I am not a gloom and doom person. I usually see the good in people and in events, and I have a tendency to believe that things will work out. However, I am going to be a little negative for a moment. I read an article recently titled "The Decline and Fall of the English Major" and it bothered me.
The article laments the fact that on many of our country's top universities, the number of student majoring in English literature and composition has declined significantly over the last few years. The author sees one of the main reasons for the decline in the number of students choosing to study writing and literature as the recent demand that students at lower levels read much more straight-forward, fact-laden pieces of nonfiction, leaving less time for them to explore literary texts. While I cannot argue the validity of this statement, I can tell you that such a shift is occurring, that that shift is disheartening, and that literature does not have to be a victim in this shift, left on the side of the road to rot.
I have had the pleasure the last few years to work with our district team to explore and implement the Common Core Standards, aka the College-Career Readiness Standards. One of the points we discussed early in the process was that the new standards stress nonfiction reading and actually state that a high school student should read 70% argumentative and expository nonfiction material and 30% literary texts. One of my colleagues asked me if that was the proportions of the reading in my classroom. I said, "No, nor should it be." I went further to ask, "Is 30% of what students read in science or social studies literary?" Of course not, nor should it be. I do agree that we, as teachers in the English classroom, must infuse all kinds of nonfiction reading into our curriculum, and we are doing that, although I admit I need to do a better job. However, the assumption that the 70%-30% proportion falls entirely on the shoulders of English teachers is flawed, unless one contends that the only place a student today should read is in English. First, all reading, falls under those percentages, not just extended reading, such as novels. Research reading, biographical articles, historical documents all fit. Secondly, students should be reading, and reading more, in all areas.
As I thought about the article and the shifting emphasis in what students may be asked to read, I started thinking about how we use reading. One of the most frustrating questions for me in my class (right behind "How long does it have to be?") is "Why are we reading this? Is this history class?" It might be articles we read in preparation for Of Mice and Men about those young men in the 1930s who jumped trains and traveled the nation in search of work. It might be editorials about invasions of privacy or the 4th Amendment, texts I have used prior to cracking 1984. I had a student complain that we were reading science articles about the ebola virus during our unit on Edgar Allen Poe and "The Masque of the Red Death", until we had actually gotten into the short story and he suddenly blurted, "Oh wow, that's pretty cool."
Other teachers, in other content areas, have to deal with the same questions, in reverse, and I am happy about that. Not that they have to deal with those questions, but that they are having their kids read. Students in biology can be seen carrying around copies of The Hot Zone, a nonfiction novel. Some of our history teachers do regular current events reading. I know our art students read biographical articles about their favorite artists as well as particular artistic styles.
So our kids are reading. Should they read more? Yes, in all of our classes. Should they continue to read literary material? Absolutely. Literary texts, short stories, novels, and poetry all for students to think, and they often trigger understanding in students that might not otherwise click. One day this year, I had one of those moments of excitement when one of my students raised his hand in class to talk about what happened in history class. I paraphrase the student, but he said something along the lines of "Do you remember that poet Sandburg we read? Mr. Hotmar gave us one of his poems in class. It was pretty cool. It really made sense." The poem was "Killers", and the class was studying World War I. For this kid, the poem took the events out of the textbook, off of the page, and it made them real. My freshmen studied a poem this spring by Shane Koyczan. In the feedback from the students, one student wrote, "Every year we get lectured about bullying and have assemblies. Doing this poem is better for bullying than any of that could ever be." Sometimes, for some kids, that is how it works.
I started thinking back, way back, to my high school days. One of those teachers that I hope to one day live up to, one that had a great influence on my education, was Mr. Jerry Marsh. Mr. Marsh taught history, government, and economics. Each and every student had to go through his doors in order to graduate. Mr. Marsh challenged us. Mr. Marsh made us read. I would lay odds that any student who had his class will remember 10 point quizzes, where we had to write down 10 points from articles taken from The Wall Street Journal, not a publication most high school students read. Were the quizzes primarily about comprehension? Yes, they were, but they also served as the basis for the discussion, lecture, or activity for the day. I also remember that in World History, Mr. Marsh required us to read some extended text, historical fiction or nonfiction. I chose to read a translation of Mein Kampf and a light little piece titled Johnny Got his Gun. I do not know that I would have read either of those pieces if it were not for that assignment. Actually, I would have read Johnny Got his Gun, mainly because Metallica recorded the song "One" which was based off of the events of the anti-war novel.
I guess what I am getting at is this: kids need to read. They need to read a variety of texts, and they need to read in variety of settings. Reading of all kinds and colors is importnat, and it all can make you think or feel. And in most cases, in the immortal words of John Belushi's Bluto in Animal House, "It don't cost nothin'."
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Sunday, June 23, 2013
"Rule 32"
Recently, I watched Zombieland (again). It is an enjoyable take on the zombie genre, taking a more humorous look at a nation full of the walking dead, where four survivors, plus Bill Murray, for a brief time, try to remain survivors and find something worth surviving for. Throughout the flick, one of four protagonists, Columbus, keeps a list of rules to follow if one hopes to survive in Zombieland. For some reason, as I was walking this morning, I began to think about the film and those rules. At some point, I came to the conclusion that those rules of Zombieland are not exclusive to the land of decay and anarchy. They are universal rules, rules that can aid us all in our quest to survive, and to find something to survive for.
Our four intrepid travels try to make their way through a land where all around them are beings whose only concern in consuming what they crave. Is that really that different from our "real" world? I look around and see being after being doing nothing more than thoughtlessly moving from one consumer opportunity to the next, devouring warm-blooded souls that stand before them. So, why wouldn't the rules of Zombieland apply to our world too? Columbus numbers his rules for survival, and I remember a few of those numbers, but not all of them, so forgive me for omitting some of the numbering. Some of the rules are just common sense, and their application is obvious. "Wear a seatbelt." Duh. "Always do cardio." That is good advice for all of us. "Beware of public bathrooms." Need I explain? Some seem out of place in our pre-apocalyptic world, but they really do fit. "Double-tap" is one example. In Zombieland, it refers to always taking the time to deliver a second shot or blow to the head of the zombie that has been trying to munch your noggin. How does that relate to our world? It is simple. Each of us should take the time to go beyond "good enough" and make sure a job is done correctly, or at least as well as we possibly can do it. Why not take that opportunity to be completely certain that we have made things right, especially if not doing so could one day come back to bite us in the, well, noggin?
One rule is particularly meaningful. Rule 32 states: Enjoy the little things. In the movie, Tallahassee, played by Wood Harrelson, wants nothing more than a Twinkie. Not a Swiss Roll, not a Sno-Ball. A Twinkie. Those little yellow spongecakes are his Holy Grail. If he can find a Twinkie, he can be happy. (Before you smart-alecks point out that Hostess has gone out of business and the Twinkie is no more, I point out a news story on local channel which aired tonight. The Twinkie is back in business, baby!)
Rule 32. How much happier could each of us be if we just allowed ourselves to enjoy the little things? I must admit that I often refuse to follow this rule. I get wrapped up in the big, bad world, I worry about what has not happened yet but might, and I fret over the little negatives, rather than enjoy the little positives. Right now, I am making a pledge to do what I can to follow Rule 32 more in my life. To double tap rule 32, if you will. Those little things are all around, always occurring. That moment when my daughter sprints across the library to give her dad a hug. A glimpse of an incredibly large full moon on a late June night. A message from a former student who has moved on to find success, whatever that may be. Dylan making chocolate chip cookies. That brief 2 degree drop in temperature on a 100 degree day when a cloud moves in front of the sun. Sharing a memory with a sibling because it made you chuckle. Shoulder rubs after a long day. A kiss or a hug before you leave the house. The feeling in a lockeroom just after quiet time. A word of encouragement from a colleague. That moment when someone "gets it". Laughter, whenever. And so on and so on.
So, there you go. Oh, and don't forget Rule 17 of Zombieland: Don't be a hero. Columbus came to the realization that that rule had to be changed: Be a hero. You might be one right now. You might be responsible for one of those little things that make this world worth surviving.
