she told us without volunteering any further information) on her voluminous hip. I asked her, as I had all the parents, where her daughter was in reading, and she replied, "I don't know." She honestly had no idea how well, or indeed if, her child could read. Later she asked me what she could do at home to help her daughter's math skills. I asked her to tell me about what level her daughter was. "I don't know," she said again. Oh dear. I said I wouldn't be able to advise her on anything until I figured out what skills her child had.
Although I didn't get the younger brother of the girl from Mr. C's class whose father is French, I did get two other kids who have fathers who can speak French and want their kids to learn. That's good, as I've always liked teaching simple French phrases to kids.
Also, I got some supplemental insurance. We already have health and dental paid, but I got a cancer policy (lots of tumors in my family) and some kind of heart attack policy which I'm not at all sure I actually need, since despite my congenital heart condition I'm at no more of a risk for heart attack than anyone else my age and level of activity. What I'm at risk for is heart failure, which is a totally different fish. Oh well. I'll probably die of a stroke now anyway.
Incredibly tired. Not used to this frenetic pace.
The last parent to arrive (rescheduled, having forgotten about her original meeting yesterday until I called her about it) came in looking for all the world like an African tribeswoman in a dashiki, complete with tiny wide-eyed baby (recently acquired from CPS, she told us without volunteering any further information) on her voluminous hip. I asked her, as I had all the parents, where her daughter was in reading, and she replied, "I don't know." She honestly had no idea how well, or indeed if, her child could read. Later she asked me what she could do at home to help her daughter's math skills. I asked her to tell me about what level her daughter was. "I don't know," she said again. Oh dear. I said I wouldn't be able to advise her on anything until I figured out what skills her child had.
Although I didn't get the younger brother of the girl from Mr. C's class whose father is French, I did get two other kids who have fathers who can speak French and want their kids to learn. That's good, as I've always liked teaching simple French phrases to kids.
Also, I got some supplemental insurance. We already have health and dental paid, but I got a cancer policy (lots of tumors in my family) and some kind of heart attack policy which I'm not at all sure I actually need, since despite my congenital heart condition I'm at no more of a risk for heart attack than anyone else my age and level of activity. What I'm at risk for is heart failure, which is a totally different fish. Oh well. I'll probably die of a stroke now anyway.
Incredibly tired. Not used to this frenetic pace.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Walk on eggshells on my old stomping ground
First day of parent conferences.
I met half my 18 kids' parents. One boy's parents are a couple of self-described nerds (the father designs video games for a living, their dog is named after a mathematician, and their son's middle name is that of a famous scientist). Another boy's mother has possibly fatal cancer (she looked good, but obviously thin and weak, and discussed her illness with humor and openness); there's also a supportive stepfather and an absent father in his life. Most of the parents were effusive and charming and appeared happy to have me as their child's teacher.
I think there may be problems with two sets of parents: one is the Sikh family I met Friday, who are stereotypically pushy helicopter parents and whose perfectionist neuroses are being projected into their poor kid. The second is another new boy's South American-born mother, whose relentless officiousness during our brief interview made the Indian couple seem like laid-back, trusting hippie cats.
I met half my 18 kids' parents. One boy's parents are a couple of self-described nerds (the father designs video games for a living, their dog is named after a mathematician, and their son's middle name is that of a famous scientist). Another boy's mother has possibly fatal cancer (she looked good, but obviously thin and weak, and discussed her illness with humor and openness); there's also a supportive stepfather and an absent father in his life. Most of the parents were effusive and charming and appeared happy to have me as their child's teacher.
I think there may be problems with two sets of parents: one is the Sikh family I met Friday, who are stereotypically pushy helicopter parents and whose perfectionist neuroses are being projected into their poor kid. The second is another new boy's South American-born mother, whose relentless officiousness during our brief interview made the Indian couple seem like laid-back, trusting hippie cats.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Sunday Warbooks: Why the Allies Won
A review of Why the Allies Won, by Richard Overy.
Just as the title indicates, this is a thorough examination of how WWII --- the outcome of which was decidedly uncertain before late 1943 or so --- ended the way it did. Overy is a masterful and convincing historian, who over the course of 330 pages lays out a cogent argument based on everything from economy and materiel production to the warped philosophy of the Axis powers.
It's impossible to distill the mass of fascinating information into a few paragraphs, but there are a few main points that especially ring true. The first is, of course, the industrial production of the USA and USSR, unmatched by any of the Axis powers. Overy argues that America’s capitalist society and the Soviet centralized dictatorship were each in their own way ideally suited to maximize their vast resources. In contrast, Hitler's less focused, more cutthroat dictatorship failed to make the most of Germany's limited resources. A telling example is when Hitler’s armies took Soviet oil fields, but then had no engineers to make the oil available to Germany, so it made no discernible change in their production.
Overy further argues that the Allied powers made simple, reliable, mass-produced weapons, and kept a healthy ratio of mechanics on hand. The opposite was true of the Germany industrial complex, which was fixated on ever-newer technologies, so obsolescence and difficulty of repair became issues as the war progressed. Overy concludes that even Germany's much-vaunted missile program, which was inarguably years ahead of anything the Allies had, was "a lost cause" for these reasons: impressive, yes, but not a war-winner.
The second main theme is the rapid learning curve of the allied powers, who learned from their many early defeats and focused intently on producing only what was needed to win. The Germans and Japanese, by contrast, has a very slow learning curve, and coasted on early victories, believing that their militaristic will-to-power philosophy made victory a foregone conclusion. This learning curve extended to every facet of the war --- improvements in bombing, defense, codes, and so on ensured the Allies’ early losses were not often repeated.
The final main theme that runs through the whole book, though it's not made as explicit as the others, is the mindset of the various leaders. Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin had many philosophical and strategical differences, but were able to work in lock step for the single goal of destroying Nazism utterly. Hitler had no such restraint, unable to maintain even the farce of an alliance with Stalin until the war in the west had been concluded. Stalin, for all his faults, promoted reliable men, wanted to hear the unvarnished truth about how the war was progressing, and allowed himself to be overruled when it came to important strategic decisions. Hitler, famously, removed officers who told him bad news, even if it was true, and obsessively insisted on micro-managing the war (sounds like Bush and Rumsfeld!), with a deleterious result for Germany's chances for victory.
Perhaps the most interesting example of how much Hitler's self-supposed strategic genius hurt Germany was Hitler's insistence on treating the Normandy landings lightly, thinking they were only a ruse, until it was far too late and Patton had already swept over half of France. Historical events like this always give rise to their hypothetical counterparts: what if Hitler had allowed Rommel and others to fight the war they wanted to? The modern Anglo-American mind reels at the horror.
In all, this is an inexhaustibly fascinating book, one sure to promote argument among WWII buffs for its calm, reasoned analysis and sometimes unexpected conclusions.
***
Sunday warbooks scoreboard:
Greco-Persian wars: 2
WWI: 2
WWII: 6 <----winning big, like the Allies in late 1945
Vietnam: 2
Iraq wars: 2
Afghanistan war: 1
General warfare: 2
Just as the title indicates, this is a thorough examination of how WWII --- the outcome of which was decidedly uncertain before late 1943 or so --- ended the way it did. Overy is a masterful and convincing historian, who over the course of 330 pages lays out a cogent argument based on everything from economy and materiel production to the warped philosophy of the Axis powers.
It's impossible to distill the mass of fascinating information into a few paragraphs, but there are a few main points that especially ring true. The first is, of course, the industrial production of the USA and USSR, unmatched by any of the Axis powers. Overy argues that America’s capitalist society and the Soviet centralized dictatorship were each in their own way ideally suited to maximize their vast resources. In contrast, Hitler's less focused, more cutthroat dictatorship failed to make the most of Germany's limited resources. A telling example is when Hitler’s armies took Soviet oil fields, but then had no engineers to make the oil available to Germany, so it made no discernible change in their production.
Overy further argues that the Allied powers made simple, reliable, mass-produced weapons, and kept a healthy ratio of mechanics on hand. The opposite was true of the Germany industrial complex, which was fixated on ever-newer technologies, so obsolescence and difficulty of repair became issues as the war progressed. Overy concludes that even Germany's much-vaunted missile program, which was inarguably years ahead of anything the Allies had, was "a lost cause" for these reasons: impressive, yes, but not a war-winner.
The second main theme is the rapid learning curve of the allied powers, who learned from their many early defeats and focused intently on producing only what was needed to win. The Germans and Japanese, by contrast, has a very slow learning curve, and coasted on early victories, believing that their militaristic will-to-power philosophy made victory a foregone conclusion. This learning curve extended to every facet of the war --- improvements in bombing, defense, codes, and so on ensured the Allies’ early losses were not often repeated.
The final main theme that runs through the whole book, though it's not made as explicit as the others, is the mindset of the various leaders. Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin had many philosophical and strategical differences, but were able to work in lock step for the single goal of destroying Nazism utterly. Hitler had no such restraint, unable to maintain even the farce of an alliance with Stalin until the war in the west had been concluded. Stalin, for all his faults, promoted reliable men, wanted to hear the unvarnished truth about how the war was progressing, and allowed himself to be overruled when it came to important strategic decisions. Hitler, famously, removed officers who told him bad news, even if it was true, and obsessively insisted on micro-managing the war (sounds like Bush and Rumsfeld!), with a deleterious result for Germany's chances for victory.
Perhaps the most interesting example of how much Hitler's self-supposed strategic genius hurt Germany was Hitler's insistence on treating the Normandy landings lightly, thinking they were only a ruse, until it was far too late and Patton had already swept over half of France. Historical events like this always give rise to their hypothetical counterparts: what if Hitler had allowed Rommel and others to fight the war they wanted to? The modern Anglo-American mind reels at the horror.
In all, this is an inexhaustibly fascinating book, one sure to promote argument among WWII buffs for its calm, reasoned analysis and sometimes unexpected conclusions.
***
Sunday warbooks scoreboard:
Greco-Persian wars: 2
WWI: 2
WWII: 6 <----winning big, like the Allies in late 1945
Vietnam: 2
Iraq wars: 2
Afghanistan war: 1
General warfare: 2
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Got holes in my socks, they match the ones that I got in my feet
The other day friend of the Sutler Churlita wrote a great timely post about her memories of her first day of kindergarten. I have no memory of my own first day, even though I'm (barely) younger than Churlita is. Indeed, I have only vague memories of the entire era, and some of them may be inadvertently conflated with those of earlier or younger years, as well. I just don't know.
Around that time my teacher was called Miss Cockerell, and some kids out of a sense of not malevolent silliness called her "Miss Cockroach" behind her back. We were blissfully unaware of the ruder words her name might have conjured up in, say middle school students. I don't remember any other teacher's names until fifth grade or so. I had a small group of friends both boys and girls, as I have all my life, and didn't interact much with outside that group. I remember exactly two students' names from those times (and exactly two more from all other years until high school). For a reason that now utterly escapes me, we referred to mail delivery trucks as "cracker boxes," and called out dibs on XYZ amount of crackers ("I got a thousand crackers!") if we saw one first.
Kids are nuts, man.
***
Anyway, tonight I went out to Hangout II with the old gang: Friar, Muffin, T-Bone, Courtney, and Auric. Oh, and Mr. Hangout came out with us too. We heard a very good local country band, the members of whom I'm passing acquaintances with. Muffin is now stomach-extendingly pregnant, despite being a very tiny woman everywhere else. She looks like an elf with a beach ball in her dress.
A passing girl said to another one as we sat and drank, "That's Auric! He's the lead singer of Auric's Band!" I turned to her and said, "No, it's not. He gets that all the time. Don't you, Fred?" But I'm not sure she was convinced by my clever artifice.
Around that time my teacher was called Miss Cockerell, and some kids out of a sense of not malevolent silliness called her "Miss Cockroach" behind her back. We were blissfully unaware of the ruder words her name might have conjured up in, say middle school students. I don't remember any other teacher's names until fifth grade or so. I had a small group of friends both boys and girls, as I have all my life, and didn't interact much with outside that group. I remember exactly two students' names from those times (and exactly two more from all other years until high school). For a reason that now utterly escapes me, we referred to mail delivery trucks as "cracker boxes," and called out dibs on XYZ amount of crackers ("I got a thousand crackers!") if we saw one first.
Kids are nuts, man.
***
Anyway, tonight I went out to Hangout II with the old gang: Friar, Muffin, T-Bone, Courtney, and Auric. Oh, and Mr. Hangout came out with us too. We heard a very good local country band, the members of whom I'm passing acquaintances with. Muffin is now stomach-extendingly pregnant, despite being a very tiny woman everywhere else. She looks like an elf with a beach ball in her dress.
A passing girl said to another one as we sat and drank, "That's Auric! He's the lead singer of Auric's Band!" I turned to her and said, "No, it's not. He gets that all the time. Don't you, Fred?" But I'm not sure she was convinced by my clever artifice.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Kid, stay and snip your cord off
Today we were supposed to have playground visits, so the parents can bring the new kids and watch them interact outside, but it stormed during the night so the visits were canceled. Of course, by ten a.m. the ground was bone dry and it was as if moisture had never existed within the borders of Texas. But as I've mentioned before, the people in these here parts can get a mite panicky over inclement weather.
Anyhoo, instead I met eight or ten of my kids' parents, with no children present. They seem like a decent, nice group. I gave a brief overview of what we expect in kindergarten and our basic schedule, using a PowerPoint presentation Ms. K made for the team. My assistant sat at my laptop and clicked the mouse to change the pages whenever I pointed at the screen as if I had an old-fashioned projector remote and said "Ka-chunk!"
My wild, unpredictable way of speaking, my congenital irreverence for everything under the sun, and the simple fact that I'm a man in a traditionally female job probably made a few of the parents somewhat wary. That's to be expected. One father in particular, a Sikh --- but sans turban --- seemed a bit stiff, but it's all fine with me. I like to cultivate that initial shock by playing up the weirdness, then surprise them with smooth competence. They'll come around.
At the end of the day we had a brief tutorial on our new payroll procedures. Soon it'll all be online and we won't fill out sheets to request leave, nor will we get paper check stubs. That's the future, baby. (Checks info online) Hey! I have eighty hours of sick leave! I'ma stay home all week watchin' daytime teevee and eatin' Bugles!
Anyhoo, instead I met eight or ten of my kids' parents, with no children present. They seem like a decent, nice group. I gave a brief overview of what we expect in kindergarten and our basic schedule, using a PowerPoint presentation Ms. K made for the team. My assistant sat at my laptop and clicked the mouse to change the pages whenever I pointed at the screen as if I had an old-fashioned projector remote and said "Ka-chunk!"
My wild, unpredictable way of speaking, my congenital irreverence for everything under the sun, and the simple fact that I'm a man in a traditionally female job probably made a few of the parents somewhat wary. That's to be expected. One father in particular, a Sikh --- but sans turban --- seemed a bit stiff, but it's all fine with me. I like to cultivate that initial shock by playing up the weirdness, then surprise them with smooth competence. They'll come around.
At the end of the day we had a brief tutorial on our new payroll procedures. Soon it'll all be online and we won't fill out sheets to request leave, nor will we get paper check stubs. That's the future, baby. (Checks info online) Hey! I have eighty hours of sick leave! I'ma stay home all week watchin' daytime teevee and eatin' Bugles!
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The world don't care and yet it clings to me
Here's a meme I got sent.
My Life According to __________
Pick a favorite musical artist and answer all the questions as accurately and sincerely as possible using only song titles.
Artist picked: Tom Waits
Are you a male or female: Little Man
Describe yourself: Nobody
How do you feel: Young at Heart
Describe where you currently live: House Where Nobody Lives
If you could go anywhere, where would you go? San Diego Serenade
Your favorite form of transportation: Train Song
You and your best friend are...? (Lookin' For) The Heart Of Saturday Night
What's the weather like: In Shades
Favorite time of day: The Ghosts of Saturday Night
If your life was a TV show, what would it be called? Just Another Sucker On the Vine
What is life to you: Misery Is the River Of the World
Your relationship: Bad Liver And a Broken Heart
Your fear: How's It Gonna End
What is the best advice you have to give: Never Let Go
Thought for the day: I Never Talk To Strangers
How you would like to die: The Earth Died Screaming
Everything sucks because: Everything Goes To Hell
Everything's okay because: World Keeps Turning
Your soul's present condition: The Part You Throw Away
Your motto: I'm Still Here
My Life According to __________
Pick a favorite musical artist and answer all the questions as accurately and sincerely as possible using only song titles.
Artist picked: Tom Waits
Are you a male or female: Little Man
Describe yourself: Nobody
How do you feel: Young at Heart
Describe where you currently live: House Where Nobody Lives
If you could go anywhere, where would you go? San Diego Serenade
Your favorite form of transportation: Train Song
You and your best friend are...? (Lookin' For) The Heart Of Saturday Night
What's the weather like: In Shades
Favorite time of day: The Ghosts of Saturday Night
If your life was a TV show, what would it be called? Just Another Sucker On the Vine
What is life to you: Misery Is the River Of the World
Your relationship: Bad Liver And a Broken Heart
Your fear: How's It Gonna End
What is the best advice you have to give: Never Let Go
Thought for the day: I Never Talk To Strangers
How you would like to die: The Earth Died Screaming
Everything sucks because: Everything Goes To Hell
Everything's okay because: World Keeps Turning
Your soul's present condition: The Part You Throw Away
Your motto: I'm Still Here
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
I'm going to unpack all my things before it gets too late
Work on my room goes apace. Things are finally starting to look a little more organized and neat. Actually, my room has a rather ascetic atmosphere compared to my three female K counterparts. For example, I eschew those cascade bookshelves that so many other EC rooms have, preferring typical horizontal shelves. The resulting minimalism is not necessarily a good thing, and I do feel like I'm not being quite as colorful and tactile and welcoming and cutesy as they are, but I guess I gotta be me. My classroom looks more like a third-grade room than a kindergarten one. But hell, we still have fun.
Today at lunch Admin Assistant Fen was commiserating with Counselor about their dating mishaps (both are astoundingly attractive young single women), saying "Yeah, the guy should know how to act, but you don't want to have to tell him. You want him to just know it."
I said, "I wish you could really hear yourself right now." I mean, I do understand her meaning, but it's a fantasy. No date's going to go well if you're looking for a mind reader.