Our four intrepid travels try to make their way through a land where all around them are beings whose only concern in consuming what they crave. Is that really that different from our "real" world? I look around and see being after being doing nothing more than thoughtlessly moving from one consumer opportunity to the next, devouring warm-blooded souls that stand before them. So, why wouldn't the rules of Zombieland apply to our world too? Columbus numbers his rules for survival, and I remember a few of those numbers, but not all of them, so forgive me for omitting some of the numbering. Some of the rules are just common sense, and their application is obvious. "Wear a seatbelt." Duh. "Always do cardio." That is good advice for all of us. "Beware of public bathrooms." Need I explain? Some seem out of place in our pre-apocalyptic world, but they really do fit. "Double-tap" is one example. In Zombieland, it refers to always taking the time to deliver a second shot or blow to the head of the zombie that has been trying to munch your noggin. How does that relate to our world? It is simple. Each of us should take the time to go beyond "good enough" and make sure a job is done correctly, or at least as well as we possibly can do it. Why not take that opportunity to be completely certain that we have made things right, especially if not doing so could one day come back to bite us in the, well, noggin?
One rule is particularly meaningful. Rule 32 states: Enjoy the little things. In the movie, Tallahassee, played by Wood Harrelson, wants nothing more than a Twinkie. Not a Swiss Roll, not a Sno-Ball. A Twinkie. Those little yellow spongecakes are his Holy Grail. If he can find a Twinkie, he can be happy. (Before you smart-alecks point out that Hostess has gone out of business and the Twinkie is no more, I point out a news story on local channel which aired tonight. The Twinkie is back in business, baby!)
Rule 32. How much happier could each of us be if we just allowed ourselves to enjoy the little things? I must admit that I often refuse to follow this rule. I get wrapped up in the big, bad world, I worry about what has not happened yet but might, and I fret over the little negatives, rather than enjoy the little positives. Right now, I am making a pledge to do what I can to follow Rule 32 more in my life. To double tap rule 32, if you will. Those little things are all around, always occurring. That moment when my daughter sprints across the library to give her dad a hug. A glimpse of an incredibly large full moon on a late June night. A message from a former student who has moved on to find success, whatever that may be. Dylan making chocolate chip cookies. That brief 2 degree drop in temperature on a 100 degree day when a cloud moves in front of the sun. Sharing a memory with a sibling because it made you chuckle. Shoulder rubs after a long day. A kiss or a hug before you leave the house. The feeling in a lockeroom just after quiet time. A word of encouragement from a colleague. That moment when someone "gets it". Laughter, whenever. And so on and so on.
So, there you go. Oh, and don't forget Rule 17 of Zombieland: Don't be a hero. Columbus came to the realization that that rule had to be changed: Be a hero. You might be one right now. You might be responsible for one of those little things that make this world worth surviving.
Friday, June 21, 2013
"Let's All Go to the Movies, Let's All Go to the Movies..."
I sit here contemplating whether or not I want to make the long trek across Smallville to the Mall Theaters to see a little flick titled World War Z. I think I want to see the latest offering starring Brad Pitt, but I am not certain. Some of you that know me already are aware of a little fact about my personality: I am one of "those people". "Those people" try to tell other people that "the movie was good, but the book was much better." I will own it, and I am not ashamed. If a movie is as good as the book from which it sprang, I will admit it. However, if a book is truly fulfilling, a tool the author used to take me on a marvelous ride or a probe that he used to stir my thoughts, and the film adaptation fails to do as good a job, I do not see anything wrong with expressing my disappointment.
I liked the new Gatsby. I thoroughly enjoyed the watching Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird when I watched it on TMC with Heidi and Emily the other night. I will not complain at all about the most recent adaptation of Of Mice and Men. Are there aspects of the original novels that still stand out differently in my mind? Yes, but that is not a problem for me. That is not what causes me to hesitate in my decision to go see WWZ.
Andrew Bauer turned me on to the piece that has a unique strucure and approach to the zombie apocalypse genre. Once I started reading the book, I was literally drawn into the twisting and turning story. It is told in such a way that I could not lose interest, and I needed to dive further in. Examinations of politics, religion, patriotism, war, the human spirit, and morality are all woven into the plot. I found myself thinking, "Huh, I had never really thought about that" many times, and I loved it. The problem is, I do not know how the book can be convereted into a traditional summer Hollywood blockbuster without losing so much of what makes the book so intriguing and interesting.
Several years ago, I saw a preview for a movie starring Will Smith. The film was titled I Am Legend. I did what I tend to do, and I found the short novel by that title and read it first. On a side note, my daughter has inheritted this habit from me, and I am elated that she did. Emily read The Great Gatsby this spring, partly because she had seen the previews for the new film, and she felt she had to read the novel first. I love that she did that. I love the images, the characters, the action of a great author's work to develop from his words in my mind, for they are usually much more vibrant and satisfying for me than if I am forced to rely on the interpretation of director or producer. I will even admit that I read Twilight before fighting my gag reflex for 90 minutes of the film version. Why I did that to myself is an entirely different topic, so I will leave you hanging on that one.
So, I read I Am Legend, another offering of the post-apocalyptic genre. The novel focused on an ordinary man who somehow survived an epidemic that had revaged the entire region, and as far as he knws, the world. He is alone as a human being in a world where each night, his former neighbors and co-workers taunt him from outside his house, trying to lure him outside. The protagonist must protect himslef, and determine if he can or even wants to continue to live in this world. The novel explores where our fears might bubble up from, and how we as a individuals and a society combat those fears. Are our fears based in reality, and if so, why is our folklore packed with stories of vampires and the like, as well as the ways to protect ourselves against them? I thoroughly enjoyed the short novel.
I also enjoyed the film starring Will Smith. My only complaint is that they titled it after the novel. So much was changed, and so many of the truly thought-provoking questions were removed. To me, the point of the title itself is lost in the film. As I said, I liked the film and have watched it seveal times. I just wish they had called it something else.
So, my hesitation is not from a fear of zombies. It is not that I fear the film will not be an exciting summer blockbuster. It is not a doubt that Pitt can pull off the role he has chosen. It is more that I do not see how his role could even be in the film in the first place, or how the film can maintain the qualities of the book that made it so enjoyable to me. In the end, I will see the film. Hopefully, I will enjoy it. If I do not, I will probably tell you about it.
I liked the new Gatsby. I thoroughly enjoyed the watching Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird when I watched it on TMC with Heidi and Emily the other night. I will not complain at all about the most recent adaptation of Of Mice and Men. Are there aspects of the original novels that still stand out differently in my mind? Yes, but that is not a problem for me. That is not what causes me to hesitate in my decision to go see WWZ.
Andrew Bauer turned me on to the piece that has a unique strucure and approach to the zombie apocalypse genre. Once I started reading the book, I was literally drawn into the twisting and turning story. It is told in such a way that I could not lose interest, and I needed to dive further in. Examinations of politics, religion, patriotism, war, the human spirit, and morality are all woven into the plot. I found myself thinking, "Huh, I had never really thought about that" many times, and I loved it. The problem is, I do not know how the book can be convereted into a traditional summer Hollywood blockbuster without losing so much of what makes the book so intriguing and interesting.
Several years ago, I saw a preview for a movie starring Will Smith. The film was titled I Am Legend. I did what I tend to do, and I found the short novel by that title and read it first. On a side note, my daughter has inheritted this habit from me, and I am elated that she did. Emily read The Great Gatsby this spring, partly because she had seen the previews for the new film, and she felt she had to read the novel first. I love that she did that. I love the images, the characters, the action of a great author's work to develop from his words in my mind, for they are usually much more vibrant and satisfying for me than if I am forced to rely on the interpretation of director or producer. I will even admit that I read Twilight before fighting my gag reflex for 90 minutes of the film version. Why I did that to myself is an entirely different topic, so I will leave you hanging on that one.
So, I read I Am Legend, another offering of the post-apocalyptic genre. The novel focused on an ordinary man who somehow survived an epidemic that had revaged the entire region, and as far as he knws, the world. He is alone as a human being in a world where each night, his former neighbors and co-workers taunt him from outside his house, trying to lure him outside. The protagonist must protect himslef, and determine if he can or even wants to continue to live in this world. The novel explores where our fears might bubble up from, and how we as a individuals and a society combat those fears. Are our fears based in reality, and if so, why is our folklore packed with stories of vampires and the like, as well as the ways to protect ourselves against them? I thoroughly enjoyed the short novel.
I also enjoyed the film starring Will Smith. My only complaint is that they titled it after the novel. So much was changed, and so many of the truly thought-provoking questions were removed. To me, the point of the title itself is lost in the film. As I said, I liked the film and have watched it seveal times. I just wish they had called it something else.
So, my hesitation is not from a fear of zombies. It is not that I fear the film will not be an exciting summer blockbuster. It is not a doubt that Pitt can pull off the role he has chosen. It is more that I do not see how his role could even be in the film in the first place, or how the film can maintain the qualities of the book that made it so enjoyable to me. In the end, I will see the film. Hopefully, I will enjoy it. If I do not, I will probably tell you about it.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
"The Breakfast Club"
I just finished watching The Breakfast Club with my kids. We had been in Hastings last week when I saw a DVD of the film on sale and commented how much of a classic it is. Emily talked me into buying it for her (she has a bit of an in with her dad, but she has yet to abuse it, thank God). I found out later that she told he rmom she wanted to watch it with me, and Heidi told her I would just recite lines all the way through. Apparently, my wife finds that somewhat annoying. Emily said she kinf of enjoys when I do that. For the record, I do not recite every linne; I recite the best lines.
So, we had our lazy summer evening showing of the film. It really is a classic teen film, and I still enjoyed it. Maybe it is because I have memories attached to, such as Lance Stefek performing his serious solo cutting from the film in forensics. Maybe it is because the film is still relevant today, with its cliques and kids hiding behind perceptions they hate but use as shields to protect themselves. It is a good movie.
I got to thinking about the time someone, probably one of my students, asked me what my favorite movie was. If I remember correctly, I believe I said that it depended what mood I was in at the time. I was not trying to be difficult or dismissive; that is actually true. Sometimes I am looking for something in depth and thought-provoking, such as Inception. I might be in the mood for the twisting and turning, and oddly Shakespearean, such as The Departed.. At other times, I am content to watch Ethan Hawk contort his continence in contemplation in Daybreakers or Training Day. Dead Poets Society or Coach Carter have provided hours of enjoyment. Monty Python and the Holy Grail has made me laugh over and over again. Nothing is better on a Sunday afternoon than John Wayne in the The Cowboys or The Green Beret. Platoon and Apocalypse Now are great films as well. I love The Godfather, Goodfellas, and Gangs of New York. Each of these films could be my favorite, depending on the day. I have not even touched on some of the comedies, sports movies, and sci-fi classics that capture my attention for two hours at a time. It seems I like a lot of movies.
I really do not know what my point is in this entry. Some movies just grab ahold of me. The reasons are as varied as the movies themselves. I do not know why that is. Perhaps it is because, deep within me, I really am a brain, a jock, a basketcase, a princess, and a criminal. Aren't we all?
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
"I Feel Challenged, and I Must Respond"
Today, I had to accept a challenge. Actually, the challenge was issued last night, and I accepted it today after careful consideration and after speaking with my children. This challenge will affect us all. Heidi has not returned home from work, so I have not been able to discuss the challenge with her, but I hope my decision sits well with her.
Last night, Food Channel ran multiple episodes of Diners, Drive-ins and Dives. I did not sit down and watch any particular episode or segment, but I did flip through channels after I returned home from working out and landed on the show as it stopped in some little restaraunt along Route 66. Perhaps, this was a mistake. Perhaps, it may be one of the most delicious decisions I could make. I was challenged, and now I feel obligated. Homemade French fires. Homemade chilli. Homemade chilli cheese fries. I have no choice.
Several months ago, my son Dylan and I developed our own recipe and method of creating homemade oven fries. Potatoes are versitile, and they are cheap. I grew up in a meat and potatoes household. Adkins diet is never a real consideration for me. However, these potatoes are special. They are tasty, they are fresh, and they are relatively healthy, as far as potatoes go. Dylan has observed and added to the seasoning and culinary evolution of the tators. Heidi has forgone the meats and vegetables at certain diining times and made these browned slices of tubar her entire meal. This must serve as the base of my response to Guy's devilish challenge.
Hormel offers canned chilli that I can eaisly snag from the Dillons shelf, dump into a pot, and spoon over our beloved oven fries. However, I cannot bring myself to pervert such a love-laden food creation with a greasy, factory produced mush. My family deserve more. I deserve more. The tators deserve more. Besides, I had some sweet pepers I bought this weekend that needed to be used, and the other supplies were readily avaiable. So, as we speak. a pot of homemade goodness is bubbling on the stove. I may be the only man in Kansas making homemade chilli on this muggy afternoon in June, but that is what must be done.
So now we wait. Good things take time. The potatoes are sliced and soaking; the chilli is at a simmer. Now we must add the proper measurement of patience. It will be worth it in the end. This challenge wil be met, and satisfaction will be gaied. Guy, you may not know it now, but your guantlet has been picked up, and I am preparing to fill it with homemade chilli cheese oven fires.
But first we wait. And walk. This is going to be good, so I am taking preemptive steps and burning some calories before supper. It will be worth it. I challenge you to prove me wrong.
Last night, Food Channel ran multiple episodes of Diners, Drive-ins and Dives. I did not sit down and watch any particular episode or segment, but I did flip through channels after I returned home from working out and landed on the show as it stopped in some little restaraunt along Route 66. Perhaps, this was a mistake. Perhaps, it may be one of the most delicious decisions I could make. I was challenged, and now I feel obligated. Homemade French fires. Homemade chilli. Homemade chilli cheese fries. I have no choice.
Several months ago, my son Dylan and I developed our own recipe and method of creating homemade oven fries. Potatoes are versitile, and they are cheap. I grew up in a meat and potatoes household. Adkins diet is never a real consideration for me. However, these potatoes are special. They are tasty, they are fresh, and they are relatively healthy, as far as potatoes go. Dylan has observed and added to the seasoning and culinary evolution of the tators. Heidi has forgone the meats and vegetables at certain diining times and made these browned slices of tubar her entire meal. This must serve as the base of my response to Guy's devilish challenge.
Hormel offers canned chilli that I can eaisly snag from the Dillons shelf, dump into a pot, and spoon over our beloved oven fries. However, I cannot bring myself to pervert such a love-laden food creation with a greasy, factory produced mush. My family deserve more. I deserve more. The tators deserve more. Besides, I had some sweet pepers I bought this weekend that needed to be used, and the other supplies were readily avaiable. So, as we speak. a pot of homemade goodness is bubbling on the stove. I may be the only man in Kansas making homemade chilli on this muggy afternoon in June, but that is what must be done.
So now we wait. Good things take time. The potatoes are sliced and soaking; the chilli is at a simmer. Now we must add the proper measurement of patience. It will be worth it in the end. This challenge wil be met, and satisfaction will be gaied. Guy, you may not know it now, but your guantlet has been picked up, and I am preparing to fill it with homemade chilli cheese oven fires.
But first we wait. And walk. This is going to be good, so I am taking preemptive steps and burning some calories before supper. It will be worth it. I challenge you to prove me wrong.
Friday, June 14, 2013
"Delmar. Yep, that's right. Delmar."
Father's Day is just aroung the corner, and as I sit here, watching a television show portraying one man's struggle to deal with the fact that he has never known his dad, that he has been cheated by his circumstances and forced to go through life without the firm hand and warm heart of a father, I find myself growning somewhat emotional. A catch in my throat, a blurring of the vision. A tug on the old heart strings.