She did use a funny term, though. Referring to a lot of men's tendency to text instead of manning up and calling a women they're maybe sort of interested in, she said, "They use their texticles because they don't have the balls to call." It wasn't until I actually wrote this post that I realized it was an extant term; I thought she coined it on the spot.
Today at lunch Admin Assistant Fen was commiserating with Counselor about their dating mishaps (both are astoundingly attractive young single women), saying "Yeah, the guy should know how to act, but you don't want to have to tell him. You want him to just know it."
I said, "I wish you could really hear yourself right now." I mean, I do understand her meaning, but it's a fantasy. No date's going to go well if you're looking for a mind reader.
She did use a funny term, though. Referring to a lot of men's tendency to text instead of manning up and calling a women they're maybe sort of interested in, she said, "They use their texticles because they don't have the balls to call." It wasn't until I actually wrote this post that I realized it was an extant term; I thought she coined it on the spot.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Drowning in the sound of my own rhapsody
Man, there is a lot to do when preparing for a new class. I would have thought it would be easier the second time around in the same room, but no. Among the things that ought to be made before Day One:
Kids' names labels for the chairs
Handwriting folders
Blank math folders for story problems
Name tags for attendance board
Name tags for the job chart
Nine blank weather charts
Writing journals
Take-home work folders
Computer use schedule
Open space use schedule
...And so forth. As I tell anyone within hearing range at work, if I didn't have my lovely and talented Assistant, I'd be lost. She's a funny, friendly, easy-going woman who used to be on the substitute team with me. Now she has this part-time job because of her young son. Over the course of the last year and a half, she got pregnant, got divorced, and is now happily remarried.
We make a great team, except that for whatever reason, the two of us together seem to be dumber than each one of us separately. It's like we both expect the other one to do the thinking. It's awesome.
Kids' names labels for the chairs
Handwriting folders
Blank math folders for story problems
Name tags for attendance board
Name tags for the job chart
Nine blank weather charts
Writing journals
Take-home work folders
Computer use schedule
Open space use schedule
...And so forth. As I tell anyone within hearing range at work, if I didn't have my lovely and talented Assistant, I'd be lost. She's a funny, friendly, easy-going woman who used to be on the substitute team with me. Now she has this part-time job because of her young son. Over the course of the last year and a half, she got pregnant, got divorced, and is now happily remarried.
We make a great team, except that for whatever reason, the two of us together seem to be dumber than each one of us separately. It's like we both expect the other one to do the thinking. It's awesome.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Stitch on stitch and earn to urn, a presence on the lift
Well, work started. We got a free breakfast and a free lunch (I skipped the first and the second was nasty, but it's the thought that counts). Spent most of the day on a project very long overdue --- reorganizing, going through, sorting, or trashing every item on Mr. C's over-crowded shelves. The room looks like a damn midden, but at least I'll know where things are when this is all over. Hopefully.
We had Blood Borne Pathogens training courtesy of The Nurse again, and watched the same outrageously awful video as last year, starring The World's Worst Actress and three young people who represent HIV, Hep B, and Hep C. The one who represents HIV was a black jock. That's so racist.
I came home and took a three-hour nap. Um... that was overkill. I shouldn't do that.
We had Blood Borne Pathogens training courtesy of The Nurse again, and watched the same outrageously awful video as last year, starring The World's Worst Actress and three young people who represent HIV, Hep B, and Hep C. The one who represents HIV was a black jock. That's so racist.
I came home and took a three-hour nap. Um... that was overkill. I shouldn't do that.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Newbery VI
Continuing where we left off...
In 1927 the America Library Association took a break from heaping praises on less than stellar collections of legends from faraway lands, and turned to a quintessentially American story in Smoky the Cowhorse, by Will James.
This book follows the life of a range horse, from his birth, though the various occupations he's put to, and finally to being put out to pasture for retirement. James makes the horse the center of the story, and tells it as realistically as possible while making Smoky an exceptional beast. (The horse never voices an opinion, let alone talks; James tries to express silent instinct or antipathy without anthropomorphizing the animal.)
Indeed, Smoky isn't actually his name, except inasmuch as a bronco buster named Clint calls him that for a while. Most of his life he's a nameless, wild horse, free on the range, learning to stay with the herd, avoid and kill rattlesnakes, fight wolves, and so on. Annually he is corralled by cowboys and made to do range work: herding steer, which he grows to enjoy. After some misadventure, he is known by the name of Cougar as a famous cowboy-killing bucking bronco, and later still he's called Cloudy as an indifferent riding horse for greenhorn dude equestrians.
Things look bleakest for him when, older and enfeebled by a lifetime of action, he’s sold as a workhorse, regularly beaten and mistreated. Of course there’s a happy ending, but James lets it unfold with patience; nothing is neatly packaged or trite, and Smoky is far from a pet, or even so much as tame, even at the end. It’s a superior animal story, but unfortunately made a bit difficult for the modern reader by two factors.
One, James writes in a sub-literate dialect ("them horses was running," "If Smoky could only knowed, there’d been a lot of suffering which he wouldn't had to've went thru"), which may have been intentional or not, but either way it's not charming or conducive to good reading practice. And then, common words, even equine vocabulary such as "gait," are misspelled, which indicates that the ungrammatical dialect may have been the best James could do. I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it makes for hard reading.
Second, and far worse, there's a deep racism in the book. The two villains are Mexican. One is referred to with contempt as a "breed" (short for "half-breed," he being half-Mexican, half "other blood that’s darker") with no morals. The other is a similarly immoral, cruel man who is beaten for his cruelty by a white man in front of a laughing sheriff who stops the fight, but only because the Mexican's death would make work for him, "same as if he were a white man." It's a pity, because James is a decent storyteller, and though I don’t care for animal tales as a rule, this one drew me in. This is a book a product of its time, certainly.
Recommended for children: I'm afraid not.
Recommended for adults: It's not bad, if you can look past the ugly racial views and the cowpoke writing style. Not for everyone, at the very least.
In 1927 the America Library Association took a break from heaping praises on less than stellar collections of legends from faraway lands, and turned to a quintessentially American story in Smoky the Cowhorse, by Will James.
This book follows the life of a range horse, from his birth, though the various occupations he's put to, and finally to being put out to pasture for retirement. James makes the horse the center of the story, and tells it as realistically as possible while making Smoky an exceptional beast. (The horse never voices an opinion, let alone talks; James tries to express silent instinct or antipathy without anthropomorphizing the animal.)
Indeed, Smoky isn't actually his name, except inasmuch as a bronco buster named Clint calls him that for a while. Most of his life he's a nameless, wild horse, free on the range, learning to stay with the herd, avoid and kill rattlesnakes, fight wolves, and so on. Annually he is corralled by cowboys and made to do range work: herding steer, which he grows to enjoy. After some misadventure, he is known by the name of Cougar as a famous cowboy-killing bucking bronco, and later still he's called Cloudy as an indifferent riding horse for greenhorn dude equestrians.
Things look bleakest for him when, older and enfeebled by a lifetime of action, he’s sold as a workhorse, regularly beaten and mistreated. Of course there’s a happy ending, but James lets it unfold with patience; nothing is neatly packaged or trite, and Smoky is far from a pet, or even so much as tame, even at the end. It’s a superior animal story, but unfortunately made a bit difficult for the modern reader by two factors.
One, James writes in a sub-literate dialect ("them horses was running," "If Smoky could only knowed, there’d been a lot of suffering which he wouldn't had to've went thru"), which may have been intentional or not, but either way it's not charming or conducive to good reading practice. And then, common words, even equine vocabulary such as "gait," are misspelled, which indicates that the ungrammatical dialect may have been the best James could do. I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it makes for hard reading.
Second, and far worse, there's a deep racism in the book. The two villains are Mexican. One is referred to with contempt as a "breed" (short for "half-breed," he being half-Mexican, half "other blood that’s darker") with no morals. The other is a similarly immoral, cruel man who is beaten for his cruelty by a white man in front of a laughing sheriff who stops the fight, but only because the Mexican's death would make work for him, "same as if he were a white man." It's a pity, because James is a decent storyteller, and though I don’t care for animal tales as a rule, this one drew me in. This is a book a product of its time, certainly.
Recommended for children: I'm afraid not.
Recommended for adults: It's not bad, if you can look past the ugly racial views and the cowpoke writing style. Not for everyone, at the very least.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
I've gathered myself from the bits and remains and the pieces I've pulled from all of my days
I spent my Saturday renting a truck from Home Depot (motto: "the people in our Tool Rental department are total pricks") and helping my aunt move. She was planning to move to LA where her male companion lives, but apparently he's a crazy person just like the last guy, and broke up with her via a text message because she talks to her son too much or something. Anyhoo, she's just sold her house, and she's storing a lot of her clothes in my house while she's temporarily without a place to call her own and nomadic. She also gave me Cousin's bed and night stand, which is pretty sweet. Now I have a real guest room that actually looks inviting, instead of just having a mattress on a floor.
Uh, I mean, I just got back from helping my aunt move, and boy, are my arms tired!
***
Conversation with guy who lives on my street as I passed by taking Dog for a walk:
Me: "Howdy." [Which after all is short for "how d'you do."]
His reply: "How are you doing?" [Much in the style, surely inadvertently, of Joey from "Friends."]
Me: "Oh, good." [Pause.] "And you?"
Him: "Fine, and yourself?"
I thought I'd let that one lie where it was and kept walking.
Uh, I mean, I just got back from helping my aunt move, and boy, are my arms tired!
***
Conversation with guy who lives on my street as I passed by taking Dog for a walk:
Me: "Howdy." [Which after all is short for "how d'you do."]
His reply: "How are you doing?" [Much in the style, surely inadvertently, of Joey from "Friends."]
Me: "Oh, good." [Pause.] "And you?"
Him: "Fine, and yourself?"
I thought I'd let that one lie where it was and kept walking.
Friday, August 14, 2009
When the crowd becomes your burden and you've early closed your curtains, I'll wait by the backstage door
Had dinner with Friar and Muffin and their children at the Green Margarita. I ordered what I hoped was the healthiest thing I could ask for --- bean burritos with cheese and rice --- but the beans were refried and the cheese was that glowing orange crap Tex-Mex restaurants love so well. I've been making a fairly decent effort since returning from my travels to eat healthy, so it made me mildly ill for some hours afterward. At least I didn't eat any meat dishes. Instead of taking six months off my life, this meal only reduced my life span by three months.
***
HWT and I decided that Kate (of "Jon and Kate Plus Eight" fame) now has a vagina so cavernous, she can only get pleasure by inserting into it something the width of a baby's cranium. Thus the loathsome cycle continues. Also: HWT and I are filthy, filthy people.
***
You know how wives can sue rich ex-husbands for alimony, claiming that the husband got them used to a certain standard of living that they didn't enjoy before the marriage, so the husbands thus owe their ex-wives money enough for them to continue living up to that now-established standard? Using the same logic, I wonder if I can sue Prestigius for a salary I don't work for? After all, the school is the one that's been enabling me to live this slothful, idle lifestyle --- paying me, quite literally, to do nothing --- so the school bears the burden of continuing to fund my decadent lifestyle. Let's face it, it's what I'm used to now!
***
Once again (see last year's whining, with Michael5000's excellent comment), work seems to have drafted me into various committees and responsibilities I'd, frankly, rather not have. The year hasn't even started yet and already I'm on the Fund Committee and the Expansion Committee, and --- perhaps most ludicrously --- in an after-work leadership course. Yes, because leading and wielding authority are what I do best. Also, am I really the best pick for helping determine how the school will grow in the future? I just got here, and I'll probably be dead before any new building starts.
***
HWT and I decided that Kate (of "Jon and Kate Plus Eight" fame) now has a vagina so cavernous, she can only get pleasure by inserting into it something the width of a baby's cranium. Thus the loathsome cycle continues. Also: HWT and I are filthy, filthy people.
***
You know how wives can sue rich ex-husbands for alimony, claiming that the husband got them used to a certain standard of living that they didn't enjoy before the marriage, so the husbands thus owe their ex-wives money enough for them to continue living up to that now-established standard? Using the same logic, I wonder if I can sue Prestigius for a salary I don't work for? After all, the school is the one that's been enabling me to live this slothful, idle lifestyle --- paying me, quite literally, to do nothing --- so the school bears the burden of continuing to fund my decadent lifestyle. Let's face it, it's what I'm used to now!
***
Once again (see last year's whining, with Michael5000's excellent comment), work seems to have drafted me into various committees and responsibilities I'd, frankly, rather not have. The year hasn't even started yet and already I'm on the Fund Committee and the Expansion Committee, and --- perhaps most ludicrously --- in an after-work leadership course. Yes, because leading and wielding authority are what I do best. Also, am I really the best pick for helping determine how the school will grow in the future? I just got here, and I'll probably be dead before any new building starts.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The finger points to those who might've chose a path different than that which failure closed
Friar's wife celebrated a birthday this week, so I didn't see much of the man himself; he either celebrated with her or was left alone with the kids as she went out for some peace and quiet.
I went out with Hot Waitress T (who really should be called Hot Special-Ed Teacher T now) to a show where Sonar was playing. First, I picked her up where she lives downtown in a fancy high-security building and we were almost mugged because the streets down there are crawling with unemployed oppressed scam artists and street predators. Someone came close to a stabbing but I don't know if it was him or me --- you best believe I carry a blade when I go down to Devil's Elm, boy. He peeled away when a cop on a Segway rolled by obliviously. T and I went to one of her favorite spots, a trendy bar that had a lot of hipsters in it. I had artichoke pizza, which was okay. Stupid hipsters.
Yesterday I finished translating a French review for Sonar --- the third such I've done for him --- so in gratitude he put us on the list (which he probably would have done anyway, though.) It was a fun show. I saw two acquaintances: one a waitress at Hangout II who made us the infamous Swine Flu shots and ate a very late drunk dinner with us once; the other was a local music blogger with some degree of recognition in town. I don't know him very well, but he seems to think I do.
Work Monday --- no kids, but Faculty Days. Gotta get the room ready and meet the new parents. But... but I'm used to sitting around doing nothing now!
I went out with Hot Waitress T (who really should be called Hot Special-Ed Teacher T now) to a show where Sonar was playing. First, I picked her up where she lives downtown in a fancy high-security building and we were almost mugged because the streets down there are crawling with unemployed oppressed scam artists and street predators. Someone came close to a stabbing but I don't know if it was him or me --- you best believe I carry a blade when I go down to Devil's Elm, boy. He peeled away when a cop on a Segway rolled by obliviously. T and I went to one of her favorite spots, a trendy bar that had a lot of hipsters in it. I had artichoke pizza, which was okay. Stupid hipsters.
Yesterday I finished translating a French review for Sonar --- the third such I've done for him --- so in gratitude he put us on the list (which he probably would have done anyway, though.) It was a fun show. I saw two acquaintances: one a waitress at Hangout II who made us the infamous Swine Flu shots and ate a very late drunk dinner with us once; the other was a local music blogger with some degree of recognition in town. I don't know him very well, but he seems to think I do.
Work Monday --- no kids, but Faculty Days. Gotta get the room ready and meet the new parents. But... but I'm used to sitting around doing nothing now!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Can't you feel that sun a-shinin'?
Back!
For the first time in what to the best of my recollection is three years, I left Devil-Town and went on not one but two mini-vacations!
In the first, I went to see my good friend 神圣 in San Diego. The visit just happened to coincide with the San Diego Comic Con, so we figured we might as well go. You know, as long as I was there and all. Also, we're both total geeks. I took lots of pictures of attendees in costumes. Not of the professional booth girls --- I find that to be a particularly egregious example of pandering to fanboys --- but of regular people who took the time to make creative, fun costumes. Some of them did incredible jobs, like a Dark Knight Joker who was carrying around a pencil as a prop, a couple who were a perfect Hal Jordan and Jade, a slight girl dressed as the Joker on vacation (shorts and a Hawaiian shirt over the usual regalia), and a terrific Red Skull.
There was something for everyone, from a very attractive young lady dressed as the Silk Spectre --- hott --- to the cutest little four-year-old boy dressed as the Dark Knight Joker --- possibly inappropriate --- with his even littler sister, who tried her best to be that girl from Harry Potter. One woman dressed as Lara Croft got a bit shirty when I failed to recognize her. "I don't know anything about video games," I said, and she returned hotly that it was also a movie.
Fun fact: if you ask someone dressed as Spider-Man if you can take their picture, they instantly crouch down and make the web-shooting gesture. One hundred percent of the people dressed as Spider-Man did this.
Later, we went out for drinks with an upcoming Marvel artist who just did a stint on The Punisher, he and 神圣 being old school friends from Taiwan.
Back in the real world, 神圣 and I and his family had a blast in San Diego. Beaches, sushi, bars, his fellow doctoral students (one friend I met is doing his dissertation on French film noir, and was a fascinating person). It's a beautiful city and the weather was gorgeous. His two kids were well-behaved and adorable; it was a blast watching them at Comic Con as well. His wife gave birth to their third about seven hours after I left, maker her, as another woman remarked, "quite the trooper" for walking around at Comic Con with us the second day.
For the second vacation, I went to Portland for a week to visit Brother and Sister-In-Law, not to mention Nephews 1, 2 and 3, the last of whom is nearly three and whom I had never seen before. I also saw Deep Blue, my old high school and undergraduate friend, his wife Cyan and their now three-year-old son.
Just before I arrived, Portland had been experiencing some pretty severe heat there, but it thankfully broke and it was beautifully cool to warm. We went peach-picking and collected some of the most delicious fruit I've ever had ("the Mackinaws are in, Jerry!"), except maybe the fresh-picked plums we were given by a homeowner with a tree in her yard. We visited all the great food places: Mio sushi, Apizza Scholls, the Ben & Jerry's store, and that haven for gluttonous locavores, Burgerville.
Not too much had changed since I was last there --- my nephews are still brats, Portland still has a lot of hobos and rude bicyclists, it's a verdant paradise, and the economy is sluggish. A lot of storefronts have been remodeled and revamped, but they seem to sit empty. I was immensely cheered to see so many local businesses still going strong (except maybe in the case of Dixie Mattress --- how does that place stay open, anyway?). Portland is a walker's city, and the people enjoy supporting the community. Streets like Sandy, which require cars to drive down, don't do as well as touristy but laid-back Mom-and-Pop areas like Hawthorne or Division.