Ok, I am not really tearing up on my couch. It was "How I Met Your Mother" and it was Barney, whose mother told him his father was Bob Barker, who was putting on this a - wait for it- mazing performane. I needed an intro though, dang it, and this is what I am going with.
You see; I knew my dad. I knew him well. Still do. That "very special episode" was not filmed in my house., Dad was there, in his chair, with his glass of iced tea. We used to untie his work boots each evening while he read the paper. Mom and Dad have since redone the livingroom, added on a new kitchen, but his chair is still in the same place (so is Mom's, by the way). Next to his recliner is a pile of magazines and books, topped with today's newspaper. They have morning delivery now, and Dad is retired, which means he is working part-time instead of beyond full time, so he is probably through the paper by 8 a.m. instrad of 6 p.m. and suppertime.
After supper, if we were lucky, and it was Tuesday, we got to go to the library. We would ride our bikes to the library on Saturdays, mainly becuase most of us, my brother and sister, my cousins, me, were nerds. Still are. The cool kind though. Anyway, on Tuesday evenings, we would go to the Ellsworth Public Library. Mom and Dad were and are both avid readers. Dad monopolized the biography section. He is a non-ficton guy, although he once took "The New Testamnet as Literature" through Barton County CC outreach. He would have multiple books going, cracking the spines as he would set them down, open so he would not lose his place. That is one thing I learned early in life from my Dad: you can never have too many books, or too many newspapers. You can never read too much.
I have learned a great deal from my Dad, and, frankly, some of it sucks. I learned that if I wake up in the morning and my head hurts or I am coughing, I must haul my tail out of bed and go to work. That is what I am supposed to do. I learned that I am not supposed to be able to just sit for long periods of time doing nothing. I can sit, but I need to be reading, writing, talking with the people around me. Something. As Dad would say, "I do not sit around well." I learned that when you have obligatins, you have obligations. You don't juat put them off. They are yours. I learned that sometimes, you just need to think about what you hear and what you see, and you have to make your own decisions. You cannot fall back on what someone else decided; you have to own your own principales and your own decisions based on those principles. You see; sometimes responsibility sucks. But it is what we do.
Above all, I learned that I can never be the man my Dad is. He has been with my Mom for going on 50 years. He can create things with hands that I can picture in my head and can describe in words, but I cannot build. He has sweat under the burden of truly hard work, and seen the reward of the end while putting the hours of labor behind him. He has displayed more physical toughness than any athlete we have ever celebrated. He displays an ease in speaking with people of every bend, one that implants him in their memories while his humility tries to keep him in the background. He has raised three children who value education, honesty, family, and faith, each in his or her own way.
I could go for pages upon pages, filling the supposedly infinitelh internet with examples and samples of what I Dad has taguth me. However, I will end with this: the other day my son and I were working in the garage, cleaming my truck or somethng like that. Dylan said, and I quote here, 'It's like I always say. Why pay someoe $20 if I can do it myself for $5?' I know Dad is proud of his grandson right now. Maybe there is a chance, if I keep working at it, to live up to my Dad's example, so that one day, Dylan or Emily can look back as I do now and think, "I hope I can be like him."
So, Happy Father's Day. Mom, would you please get Dad to put down his book to at least try and read this off the computer? If not, I will print it and sneak it into the newspaper next time I am in town. I know it will be right next to his chair.
Ok, I am not really tearing up on my couch. It was "How I Met Your Mother" and it was Barney, whose mother told him his father was Bob Barker, who was putting on this a - wait for it- mazing performane. I needed an intro though, dang it, and this is what I am going with.
You see; I knew my dad. I knew him well. Still do. That "very special episode" was not filmed in my house., Dad was there, in his chair, with his glass of iced tea. We used to untie his work boots each evening while he read the paper. Mom and Dad have since redone the livingroom, added on a new kitchen, but his chair is still in the same place (so is Mom's, by the way). Next to his recliner is a pile of magazines and books, topped with today's newspaper. They have morning delivery now, and Dad is retired, which means he is working part-time instead of beyond full time, so he is probably through the paper by 8 a.m. instrad of 6 p.m. and suppertime.
After supper, if we were lucky, and it was Tuesday, we got to go to the library. We would ride our bikes to the library on Saturdays, mainly becuase most of us, my brother and sister, my cousins, me, were nerds. Still are. The cool kind though. Anyway, on Tuesday evenings, we would go to the Ellsworth Public Library. Mom and Dad were and are both avid readers. Dad monopolized the biography section. He is a non-ficton guy, although he once took "The New Testamnet as Literature" through Barton County CC outreach. He would have multiple books going, cracking the spines as he would set them down, open so he would not lose his place. That is one thing I learned early in life from my Dad: you can never have too many books, or too many newspapers. You can never read too much.
I have learned a great deal from my Dad, and, frankly, some of it sucks. I learned that if I wake up in the morning and my head hurts or I am coughing, I must haul my tail out of bed and go to work. That is what I am supposed to do. I learned that I am not supposed to be able to just sit for long periods of time doing nothing. I can sit, but I need to be reading, writing, talking with the people around me. Something. As Dad would say, "I do not sit around well." I learned that when you have obligatins, you have obligations. You don't juat put them off. They are yours. I learned that sometimes, you just need to think about what you hear and what you see, and you have to make your own decisions. You cannot fall back on what someone else decided; you have to own your own principales and your own decisions based on those principles. You see; sometimes responsibility sucks. But it is what we do.
Above all, I learned that I can never be the man my Dad is. He has been with my Mom for going on 50 years. He can create things with hands that I can picture in my head and can describe in words, but I cannot build. He has sweat under the burden of truly hard work, and seen the reward of the end while putting the hours of labor behind him. He has displayed more physical toughness than any athlete we have ever celebrated. He displays an ease in speaking with people of every bend, one that implants him in their memories while his humility tries to keep him in the background. He has raised three children who value education, honesty, family, and faith, each in his or her own way.
I could go for pages upon pages, filling the supposedly infinitelh internet with examples and samples of what I Dad has taguth me. However, I will end with this: the other day my son and I were working in the garage, cleaming my truck or somethng like that. Dylan said, and I quote here, 'It's like I always say. Why pay someoe $20 if I can do it myself for $5?' I know Dad is proud of his grandson right now. Maybe there is a chance, if I keep working at it, to live up to my Dad's example, so that one day, Dylan or Emily can look back as I do now and think, "I hope I can be like him."
So, Happy Father's Day. Mom, would you please get Dad to put down his book to at least try and read this off the computer? If not, I will print it and sneak it into the newspaper next time I am in town. I know it will be right next to his chair.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
From M*A*S*H to Sons of Anarchy
I am sitting here watching an episode of the television show M*A*S*H on TVLand and it strikes just how amazingly good this show was. I have seen every episode of the series, and I own several seasons on DVD. In college, I would flip the TV on nearly every night and fall asleep as back-to-back episodes played in numerous rooms down the dungeon in Gessner Hall. I loved the show before college, and my fondness continued to grow with each rerun. The show is appealing on so many levels, and it is truly well-written. The characters have depth, and dialogue is intelligent. Tonight's episode, "Adam's Ribs", centers on one of the main characters' insatiable appetite for barbecued ribs from a little restaraunt in Chicago. At one point, the character, Hawkeye, bursts into a recitation of Carl Sandburg's poem titled after that same city. I never really caught most of the allusions made by the characters on the show until I had grown into adulthood. Fondness for the series developed into appreciation. Somehow, the writers of the show were able to implant a poetry recitation seamlessly into a conversation between a surgeon and a barely-literate company clerk. They play with language constantly, mingling innuendo and puns with slapstick humor or heartfelt monolugues. I guess that is why the show is still shown so often, so many years after its primetime run ended.