Anyway, now back in the heat of Devil-Town. Work starts Monday. I've been totally idle since the last week of May.
For the first time in what to the best of my recollection is three years, I left Devil-Town and went on not one but two mini-vacations!
In the first, I went to see my good friend 神圣 in San Diego. The visit just happened to coincide with the San Diego Comic Con, so we figured we might as well go. You know, as long as I was there and all. Also, we're both total geeks. I took lots of pictures of attendees in costumes. Not of the professional booth girls --- I find that to be a particularly egregious example of pandering to fanboys --- but of regular people who took the time to make creative, fun costumes. Some of them did incredible jobs, like a Dark Knight Joker who was carrying around a pencil as a prop, a couple who were a perfect Hal Jordan and Jade, a slight girl dressed as the Joker on vacation (shorts and a Hawaiian shirt over the usual regalia), and a terrific Red Skull.
There was something for everyone, from a very attractive young lady dressed as the Silk Spectre --- hott --- to the cutest little four-year-old boy dressed as the Dark Knight Joker --- possibly inappropriate --- with his even littler sister, who tried her best to be that girl from Harry Potter. One woman dressed as Lara Croft got a bit shirty when I failed to recognize her. "I don't know anything about video games," I said, and she returned hotly that it was also a movie.
Fun fact: if you ask someone dressed as Spider-Man if you can take their picture, they instantly crouch down and make the web-shooting gesture. One hundred percent of the people dressed as Spider-Man did this.
Later, we went out for drinks with an upcoming Marvel artist who just did a stint on The Punisher, he and 神圣 being old school friends from Taiwan.
Back in the real world, 神圣 and I and his family had a blast in San Diego. Beaches, sushi, bars, his fellow doctoral students (one friend I met is doing his dissertation on French film noir, and was a fascinating person). It's a beautiful city and the weather was gorgeous. His two kids were well-behaved and adorable; it was a blast watching them at Comic Con as well. His wife gave birth to their third about seven hours after I left, maker her, as another woman remarked, "quite the trooper" for walking around at Comic Con with us the second day.
For the second vacation, I went to Portland for a week to visit Brother and Sister-In-Law, not to mention Nephews 1, 2 and 3, the last of whom is nearly three and whom I had never seen before. I also saw Deep Blue, my old high school and undergraduate friend, his wife Cyan and their now three-year-old son.
Just before I arrived, Portland had been experiencing some pretty severe heat there, but it thankfully broke and it was beautifully cool to warm. We went peach-picking and collected some of the most delicious fruit I've ever had ("the Mackinaws are in, Jerry!"), except maybe the fresh-picked plums we were given by a homeowner with a tree in her yard. We visited all the great food places: Mio sushi, Apizza Scholls, the Ben & Jerry's store, and that haven for gluttonous locavores, Burgerville.
Not too much had changed since I was last there --- my nephews are still brats, Portland still has a lot of hobos and rude bicyclists, it's a verdant paradise, and the economy is sluggish. A lot of storefronts have been remodeled and revamped, but they seem to sit empty. I was immensely cheered to see so many local businesses still going strong (except maybe in the case of Dixie Mattress --- how does that place stay open, anyway?). Portland is a walker's city, and the people enjoy supporting the community. Streets like Sandy, which require cars to drive down, don't do as well as touristy but laid-back Mom-and-Pop areas like Hawthorne or Division.
Anyway, now back in the heat of Devil-Town. Work starts Monday. I've been totally idle since the last week of May.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Do not stand at my grave and weep
(After Mary Elizabeth Frye's maudlin piece.)
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
Just go on home and get some sleep.
I can't hear your sobs and tears,
My rotting head no more has ears.
Wail as you will --- under your feet
Lies but a piece of rotting meat.
But even were this body whole,
There is no spirit, there is no soul.
You speak aloud, and cry, and moan,
But I've no more sentience than a stone.
Whatever now you say you feel
You should have said when I was real.
So leave me mold'ring under the loam,
Dry your tears and go on back home.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. There is no I.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
Just go on home and get some sleep.
I can't hear your sobs and tears,
My rotting head no more has ears.
Wail as you will --- under your feet
Lies but a piece of rotting meat.
But even were this body whole,
There is no spirit, there is no soul.
You speak aloud, and cry, and moan,
But I've no more sentience than a stone.
Whatever now you say you feel
You should have said when I was real.
So leave me mold'ring under the loam,
Dry your tears and go on back home.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. There is no I.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
My mind is set on overdrive
Last day of school had only mundane paperwork and logistical meetings. Vacation has begun.
Not that I'm not grateful, but now what?
I went out to Hangout II with Friar and Courtney. I was petulant and prickish all night, and probably as a consequence Courtney was being slightly bitchy, and Friar after a few drinks started to get smug and insulting as is his wont, and all in all it wasn't fun and I blew $60 on cabs to have a crappy night.
I know that wasn't my usually entertaining overview of my nights out, but it wasn't an entertaining night. I need the drugs to kick in again.
Hey, K and L are dating each other! I didn't even know they knew each other. I met K through the Maddening Angel (from whom she is now estranged) and L from the Friar/Hangout, two almost wholly discrete circles of my life. Small world. And their names are consecutive letters! It was meant to be.
Oh yeah --- and I do have ringworm. I may have gotten it from one of the kids (though I can't think who) or maybe an animal. So fucking nasty. It's a tenacious and disgusting little fungus and it takes two to four weeks to get rid of with daily treatment. And it may leave a permanent round mark. I have it on my neck. Yay! The universe loves me.
Not that I'm not grateful, but now what?
I went out to Hangout II with Friar and Courtney. I was petulant and prickish all night, and probably as a consequence Courtney was being slightly bitchy, and Friar after a few drinks started to get smug and insulting as is his wont, and all in all it wasn't fun and I blew $60 on cabs to have a crappy night.
I know that wasn't my usually entertaining overview of my nights out, but it wasn't an entertaining night. I need the drugs to kick in again.
Hey, K and L are dating each other! I didn't even know they knew each other. I met K through the Maddening Angel (from whom she is now estranged) and L from the Friar/Hangout, two almost wholly discrete circles of my life. Small world. And their names are consecutive letters! It was meant to be.
Oh yeah --- and I do have ringworm. I may have gotten it from one of the kids (though I can't think who) or maybe an animal. So fucking nasty. It's a tenacious and disgusting little fungus and it takes two to four weeks to get rid of with daily treatment. And it may leave a permanent round mark. I have it on my neck. Yay! The universe loves me.
Monday, May 25, 2009
That was called love for the workers in song
Well, here I am again. I got used to the damn thing, and it's cheaper than therapy.
I had a pretty good final week of school. I didn't get many end-of-year gifts and nothing fancy, but I did get plenty of compliments, and that's all I expected. J's parents bought me lunch on the last day. L2's mother said she wanted me to move up to first grade so he could have me again next year. My secret favorite Q's father said he had initial concerns about a male K teacher, but "getting you was the best thing that could have happened to her."
Most of the week was taken up with visiting the first grade classrooms; having the kids write cards for the summer birthday kids; and doing easy final-week things like finishing "This year I learned..." in writing and "How many days are left in school if ten are crossed off our calendar?" type word problems in math. The very last day I told the kids that the most important thing I wanted them to remember all year was this:
Be nice to people who have less talent or power than you do.
I hope it stuck.
***
I hadn't been taking my Happy Pills for the last ten days, through a combination of laziness, sickness and the accompanying bizarre sleep schedule, and a vague interest in seeing what would happen. I think it was a bad idea, and I'm starting again. As Friar said: "If you had diabetes, you wouldn't want to go off your meds just to 'see what would happen,' would you? If you need them, you need them." I think he's right.
Most people, for example, would not have been totally depressed, as I was, on Sunday. Saturday, I'd spent a pleasant evening at Hangout II, joking and talking with good friends (Friar, K, L --- this guy) and a few people I didn't know, including a very attractive, drunk woman who hung on me and kept kissing me and pressing my hand between her legs. L flicked a lit cigarette into my face hard at my request. I drank a shot that seemed to be made of Tabasco, and possibly bacon. We went back to Friar's house (where I'd drunkenly and erroneously thought I'd left my car). Friar promptly passed out in his bed, so drunk girl and I hung out in his living room, blasting music until 4:00 a.m when we collapsed on his couch.
Sounds fun. Was fun. So why the depression? If you have to ask, you'll never understand. Sometimes I have a hard time distinguishing fantasy from reality. Or rather, fantasy from the probable.
I'm not sure I should blog about such personal stuff. It makes me introspective. I feel like it helps me sort my thoughts into a semblance of rationality, but you know, I think when I instead pass over the personal in silence, that helps me not be so jittery about the past. Which is probably more helpful.
Oh yeah --- and I should have done my assessments last week. Like, finished Tuesday. It's no surprise to people who read this that I'm a procrastinatin' fool. So it'll be a late night. Oh well, nothing new.
Also, I may have ringworm. Awesome!
I had a pretty good final week of school. I didn't get many end-of-year gifts and nothing fancy, but I did get plenty of compliments, and that's all I expected. J's parents bought me lunch on the last day. L2's mother said she wanted me to move up to first grade so he could have me again next year. My secret favorite Q's father said he had initial concerns about a male K teacher, but "getting you was the best thing that could have happened to her."
Most of the week was taken up with visiting the first grade classrooms; having the kids write cards for the summer birthday kids; and doing easy final-week things like finishing "This year I learned..." in writing and "How many days are left in school if ten are crossed off our calendar?" type word problems in math. The very last day I told the kids that the most important thing I wanted them to remember all year was this:
Be nice to people who have less talent or power than you do.
I hope it stuck.
***
I hadn't been taking my Happy Pills for the last ten days, through a combination of laziness, sickness and the accompanying bizarre sleep schedule, and a vague interest in seeing what would happen. I think it was a bad idea, and I'm starting again. As Friar said: "If you had diabetes, you wouldn't want to go off your meds just to 'see what would happen,' would you? If you need them, you need them." I think he's right.
Most people, for example, would not have been totally depressed, as I was, on Sunday. Saturday, I'd spent a pleasant evening at Hangout II, joking and talking with good friends (Friar, K, L --- this guy) and a few people I didn't know, including a very attractive, drunk woman who hung on me and kept kissing me and pressing my hand between her legs. L flicked a lit cigarette into my face hard at my request. I drank a shot that seemed to be made of Tabasco, and possibly bacon. We went back to Friar's house (where I'd drunkenly and erroneously thought I'd left my car). Friar promptly passed out in his bed, so drunk girl and I hung out in his living room, blasting music until 4:00 a.m when we collapsed on his couch.
Sounds fun. Was fun. So why the depression? If you have to ask, you'll never understand. Sometimes I have a hard time distinguishing fantasy from reality. Or rather, fantasy from the probable.
I'm not sure I should blog about such personal stuff. It makes me introspective. I feel like it helps me sort my thoughts into a semblance of rationality, but you know, I think when I instead pass over the personal in silence, that helps me not be so jittery about the past. Which is probably more helpful.
Oh yeah --- and I should have done my assessments last week. Like, finished Tuesday. It's no surprise to people who read this that I'm a procrastinatin' fool. So it'll be a late night. Oh well, nothing new.
Also, I may have ringworm. Awesome!
Monday, May 18, 2009
Hiatus
The last week, a very busy work schedule, some ill-advised late nights, and a bout of nasty throat flu all conspired to put blog posts on the back burner. Come to think of it they were never on the front burner. Let's say they got taken off the back burner and put into a Tupperware tub and set in the refrigerator to keep for maybe later.
It was just about time for a break anyway. I may start posting again once the old batteries are recharged. After all, I have Newbery winners to review.
It was just about time for a break anyway. I may start posting again once the old batteries are recharged. After all, I have Newbery winners to review.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Newbery V
The 1926 Newbery Medal winner was Shen Of the Sea: Chinese Stories For Children, by Arthur Bowie Chrisman. It is a collection of humorous folk tales from China, written in a light, mostly tongue-in-cheek style that seems to mimic the inflections and honorifics of the Chinese language.
The title story describes a monarch who tricks and captures the shen, or demons, of the sea, who wish to flood his domain. Other entries are explanation tales, reminiscent of the Just-So stories: how chopsticks came to be (the king invented them after being attacked by his irascible queen with the silverware) how fine porecelain came to be (it was a collection of mud pies fired hard by dragon breath), or how tea came to be (a witch enchanted Chah's herbs so they'd help him stay awake, after he saved her from a black dragon, or oo long; cha is Chinese for tea). A couple are love stories between men and spirits, and a few are like the European folk tales of silly people who do things literally, but in the end their silliness is their salvation.
It's fun reading, but there's nothing spectacular about the prose, nor particularly memorable about the tales, so I do hope this wasn't actually the finest children's book of its year. As with the previous year's winner, Tales From Silver Lands, perhaps the committee thought multiculturalism trumped non-spectacular writing.
Recommended for children: sure.
Recommended for adults: not really, unless they're Sinophiles.
The title story describes a monarch who tricks and captures the shen, or demons, of the sea, who wish to flood his domain. Other entries are explanation tales, reminiscent of the Just-So stories: how chopsticks came to be (the king invented them after being attacked by his irascible queen with the silverware) how fine porecelain came to be (it was a collection of mud pies fired hard by dragon breath), or how tea came to be (a witch enchanted Chah's herbs so they'd help him stay awake, after he saved her from a black dragon, or oo long; cha is Chinese for tea). A couple are love stories between men and spirits, and a few are like the European folk tales of silly people who do things literally, but in the end their silliness is their salvation.
It's fun reading, but there's nothing spectacular about the prose, nor particularly memorable about the tales, so I do hope this wasn't actually the finest children's book of its year. As with the previous year's winner, Tales From Silver Lands, perhaps the committee thought multiculturalism trumped non-spectacular writing.
Recommended for children: sure.
Recommended for adults: not really, unless they're Sinophiles.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
I'm so old...
...My high school class recently celebrated its twentieth reunion.
...I have fond memories of the game Adventure, which I played and mastered when I was 13 years old. I remember every experience the article describes: being robbed by the bat, being zoomed through the game by the bat while in a dragon, visiting the Easter Egg room, everything. For all the realism and detail and epic backstories of massive multi-player games today, this simple, doofy-looking game where a box grabs an arrow to kill a seahorse remains tops in my mind.
...I had a Texas Instruments computer that used the computer language BASIC (10 Print "HI THERE" 20 Goto 10) and recorded such coded text programs on audio cassette tape.
...I remember arcades in every mall, the only way the common feller could play video games. They cost a quarter, no more. Arcades barely exist any more.
...I was nine, ten, and eleven when Advanced Dungeons & Dragons was developed, and it changed how I played games with my friends. In short, my geekiness was complete.
...I had a word processor in college --- not a PC, but a real word processor, basically an electric typewriter. It stored a whopping one line of text in its memory before printing. I got extremely adept at extemporaneous eloquence in my research papers.
...For most of my childhood, if you wanted to watch a movie, you had to see it in a theater. Cable became widely available when I was eleven or so, but again, you had to watch what HBO chose to air (usually the same blockbuster movies over and over). Then VHS and Betamax slowly took hold, and despite TV stations and movie studios' bemoaning that it would be death of the industry (they can fast-forward over the commercials! And why will anyone ever go to the theater again?), it became possible to watch a wide variety of things pretty much on demand (by which I mean you had to drive to the rental store first). True "on demand" viewing is just now becoming a literal reality --- which is very cool.
...When I was a kid, after the last late-night talk show, the national anthem would play and then you'd get a test pattern. Dead TV air. Doesn't exist any more.
...My home had rotary phones (museum relics today!) until quite late into middle school. My mother got a wireless phone eventually, and it was the size of a brick and had an antenna like a steel pipe.
...I remember answering machines that recorded with cassettes. Yeah, if someone was out, you didn't talk to them. You left a message on their answering machine, if they had one. If you got lost driving, you didn't twitter your friends, call the location, or upload Google street view to your iPhone. You stopped and asked for directions.
...The Internet did not exist until my second year of college, or thereabouts. It was a primitive system of electronic bulletin boards where idiots argued with other idiots about religion and politics and culture. There was no IMDb to settle movie bets, no Wikipedia to vandalize. If you wanted to look up a fact, you had to get a book from the library (or make it up, but without fooling anyone else with your lies). If you wanted the lyrics to a song, and they weren't printed in the cassette or album sleve, you had to listen repeatedly and type fast. I'm a member of the last generation to understand fully just how massively influential the Internet has been, a total paradigm shift in culture; the youth don't know what it was like, and the older don't know what it's like now.
...I saw Star Wars in its first theater run. (There was no other way to see it!)
...I was eleven when Michael Jackson caused a small stir with his then-risqué song "Billie Jean" came out. I was thirteen when Madonna shocked the prudes with "Like a Virgin." Oh, how innocent we all were then! Rap was just barely beginning to make itself felt among the whiteys.
...I was seventeen years old when REM's Green came out, in 1988. I was 23 when Green Day's first major label album, Dookie, came out. I associate them with college life and post-college stagnation, respectively.
...I remember Carter's election, the Iran hostage crisis, the Challenger explosion, the fall of the Berlin Wall, Reagan getting shot, and other things that a college student today regards as the history of a generation ago. I even have vague memories of long lines at gas stations (the 1973-74 oil embargo) and Nixon's resignation (I was three).
I'm old.
I know this kind of post is old hat and boring, especially for the younger people, but trust me --- when you get to be my age, you'll see the appeal of looking back. Which is not to say that I ever want to stop looking forward, too. Bring on the 3-D video phones, teleportation, bionic arms, AI robot servants in every home, and Google brain implants! In fact, where are they? They're late.
...I have fond memories of the game Adventure, which I played and mastered when I was 13 years old. I remember every experience the article describes: being robbed by the bat, being zoomed through the game by the bat while in a dragon, visiting the Easter Egg room, everything. For all the realism and detail and epic backstories of massive multi-player games today, this simple, doofy-looking game where a box grabs an arrow to kill a seahorse remains tops in my mind.