There is much lamentation these days about the downfall of American television. "They just do not have shows like MASH anymore!" That is accurate. There is no show like MASH out there today. If we only look at reality TV, then that is proof positive that TV is in a dire state. However, there are worthwhile shows out there. The Big Bang Theory is smartly-written and has developed well-rounded characters. For me, the best show on televsion today is Sons of Anarchy a show that will enter its sixth season on FX this fall. The show revolves around Jaxon Teller, his mother Gemma, his soulmate Tara, his stepfather Clay, and the other members of a California outlaw motorcycle club. The show is written by Kurt Sutter, who was a main writer several years ago on another incredible FX offering titled The Shield. That program followed the dirty deeds of a trgic hero named Vic Macky, a police detective who went dirty with the cleanest of intentions. Both of these shows contain their fair share of gunplay and well-beyond PG-13 visuals and languge. However, they also possess characters who wrestle with internal conflicts, created by who they are, who they hope to be, and who they are perceived to be. As they struggle to live their lives, their flaws are exposed, and their virtues tested. They are tragic heroes, as Shakespearean as Hamlet or Othello. Jax, of SOA, returns to the town where he grew up, where his mother has married Clay, Jax's father's closest friend, his brother in founding the motorcycle club. As time progresses, the voice of the dead father speaks to Jax through the journls he had left behind, and Jax eventually learns through his father's words in those journals and letters written before his death that Clay, and his lust for the father's wife, are to blame for his death. Does that sound familiar? In later seasons, we begin to see how Gemma, Jax's mother, thirsts for power, going so far as to attempt to set up the murder of the old King, I mean, club president. She has blood on her hands. "Out damned spot! Out!"
There are other sublties that add to the show's greatness. In one plotline, a young member of the club discovers that his father, a man he had never met and knew nother about, was African-American. The member, named Juice, is conflicted. The history of the club in the area of race relations has been less than stellar. For Juice, the club is everything. They are truly his family, and to lose the club would mean the end of his life. Does Juice trust his brothers and tell them the truth, risking the loss of his identify and family, or does he keep it a secret, a choice that could lead to even more dire consequences? Near the end of one episode, Juice pulls a chain from the back of a truck. I said out loud, "He is going to hang himself." In a few minutes, Juice climbed a tree, wrapped one end of the chain around a large branch and the other around his neck. He jumped. (I will not reveal how that plotline continued. You will have to watch the show.) Someone asked me, incredulously, "How did you know that?" It was simple, really. As Juice got out of the truck and headed toward the back where he would retrieve the chain, a song was playing. It took me two lines of the lyrics to recognize where the words came from: a poem/song titled "Strange Fruit". The poem is about strange fruit swinging from southern poplar trees. The strange fruit is the bodies of black men who had beeen lynched, lynched for no other reason than being black.
If you get a chance and are looking to fill some summer hours, find season one of Sons of Anarchy. You will be hooked. If that doe snot work out, I have DVDs of this show about a medical unit in the Korean War you might want to check out.
There is much lamentation these days about the downfall of American television. "They just do not have shows like MASH anymore!" That is accurate. There is no show like MASH out there today. If we only look at reality TV, then that is proof positive that TV is in a dire state. However, there are worthwhile shows out there. The Big Bang Theory is smartly-written and has developed well-rounded characters. For me, the best show on televsion today is Sons of Anarchy a show that will enter its sixth season on FX this fall. The show revolves around Jaxon Teller, his mother Gemma, his soulmate Tara, his stepfather Clay, and the other members of a California outlaw motorcycle club. The show is written by Kurt Sutter, who was a main writer several years ago on another incredible FX offering titled The Shield. That program followed the dirty deeds of a trgic hero named Vic Macky, a police detective who went dirty with the cleanest of intentions. Both of these shows contain their fair share of gunplay and well-beyond PG-13 visuals and languge. However, they also possess characters who wrestle with internal conflicts, created by who they are, who they hope to be, and who they are perceived to be. As they struggle to live their lives, their flaws are exposed, and their virtues tested. They are tragic heroes, as Shakespearean as Hamlet or Othello. Jax, of SOA, returns to the town where he grew up, where his mother has married Clay, Jax's father's closest friend, his brother in founding the motorcycle club. As time progresses, the voice of the dead father speaks to Jax through the journls he had left behind, and Jax eventually learns through his father's words in those journals and letters written before his death that Clay, and his lust for the father's wife, are to blame for his death. Does that sound familiar? In later seasons, we begin to see how Gemma, Jax's mother, thirsts for power, going so far as to attempt to set up the murder of the old King, I mean, club president. She has blood on her hands. "Out damned spot! Out!"
There are other sublties that add to the show's greatness. In one plotline, a young member of the club discovers that his father, a man he had never met and knew nother about, was African-American. The member, named Juice, is conflicted. The history of the club in the area of race relations has been less than stellar. For Juice, the club is everything. They are truly his family, and to lose the club would mean the end of his life. Does Juice trust his brothers and tell them the truth, risking the loss of his identify and family, or does he keep it a secret, a choice that could lead to even more dire consequences? Near the end of one episode, Juice pulls a chain from the back of a truck. I said out loud, "He is going to hang himself." In a few minutes, Juice climbed a tree, wrapped one end of the chain around a large branch and the other around his neck. He jumped. (I will not reveal how that plotline continued. You will have to watch the show.) Someone asked me, incredulously, "How did you know that?" It was simple, really. As Juice got out of the truck and headed toward the back where he would retrieve the chain, a song was playing. It took me two lines of the lyrics to recognize where the words came from: a poem/song titled "Strange Fruit". The poem is about strange fruit swinging from southern poplar trees. The strange fruit is the bodies of black men who had beeen lynched, lynched for no other reason than being black.
If you get a chance and are looking to fill some summer hours, find season one of Sons of Anarchy. You will be hooked. If that doe snot work out, I have DVDs of this show about a medical unit in the Korean War you might want to check out.
"Summer Day's Affair"
Summer Day’s Affair
Jason Kohls
Sensation strikes with piercing stab;
You wince as the realization forms.
How could you do this,
Sweet summer’s friend?
Just one afternoon together –
She provided a heat unaccustomed –
But she has receded,
Gone
And left you to shiver
In the lukewarm sea of swimming breezes;
She has left you to nurse
The scorched wound of the day’s heat.
She’d made you sweat,
Small, salty droplets of human strength,
And now she makes you weep
Small, salty droplets of human submission.
Your heart still throbs,
So strong, in fact,
You feel its pulsations in each and every pore.
“Don’t touch me!” you gasp at the brush of the
Comforting hand.
You flinch away, smoldering evidence of the
Summer day’s affair.
Monday, June 10, 2013
"Hundred...Dollar...BillS"
As a disclaimer, this post is not actually about $100 bills. I recently lamented the fact that when I took my daughter to coffee the other day, the register was uable to provide change for a $50 bill on a $10 tab. This post is not really about $50 bills. This post is about my revolutionary spending control plan.
Another disclaimer: this plan is not new at all because I learned it from the same source that I have learned nearly every governing principle in my life, my dad. I still carry cash, at least when I carry something that can be used to make purchases in our capitalistic system. My wife Heidi does not understand why I choose to use cash. "You never know where that money goes," she will say. My response is always the same: "I know exactly where it goes. It stays in my pocket."
You see, I choose to carry big bills. And by big bills, I mean 20s. Having only a $50 bill was a rare occurrence. By carrying larger denominations, I am encouraged not to spend. It is really quite simple: I hate the idiea of breaking a bill. I have chosen not to buy a bag of peanuts in the Kwik Shop because I cannot bring myself to break a $10 bill for a $.59 purchase. A dollar I could sacrifice with no issue. A $5 note is not a major quandry, although I might think twice. A $10 bill holds some sway when considering a $1 purchase. I am forced to ask myself, "Do I really want peanuts, or am I just buying them because I am here? Do I require that $.69 32 oz. iced tea, or can I make it home where I have a gallon brewed and waiting in the fridge?" I usually choose to leave my wallet snuggly tucked away, unmolested. That is where the plan goes into effect. By not breaking the $10 bill, I have not cluttered my pocket with change or $1 bills. Then, when my next opportunity to make a small purchase arises, I must once again determine exactly what I want to do, and why. A $1 bill is easy to turn over to a cashier. After all, it is just a dollar. Change is even easier to pass out. The decision weighing becomes a habit. I have now noticed this thought process has infiltrated my use of today's chosen spending tool, the debit card. I was going to buy a bag of jelly beans. Such a simple purchase, totaling about $1.39, plus tax. I had no cash, and no change. I did have my wallet, and my debit card. I could not force myself to swipe that piece of magical plastic for $1.39, plus tax. It seemed, wrong.