...I had a Texas Instruments computer that used the computer language BASIC (10 Print "HI THERE" 20 Goto 10) and recorded such coded text programs on audio cassette tape.
...I remember arcades in every mall, the only way the common feller could play video games. They cost a quarter, no more. Arcades barely exist any more.
...I was nine, ten, and eleven when Advanced Dungeons & Dragons was developed, and it changed how I played games with my friends. In short, my geekiness was complete.
...I had a word processor in college --- not a PC, but a real word processor, basically an electric typewriter. It stored a whopping one line of text in its memory before printing. I got extremely adept at extemporaneous eloquence in my research papers.
...For most of my childhood, if you wanted to watch a movie, you had to see it in a theater. Cable became widely available when I was eleven or so, but again, you had to watch what HBO chose to air (usually the same blockbuster movies over and over). Then VHS and Betamax slowly took hold, and despite TV stations and movie studios' bemoaning that it would be death of the industry (they can fast-forward over the commercials! And why will anyone ever go to the theater again?), it became possible to watch a wide variety of things pretty much on demand (by which I mean you had to drive to the rental store first). True "on demand" viewing is just now becoming a literal reality --- which is very cool.
...When I was a kid, after the last late-night talk show, the national anthem would play and then you'd get a test pattern. Dead TV air. Doesn't exist any more.
...My home had rotary phones (museum relics today!) until quite late into middle school. My mother got a wireless phone eventually, and it was the size of a brick and had an antenna like a steel pipe.
...I remember answering machines that recorded with cassettes. Yeah, if someone was out, you didn't talk to them. You left a message on their answering machine, if they had one. If you got lost driving, you didn't twitter your friends, call the location, or upload Google street view to your iPhone. You stopped and asked for directions.
...The Internet did not exist until my second year of college, or thereabouts. It was a primitive system of electronic bulletin boards where idiots argued with other idiots about religion and politics and culture. There was no IMDb to settle movie bets, no Wikipedia to vandalize. If you wanted to look up a fact, you had to get a book from the library (or make it up, but without fooling anyone else with your lies). If you wanted the lyrics to a song, and they weren't printed in the cassette or album sleve, you had to listen repeatedly and type fast. I'm a member of the last generation to understand fully just how massively influential the Internet has been, a total paradigm shift in culture; the youth don't know what it was like, and the older don't know what it's like now.
...I saw Star Wars in its first theater run. (There was no other way to see it!)
...I was eleven when Michael Jackson caused a small stir with his then-risqué song "Billie Jean" came out. I was thirteen when Madonna shocked the prudes with "Like a Virgin." Oh, how innocent we all were then! Rap was just barely beginning to make itself felt among the whiteys.
...I was seventeen years old when REM's Green came out, in 1988. I was 23 when Green Day's first major label album, Dookie, came out. I associate them with college life and post-college stagnation, respectively.
...I remember Carter's election, the Iran hostage crisis, the Challenger explosion, the fall of the Berlin Wall, Reagan getting shot, and other things that a college student today regards as the history of a generation ago. I even have vague memories of long lines at gas stations (the 1973-74 oil embargo) and Nixon's resignation (I was three).
I'm old.
I know this kind of post is old hat and boring, especially for the younger people, but trust me --- when you get to be my age, you'll see the appeal of looking back. Which is not to say that I ever want to stop looking forward, too. Bring on the 3-D video phones, teleportation, bionic arms, AI robot servants in every home, and Google brain implants! In fact, where are they? They're late.
Friday, May 08, 2009
I heard telephones, opera house, favorite melodies
After work, I went over to D's rather palatial house for the second of my auction obligations. G was there as well for a sleepover. G was excited and talky, while D reverted back to his quieter, shy self, perhaps unsettled by his teacher's presence in his home. I brought them both books and cookies. I read the books, talked to D's mother for a bit and then left. It was fun.
Then, I went with the Friar to some sort of Fried Food Festival where Auric's band was playing. We got there late and mostly just hung around the backstage area, under the suspicious eye of Quickdraw McGraw the grizzled old security guy, until Drummer's Wife came by and fetched Auric (set over, utterly soaked with sweat) to give us the OK to come in. We talked for a bit from the side of the stage (as thousands of people waiting for the next artists to take the stage watched us), then made our way to the dressing room. Friar and I would make terrible bodyguards, it turns out, as Auric was accosted by four different over-enthused fans on the short walk over. We did, however, play the rude bad guys who had to pull him away as he smiled and posed for pictures.
Then we all went to Hangout II, where we met up with the incredibly inebriated Mr. Hangout, Tall, the slightly annoying barfly AL, and a few other acquaintances not close to me. (At the end of the night, as we walked to the car, Auric said to us, "I think AL has some kind of radar that lets him know which bar I'm in whenever I'm in town so he can show up five minutes after me and never leave my side.")
There was a David Bowie cover band playing. They were all right. Good musicians technically, but I didn't care for the vocals. Their name was rather bland. I think we can all agree that a very good name for a Bowie cover band is The Rock'n'Roll Suicides.
Speaking of naming things, we also had a long discussion about the gayest name ever for a gay bar. Many rather graphic suggestions were thrown out, but most rejected as being open to hetero scat or sodomy. For example, Cock 'n' the Ass (with colorful neon logo of a rooster and a donkey, natch) could conceivably be a bar at which you can find women into anal sex. ("Hey, where are all the ladies tonight?!") I think in the end we went with "The Horny Homo."
Then, I went with the Friar to some sort of Fried Food Festival where Auric's band was playing. We got there late and mostly just hung around the backstage area, under the suspicious eye of Quickdraw McGraw the grizzled old security guy, until Drummer's Wife came by and fetched Auric (set over, utterly soaked with sweat) to give us the OK to come in. We talked for a bit from the side of the stage (as thousands of people waiting for the next artists to take the stage watched us), then made our way to the dressing room. Friar and I would make terrible bodyguards, it turns out, as Auric was accosted by four different over-enthused fans on the short walk over. We did, however, play the rude bad guys who had to pull him away as he smiled and posed for pictures.
Then we all went to Hangout II, where we met up with the incredibly inebriated Mr. Hangout, Tall, the slightly annoying barfly AL, and a few other acquaintances not close to me. (At the end of the night, as we walked to the car, Auric said to us, "I think AL has some kind of radar that lets him know which bar I'm in whenever I'm in town so he can show up five minutes after me and never leave my side.")
There was a David Bowie cover band playing. They were all right. Good musicians technically, but I didn't care for the vocals. Their name was rather bland. I think we can all agree that a very good name for a Bowie cover band is The Rock'n'Roll Suicides.
Speaking of naming things, we also had a long discussion about the gayest name ever for a gay bar. Many rather graphic suggestions were thrown out, but most rejected as being open to hetero scat or sodomy. For example, Cock 'n' the Ass (with colorful neon logo of a rooster and a donkey, natch) could conceivably be a bar at which you can find women into anal sex. ("Hey, where are all the ladies tonight?!") I think in the end we went with "The Horny Homo."
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Out of the mouths of babes
I still think fondly of some of the kids at the old Job at La Poubelle School, especially the toddler CF (this kid, of the original Kids Say... post).
I liked CF a lot. He didn't like candy or any kind of sweet food like ice cream. But he would enthusiastically chomp down on these huge honking pickles his mom would pack him for lunch. I was surprised the first time I saw that, and said to him, "Is that really a pickle? I didn't know kids your age liked pickles." CF stopped crunching for a second and said, "Pickle good." I got a big kick out of that.
His mom dressed him in button-down shirts and sharp dress shoes, and so he looked like a little man, with a mischievous grin and his little snub nose. He would often enter the toddler room with a sudden rush, sliding to a stop with arms outspread, sort of like Kramer on "Seinfeld" but with more élan and less kinetic slapstick. Then he'd give his big smile and bellow, "Hello, girls!" (A real junior ladies' man it seemed, but occasionally he'd change it to, "Hello, boys!" He wasn't picky.)
Anyway, one day I was changing his diaper (I've changed more diapers in my time than most young mothers), and he reached down, fingered his penis, and said to me, "What dis?"
I said, playing it straight and clinical, "Well, CF, that's your penis."
He considered that just a second, his eyes flashing, then said reverentially, "Penis good!"
Man, he really knew what was what. I just wish I could see how these kids turn out as adolescents and adults.
I liked CF a lot. He didn't like candy or any kind of sweet food like ice cream. But he would enthusiastically chomp down on these huge honking pickles his mom would pack him for lunch. I was surprised the first time I saw that, and said to him, "Is that really a pickle? I didn't know kids your age liked pickles." CF stopped crunching for a second and said, "Pickle good." I got a big kick out of that.
His mom dressed him in button-down shirts and sharp dress shoes, and so he looked like a little man, with a mischievous grin and his little snub nose. He would often enter the toddler room with a sudden rush, sliding to a stop with arms outspread, sort of like Kramer on "Seinfeld" but with more élan and less kinetic slapstick. Then he'd give his big smile and bellow, "Hello, girls!" (A real junior ladies' man it seemed, but occasionally he'd change it to, "Hello, boys!" He wasn't picky.)
Anyway, one day I was changing his diaper (I've changed more diapers in my time than most young mothers), and he reached down, fingered his penis, and said to me, "What dis?"
I said, playing it straight and clinical, "Well, CF, that's your penis."
He considered that just a second, his eyes flashing, then said reverentially, "Penis good!"
Man, he really knew what was what. I just wish I could see how these kids turn out as adolescents and adults.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Vocabulaire: un imprimé
un imprimé - a booklet, a printed form
On dit à tous les candidats: pour procurer un emploi, il faut que vous remplissiez cet imprimé.I'm filling out a lot of imprimés myself now for work.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Amusing and bemusing conversations
With three-year-old B, brother of A2, who visits my class nearly every morning:
Me: "Hello, B. What's going on today?"
B: "Sunday."
Me: "No, it's not Sunday. It's Tuesday."
B: "Ha ha! That sounds like the number two!"
Me: "Well, it is the second day of the school week. But what I meant was not what day is it, but what is happening today?"
B: "Windy."
Me: "Windy?"
B: "Windy all day."
Me: "Perhaps so, B. But, more specifically, what people mean when they say 'what's going on?' is what's happening with you in particular."
B: [Pause, then holding up pinky, ring, and middle fingers] "Three."
Me: "Three, eh?"
B: "Three all day."
Me: "Well, it was nice talking to you. Sorry you can't stay."
***
With my mother and aunt:
Me: "I was over reading a book at a kid's house the other day."
Aunt: "Is that a typical event, or a one-off?"
Mother: [Completely flabbergasted] "One off? What does that mean? One off what?"
Aunt: "It's an expression meaning one time."
Mother: "Why not say that, then? Why not say 'Are you doing that just the once?' What is this off business? You're not Jazzy Jeff and the French Prince! What are you talking that rap slang?"
Aunt: [Laughing too hard to talk]
Me: "Yes, Aunt, why are you talking ebonics?"
Mother: [Totally baffled] "Bonics? What are bonics? What are you talking about now?"
Me: "That's the language the French Prince speaks."
Me: "Hello, B. What's going on today?"
B: "Sunday."
Me: "No, it's not Sunday. It's Tuesday."
B: "Ha ha! That sounds like the number two!"
Me: "Well, it is the second day of the school week. But what I meant was not what day is it, but what is happening today?"
B: "Windy."
Me: "Windy?"
B: "Windy all day."
Me: "Perhaps so, B. But, more specifically, what people mean when they say 'what's going on?' is what's happening with you in particular."
B: [Pause, then holding up pinky, ring, and middle fingers] "Three."
Me: "Three, eh?"
B: "Three all day."
Me: "Well, it was nice talking to you. Sorry you can't stay."
***
With my mother and aunt:
Me: "I was over reading a book at a kid's house the other day."
Aunt: "Is that a typical event, or a one-off?"
Mother: [Completely flabbergasted] "One off? What does that mean? One off what?"
Aunt: "It's an expression meaning one time."
Mother: "Why not say that, then? Why not say 'Are you doing that just the once?' What is this off business? You're not Jazzy Jeff and the French Prince! What are you talking that rap slang?"
Aunt: [Laughing too hard to talk]
Me: "Yes, Aunt, why are you talking ebonics?"
Mother: [Totally baffled] "Bonics? What are bonics? What are you talking about now?"
Me: "That's the language the French Prince speaks."
Monday, May 04, 2009
No one ever tells me so what am I to know
Today I went over to Z's house. I brought a cookie and two books that I gave to her. Her parents paid $100 at this year's auction for this exciting privilege. I stayed for about 40 minutes. Z seemed happy enough, but I hope her parents thought it was worth it. I'm not really the kind to play up the cutesy factor for the kindergarteners, unlike some of my other team members. For example, there's a Prestigius robe we can wear so it looks like we're all "ready for bed" when we come to read the story and have cookies and milk and all that. I thought, nah, fuck the robe. Like I say, I hope Z's parents didn't wonder "was that it?" after I left. I would have.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Sunday Warbooks: Tales Of the South Pacific
A review of Tales Of the South Pacific, by James Michener.
A collection of tales not so much of war itself but of the ordinary men who waged war, and how the war (and the South Pacific) changed them. This book, written in 1947, won the Pulitzer Prize, and deservedly so. It's utterly readable and timeless. Indeed, Michener's narrator evokes prescient shades of Catch-22's 1961 absurdist hero Yossarian in the opening piece. Unable to express what he did in the war, he tells a gruff, glory-loving major about what island life was like:
Why did it take me until I was 38 years old to read this book? The omission of this work from the typical academic canon is utterly incomprehensible to me; it’s everything that the more boring and less complete in scope All Quiet On the Western Front is said to be, and more.
Michener is far more than a captivating storyteller, collector of colorful characters, painter of vivid natural imagery, and chronicler of the orchestrations of world warfare. Each of the "tales" comprising his carefully-constructed epic narrative is thematically and stylistically related to the other smaller narratives and at the same time artistically whole in itself. While he does have poetic phrases at his command, what he can say without saying it --- a subtly omitted word or a hint --- is breathtaking.
Michener impresses with his vast understanding of the scope of a military operation, as in the chapter “Alligator” (the codename for a fictitious invasion) --- the planning, the estimated casualties, the number of hospital beds needed, the men needed to build landing strips and docks and housing, the men needed simply to replace pencils and paper for plans, and on and on --- and then he finishes with a few brief, poignant lines of a man who wrote to a plain woman ("who would never be married in a hundred years anyway") a proposal:
That talent of Michener’s, the ability to juggle the big picture with the little human details, the forgotten grunts, the KIA and the faceless laborers, just blows me away. With every paragraph he weaves a new story of heroism, or efficiency, or defiance, or laziness, or lust, or bravery, or shame, and every character is all too human and believable. It makes the climax of the book, the landing at the island of Kuralei, all the more moving, as his narrator surveys the littered beaches and mourns the dead.
This book is quite simply a brilliant masterpiece that should be read by every student of American history; it may be fiction, but it shows more plainly why this was known as the "Greatest Generation," without hagiography or needless embellishment. They did what they were asked to do, and worked and complained and loved and died, and they weren't saints or the ultimate soldiers. They were Americans, is all.
***
Sunday warbooks scoreboard:
Greco-Persian wars: 2
WWI: 2
WWII: 5
Vietnam: 2
Iraq wars: 2
Afghanistan war: 1
General warfare: 2
A collection of tales not so much of war itself but of the ordinary men who waged war, and how the war (and the South Pacific) changed them. This book, written in 1947, won the Pulitzer Prize, and deservedly so. It's utterly readable and timeless. Indeed, Michener's narrator evokes prescient shades of Catch-22's 1961 absurdist hero Yossarian in the opening piece. Unable to express what he did in the war, he tells a gruff, glory-loving major about what island life was like:
"Why, hell!" the major snorted. "Seems all he did was sit on his ass and wait!"Easily more than the sum of its parts, this collection of stories is an eye-opening account of life in wartime: not the horrors of war (though there's a bit of that), but the waiting, the selfless heroism, the bottled-up passion, the thankless endless toil, the vast logistics of a campaign, the suddenness of death and loss and love.
"That's exactly it!" I cried, happy to find at least someone who knew what I was talking about.
Why did it take me until I was 38 years old to read this book? The omission of this work from the typical academic canon is utterly incomprehensible to me; it’s everything that the more boring and less complete in scope All Quiet On the Western Front is said to be, and more.
Michener is far more than a captivating storyteller, collector of colorful characters, painter of vivid natural imagery, and chronicler of the orchestrations of world warfare. Each of the "tales" comprising his carefully-constructed epic narrative is thematically and stylistically related to the other smaller narratives and at the same time artistically whole in itself. While he does have poetic phrases at his command, what he can say without saying it --- a subtly omitted word or a hint --- is breathtaking.
Michener impresses with his vast understanding of the scope of a military operation, as in the chapter “Alligator” (the codename for a fictitious invasion) --- the planning, the estimated casualties, the number of hospital beds needed, the men needed to build landing strips and docks and housing, the men needed simply to replace pencils and paper for plans, and on and on --- and then he finishes with a few brief, poignant lines of a man who wrote to a plain woman ("who would never be married in a hundred years anyway") a proposal:
"You was very sweet to me and I want to tell you if I…"But, Michener says, that last letter plus the one from the chaplain was almost as good as being married.
But he didn't. Some don't.
That talent of Michener’s, the ability to juggle the big picture with the little human details, the forgotten grunts, the KIA and the faceless laborers, just blows me away. With every paragraph he weaves a new story of heroism, or efficiency, or defiance, or laziness, or lust, or bravery, or shame, and every character is all too human and believable. It makes the climax of the book, the landing at the island of Kuralei, all the more moving, as his narrator surveys the littered beaches and mourns the dead.
This book is quite simply a brilliant masterpiece that should be read by every student of American history; it may be fiction, but it shows more plainly why this was known as the "Greatest Generation," without hagiography or needless embellishment. They did what they were asked to do, and worked and complained and loved and died, and they weren't saints or the ultimate soldiers. They were Americans, is all.
***
Sunday warbooks scoreboard:
Greco-Persian wars: 2
WWI: 2
WWII: 5
Vietnam: 2
Iraq wars: 2
Afghanistan war: 1
General warfare: 2
Saturday, May 02, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, May 01, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