On a side note, my brother has developed an even more successful spending control plan; do not carry your wallet at all. I employ this techique from time to time as well. It is my brother Darrel (not my other brother Darrel) who has perfected the cash register 'wonder where my wallet is' maneuver.
So, there you have it, a plan for your personal financial freedom. I hope it proves useful. Now, I must be going. I have camp in 30 minutes, and I want to stop and get something to drink. Or maybe not. Has anyone seen my wallet?
Another disclaimer: this plan is not new at all because I learned it from the same source that I have learned nearly every governing principle in my life, my dad. I still carry cash, at least when I carry something that can be used to make purchases in our capitalistic system. My wife Heidi does not understand why I choose to use cash. "You never know where that money goes," she will say. My response is always the same: "I know exactly where it goes. It stays in my pocket."
You see, I choose to carry big bills. And by big bills, I mean 20s. Having only a $50 bill was a rare occurrence. By carrying larger denominations, I am encouraged not to spend. It is really quite simple: I hate the idiea of breaking a bill. I have chosen not to buy a bag of peanuts in the Kwik Shop because I cannot bring myself to break a $10 bill for a $.59 purchase. A dollar I could sacrifice with no issue. A $5 note is not a major quandry, although I might think twice. A $10 bill holds some sway when considering a $1 purchase. I am forced to ask myself, "Do I really want peanuts, or am I just buying them because I am here? Do I require that $.69 32 oz. iced tea, or can I make it home where I have a gallon brewed and waiting in the fridge?" I usually choose to leave my wallet snuggly tucked away, unmolested. That is where the plan goes into effect. By not breaking the $10 bill, I have not cluttered my pocket with change or $1 bills. Then, when my next opportunity to make a small purchase arises, I must once again determine exactly what I want to do, and why. A $1 bill is easy to turn over to a cashier. After all, it is just a dollar. Change is even easier to pass out. The decision weighing becomes a habit. I have now noticed this thought process has infiltrated my use of today's chosen spending tool, the debit card. I was going to buy a bag of jelly beans. Such a simple purchase, totaling about $1.39, plus tax. I had no cash, and no change. I did have my wallet, and my debit card. I could not force myself to swipe that piece of magical plastic for $1.39, plus tax. It seemed, wrong.
On a side note, my brother has developed an even more successful spending control plan; do not carry your wallet at all. I employ this techique from time to time as well. It is my brother Darrel (not my other brother Darrel) who has perfected the cash register 'wonder where my wallet is' maneuver.
So, there you have it, a plan for your personal financial freedom. I hope it proves useful. Now, I must be going. I have camp in 30 minutes, and I want to stop and get something to drink. Or maybe not. Has anyone seen my wallet?
Sunday, June 9, 2013
"One Meandering Playlist"
I did not sit down and write yesterday, and this whole blog thing has begun to develop a sense of responsibility regarding needing to write each day. I suppose that is why I did it, so that is a good thing. Unfortunately, when I do not write, I now have a feeling guilt and failure. So, I have that going for me.
I was in a bit of a mood yesterday, and instead of writing, I went for a walk. It was supposed to rain later in the day, my iphone was charged, and I needed the exercise, so it seemed like a good time to get it done. When I walk, I listen to music, and that can be a tremendous positive. I found out that what some call "4 O'clock Music" will speed up my pace significantly, and the more varied the playlist is, the more varied my mental wonderings will be. Yesterday, the shuffle feature did its job and presented me with a varied and intriguing train of thought. "Beautiful People" and "Break Stuff" gave it somewhat heavy 90s edge, while "No Church in the Wild" and "Cinderella Man" added a significant rap influence. "Messiah" and "Satellite" brought the mix more up to date, while "People Are Strange" and "Black Dog" reved up the old wayback machine. I do realize that there is not a country title on this playlist, and as I look back at the "Recently Played" titles, none has found its way onto the top 40. I have country tracks on in my collection, but not for working out. Sorry, bu that is just how it goes sometimes.
Country tunes have their place in my mix, and they play their role well. Each of the songs listed above has its role on a workout playlist. Some are obvious: "Break Stuff" is about breaking stuff. It is ideal, not for those days when working out is a health habit or a good for me obligation, but for those days when physical exertion is required for release and maintenance of sanity. Catharsis. I would put "Beautiful People" in that same category, and it is great for that at times, but if you can focus you thoughts on the imagery of the lyrics for a moment, it really goes beyond that.
"I don't want you, and I don't need you
Don't bother to resist or I'll beat you.
It's not your fault that your always wrong;
The weak ones are there to justify the strong.
The beautiful people, beautiful people.
It's all relative to the size of your steeple..."
(Lines 1-6, "The Beautiful People" by Marilyn Mason)
I do not know how MM intended those lines to be taken, or if he intended anything beyond shock value. The verse continues with another colorful image or two that push my mind to consider thoughts of a religious nature. He also goes further to draw capitalism and fascism into the discussion, which leads me to consider ideas revolving not around one religion vs another or one belief versus another, but more about the tendency, or perhaps the compulsion, for us, as a society, to congregate and look for something to grab onto, something to "worship", not necessarily in a religious sense. When this happens, it grants power those who can grab it. Sometimes, that power is granted by the simple fact that someone must have power. That power is sometimes extremely positive, for it is power that allows the weak to be protected; "the weak are there to justify the strong". Sometimes, that power is used to exploit the weak, and in turn, create more power. Im the end, power is maintained, increased, and enhanced by the ability to draw more into the group, the tribe, while at the same time becoming exclusionary, and, therefore, special. The larger the group, and ironically, the more exclusionary, the more attractive it is, and the more powerful it is. That power is "all relative to the size of your steeple." The large steeple creates pride for those who are in the group, draws people to the group, and develops envy in those forced to stand on the outside and stare up at the beacon. I know; many will argue that that line is much dirtier than I have presented it, and they may be correct. Feel free to comment. Please.
I truly had not intended for this post to take on a religious tone, but, as I said in an earlier post, sometimes we write so we can think. Plus, we can understand what one person says in his verse or prose without agreeing whole, partly, or at all with the concepts. I also do not think I have actually said anything truly religious either; my thoughts are more focused on society as a whole rather than religion. Secular, not sacred. It is about what we as a society "worship", rightly or wrongly. In "No Church in the Wild" this idea, along with many others, is explored from different angles. I told my kids in class that I love the hook and the Jay-Z verse of the song because of the thought and thought-provoking content they possess. i told them I wished Kanye's verse had not been included because he takes exactly one line to shift to "stereotypical rap" topics of prostitues and drug use. However, I listened more closely to that verse (I try to follow my own advice, but am sometimes slow in doing so), and my complaint mow is more that I could never use the verse in class because of its presentation rather than a lack of depth. Kanye draws on Jay-Z's assertion that what is acceptable and moral changes as society changes, and that a "new religion" (by religion, I believe it means what we base the way we live on, the system of beliefs and principles that guide us, be they secular or sacred) based on true honesty, where the only sin is deception, might come into acceptance, or may already be rising up. It wil be determined by society, and by who has the largest steeple.
Now may be a good time to hit pause. I said before that I missed the open discussions that are not as accessible in the summer. I had no intention of following the rabbit trail we scampered down when i started this post, but this is where it has led. Plus, I have a list of future topics listed above in the musical playlist, so I cannot use my classroom favorite of "I have nothing to write about" as excuse not to post in the future. In the interim, put in those earbuds or turn on the stereo and push play. You never know where those tunes might take you.
I was in a bit of a mood yesterday, and instead of writing, I went for a walk. It was supposed to rain later in the day, my iphone was charged, and I needed the exercise, so it seemed like a good time to get it done. When I walk, I listen to music, and that can be a tremendous positive. I found out that what some call "4 O'clock Music" will speed up my pace significantly, and the more varied the playlist is, the more varied my mental wonderings will be. Yesterday, the shuffle feature did its job and presented me with a varied and intriguing train of thought. "Beautiful People" and "Break Stuff" gave it somewhat heavy 90s edge, while "No Church in the Wild" and "Cinderella Man" added a significant rap influence. "Messiah" and "Satellite" brought the mix more up to date, while "People Are Strange" and "Black Dog" reved up the old wayback machine. I do realize that there is not a country title on this playlist, and as I look back at the "Recently Played" titles, none has found its way onto the top 40. I have country tracks on in my collection, but not for working out. Sorry, bu that is just how it goes sometimes.
Country tunes have their place in my mix, and they play their role well. Each of the songs listed above has its role on a workout playlist. Some are obvious: "Break Stuff" is about breaking stuff. It is ideal, not for those days when working out is a health habit or a good for me obligation, but for those days when physical exertion is required for release and maintenance of sanity. Catharsis. I would put "Beautiful People" in that same category, and it is great for that at times, but if you can focus you thoughts on the imagery of the lyrics for a moment, it really goes beyond that.
"I don't want you, and I don't need you
Don't bother to resist or I'll beat you.
It's not your fault that your always wrong;
The weak ones are there to justify the strong.
The beautiful people, beautiful people.
It's all relative to the size of your steeple..."
(Lines 1-6, "The Beautiful People" by Marilyn Mason)
I do not know how MM intended those lines to be taken, or if he intended anything beyond shock value. The verse continues with another colorful image or two that push my mind to consider thoughts of a religious nature. He also goes further to draw capitalism and fascism into the discussion, which leads me to consider ideas revolving not around one religion vs another or one belief versus another, but more about the tendency, or perhaps the compulsion, for us, as a society, to congregate and look for something to grab onto, something to "worship", not necessarily in a religious sense. When this happens, it grants power those who can grab it. Sometimes, that power is granted by the simple fact that someone must have power. That power is sometimes extremely positive, for it is power that allows the weak to be protected; "the weak are there to justify the strong". Sometimes, that power is used to exploit the weak, and in turn, create more power. Im the end, power is maintained, increased, and enhanced by the ability to draw more into the group, the tribe, while at the same time becoming exclusionary, and, therefore, special. The larger the group, and ironically, the more exclusionary, the more attractive it is, and the more powerful it is. That power is "all relative to the size of your steeple." The large steeple creates pride for those who are in the group, draws people to the group, and develops envy in those forced to stand on the outside and stare up at the beacon. I know; many will argue that that line is much dirtier than I have presented it, and they may be correct. Feel free to comment. Please.
I truly had not intended for this post to take on a religious tone, but, as I said in an earlier post, sometimes we write so we can think. Plus, we can understand what one person says in his verse or prose without agreeing whole, partly, or at all with the concepts. I also do not think I have actually said anything truly religious either; my thoughts are more focused on society as a whole rather than religion. Secular, not sacred. It is about what we as a society "worship", rightly or wrongly. In "No Church in the Wild" this idea, along with many others, is explored from different angles. I told my kids in class that I love the hook and the Jay-Z verse of the song because of the thought and thought-provoking content they possess. i told them I wished Kanye's verse had not been included because he takes exactly one line to shift to "stereotypical rap" topics of prostitues and drug use. However, I listened more closely to that verse (I try to follow my own advice, but am sometimes slow in doing so), and my complaint mow is more that I could never use the verse in class because of its presentation rather than a lack of depth. Kanye draws on Jay-Z's assertion that what is acceptable and moral changes as society changes, and that a "new religion" (by religion, I believe it means what we base the way we live on, the system of beliefs and principles that guide us, be they secular or sacred) based on true honesty, where the only sin is deception, might come into acceptance, or may already be rising up. It wil be determined by society, and by who has the largest steeple.
Now may be a good time to hit pause. I said before that I missed the open discussions that are not as accessible in the summer. I had no intention of following the rabbit trail we scampered down when i started this post, but this is where it has led. Plus, I have a list of future topics listed above in the musical playlist, so I cannot use my classroom favorite of "I have nothing to write about" as excuse not to post in the future. In the interim, put in those earbuds or turn on the stereo and push play. You never know where those tunes might take you.
Friday, June 7, 2013
"Going to Quick Shop"
"Summer, summer, summertime./Time to sit back and unwind." Will Smith (aka The Fresh Prince)
"Summertime" video. Click it; you know you want to.
That really has nothing to do with today's blog, but it is Friday, and you deserve it. Today I had a date. I went to The Metro with my beautiful daughter Emily. We ordered coffee. Actually, we ordered coffee, but then I had to change my order to a small iced tea because I had a couple of small bills and a $50 bill (Why I would be carrying a $50 bill is another topic completely, so I may revisit that.), and they could not make change for a $50. Really? They could not make just over $40 in change at an established business at 11:30 in the morning? Not a garage sale or a lemonade stand, but an actual brick and mortar business that charges over $4 for fancy coffee and does major business in the morning. Anyway, she ordered iced coffee, and I had iced tea. More importantly, we found a tall table next to the board games and snagged the Scrabble game. Nearly two hours later, Em played her last tile to end the game. I won, by the way.
The coffee and the Scrabble really do not matter. It used to be a sno-ball and small fountain drink at the C-Plus store. Emily and I started going on these outings many years ago; I think she was probably three or four years old. I was coaching football, and I realized that I could go days without actually sitting down with my family. I decided that every Saturday morning, Emily and I would "go to the Quick Shop." Later, we included her little brother, and they got their sugar fixes for the week. So did I, to be honest. Those visits were fun, ad they were something we all looked forward to.
A while back, maybe a year ago, I asked Emily if she wanted to go get a drink, just the two of us. She said she wanted to, and when I asked where she wanted to go, she said, "Can we go to Kwik Shop?" Not Hastings, not Starbucks, not The Metro, not even the McCafe. Kwik Shop. She told me that day that she remembers "going to the Quick Shop", and she missed doing that. Honestly, I did too.
When I was a kid, my dad would say to my sister, brother, and me, "Let's go for a ride" or "Who wants to get a pop?" Back then, a 32 oz fountain drink was huge, so Dad was the only one who got a pop so freakishly large. I did not really think about "going for a ride" or "going to get a pop" until we started making out weekly trips to C-Plus. Recently, I went back to Ellsworth. My grandma had passed away, and the funeral was the next day. Earlier in the week, my dad had said, "I do not sit around very well." As soon as I go to the house, Dad and I drank a cup of coffee. A couple of minutes later, he said "Let's go for a ride." We drove out and spent some time at the farm with my aunt and cousin, and then drove back to town. At that point, it was purely "going for a ride." We covered every neighborhood in the sprawling metropolis that is Ellsworth. We didn't even stop for a pop. We were just "going for a ride." It was time well-spent.
Nowadays, we do not "go to the Quick Shop" each and every Saturday. Sometimes, the two of them will venture down with their mom and me and get Shaved Ice (the greatest snowcones in Hutch). The other day, Dylan, Emily, and I walked do to Hastings. No reason, we just walked down to Hastings. Sometimes we just go get a drink at Kwik Shop, although Hutch's Kwik Shops do not have places to sit. Plus, as most of you know, Hostess has shut down, and, therefore, Sno-balls are hard to find, and I do not drink pop anymore. However, that does not really matter; it has nothing to do with the snacks, the drinks, or the place we sit. It has to do with "going to the Quick Shop", and the fact that that is something we miss. It is something worthwhile.
So, it is summertime, time to sit back and unwind. Relax. Go to Quick Shop, go for a ride, or go get shaved ice. You might miss it later, but you will never regret it.
"Summertime" video. Click it; you know you want to.
That really has nothing to do with today's blog, but it is Friday, and you deserve it. Today I had a date. I went to The Metro with my beautiful daughter Emily. We ordered coffee. Actually, we ordered coffee, but then I had to change my order to a small iced tea because I had a couple of small bills and a $50 bill (Why I would be carrying a $50 bill is another topic completely, so I may revisit that.), and they could not make change for a $50. Really? They could not make just over $40 in change at an established business at 11:30 in the morning? Not a garage sale or a lemonade stand, but an actual brick and mortar business that charges over $4 for fancy coffee and does major business in the morning. Anyway, she ordered iced coffee, and I had iced tea. More importantly, we found a tall table next to the board games and snagged the Scrabble game. Nearly two hours later, Em played her last tile to end the game. I won, by the way.
The coffee and the Scrabble really do not matter. It used to be a sno-ball and small fountain drink at the C-Plus store. Emily and I started going on these outings many years ago; I think she was probably three or four years old. I was coaching football, and I realized that I could go days without actually sitting down with my family. I decided that every Saturday morning, Emily and I would "go to the Quick Shop." Later, we included her little brother, and they got their sugar fixes for the week. So did I, to be honest. Those visits were fun, ad they were something we all looked forward to.
A while back, maybe a year ago, I asked Emily if she wanted to go get a drink, just the two of us. She said she wanted to, and when I asked where she wanted to go, she said, "Can we go to Kwik Shop?" Not Hastings, not Starbucks, not The Metro, not even the McCafe. Kwik Shop. She told me that day that she remembers "going to the Quick Shop", and she missed doing that. Honestly, I did too.
When I was a kid, my dad would say to my sister, brother, and me, "Let's go for a ride" or "Who wants to get a pop?" Back then, a 32 oz fountain drink was huge, so Dad was the only one who got a pop so freakishly large. I did not really think about "going for a ride" or "going to get a pop" until we started making out weekly trips to C-Plus. Recently, I went back to Ellsworth. My grandma had passed away, and the funeral was the next day. Earlier in the week, my dad had said, "I do not sit around very well." As soon as I go to the house, Dad and I drank a cup of coffee. A couple of minutes later, he said "Let's go for a ride." We drove out and spent some time at the farm with my aunt and cousin, and then drove back to town. At that point, it was purely "going for a ride." We covered every neighborhood in the sprawling metropolis that is Ellsworth. We didn't even stop for a pop. We were just "going for a ride." It was time well-spent.
Nowadays, we do not "go to the Quick Shop" each and every Saturday. Sometimes, the two of them will venture down with their mom and me and get Shaved Ice (the greatest snowcones in Hutch). The other day, Dylan, Emily, and I walked do to Hastings. No reason, we just walked down to Hastings. Sometimes we just go get a drink at Kwik Shop, although Hutch's Kwik Shops do not have places to sit. Plus, as most of you know, Hostess has shut down, and, therefore, Sno-balls are hard to find, and I do not drink pop anymore. However, that does not really matter; it has nothing to do with the snacks, the drinks, or the place we sit. It has to do with "going to the Quick Shop", and the fact that that is something we miss. It is something worthwhile.
So, it is summertime, time to sit back and unwind. Relax. Go to Quick Shop, go for a ride, or go get shaved ice. You might miss it later, but you will never regret it.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
"It's Alive!"
So, in my last post, I discussed an article about a debate over correct usage of adverbs and adjectives to introduce sentences and that this article reminded me just how interesting language is. Actually, I started to discuss the article, and then I got off track and discussed stereotyping and how inaaproriate misconceptions truly are when one attempts to place individuals into particular pigeon holes. However, I would like to revisit that original thought.
"What is the purpose of language?" asked Mr. Keating, Robin William's character in Dead Poets Society. "To communicate," responded one of his loyal charges. "Wrong! To woo women!" the teacher infomraed him and the class. Regardless of the purpose of language, it is an interesting beast. Yes, beast. Creature, monster, animal. Pick one you like, but be sure it is alive. Active. Animated. Language is organic; it is living. Language grows, it develops, and changes. Why? It does these things because it is alive; it is alive because it is actually a part of us. It is what we use to interact, the get what we want, to express how we feel, and, yes, to woo women. Because it is a part of us, it is alive. Because we, collectively and individually, change, it, therefore, must change. Latin does not change. It is a dead language. No one actually uses it on a daily basis because he wants to use it. English, be it the Queen's or own bastardized mongrel, is not dead.
My family was watching "The 100 Greatest Videos of the 00s" on VH1 last night. Thanks to Beyonce, bootilicious is now in the dictionary. Look it up, but make sure it is a new edition. "Disgusting!" some may say as they turn their noses up at this new generation and their butchering of the English language. Hold on there, bud. If I am correct, William Shakespeare was turning new phrases, or at least was penning them for future generations long before Ms, Knowles came on the scene. One of my English professors in college told me that one Romantic poet was skewered by critics for daring to use the crude term (steady now) wheelbarrel in a poem. Wordworth, perhaps. The word was too low, too common. My point is that language grows and changes and moves, just as we do. Words fall in and out of usage, vocabulary is invented by imagination or necessity, and the idea of what is proper or acceptable mutates and transforms. It is interesting, sometimes even exciting. Sometimes, it is humorous. Sometimes, it is downright disturbing. Have you ever called someone, or been called by someone else, a "little bugger"? That is just nasty. It really is. Look it up.
"What is the purpose of language?" asked Mr. Keating, Robin William's character in Dead Poets Society. "To communicate," responded one of his loyal charges. "Wrong! To woo women!" the teacher infomraed him and the class. Regardless of the purpose of language, it is an interesting beast. Yes, beast. Creature, monster, animal. Pick one you like, but be sure it is alive. Active. Animated. Language is organic; it is living. Language grows, it develops, and changes. Why? It does these things because it is alive; it is alive because it is actually a part of us. It is what we use to interact, the get what we want, to express how we feel, and, yes, to woo women. Because it is a part of us, it is alive. Because we, collectively and individually, change, it, therefore, must change. Latin does not change. It is a dead language. No one actually uses it on a daily basis because he wants to use it. English, be it the Queen's or own bastardized mongrel, is not dead.
My family was watching "The 100 Greatest Videos of the 00s" on VH1 last night. Thanks to Beyonce, bootilicious is now in the dictionary. Look it up, but make sure it is a new edition. "Disgusting!" some may say as they turn their noses up at this new generation and their butchering of the English language. Hold on there, bud. If I am correct, William Shakespeare was turning new phrases, or at least was penning them for future generations long before Ms, Knowles came on the scene. One of my English professors in college told me that one Romantic poet was skewered by critics for daring to use the crude term (steady now) wheelbarrel in a poem. Wordworth, perhaps. The word was too low, too common. My point is that language grows and changes and moves, just as we do. Words fall in and out of usage, vocabulary is invented by imagination or necessity, and the idea of what is proper or acceptable mutates and transforms. It is interesting, sometimes even exciting. Sometimes, it is humorous. Sometimes, it is downright disturbing. Have you ever called someone, or been called by someone else, a "little bugger"? That is just nasty. It really is. Look it up.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
"Where Will This One Go?"
I returned this afternoon from two days at football camp coaching some of the greatest kids a person could ever work with. I realized that I had not written here for a few days, so, while I have no real idea what I am going to write, I feel I should. In fact, write something. Therefore, this post may truly live up to the blog title.
This morning, during my morning reading time, I came across an article posted on Facebook that focused on the use of adverbs and adjectives to introduce sentences, word and phrases such as Interestingly, most interesting, most striking, and most strikingly. I read the article, and after completing the piece, two major thought crossed my mind: one, language, especially, the English language, is a tremendously interesting subject, and, two, I am a nerd. Language is an incredible tool, and every situation and setting uses language differently, but in some common manner. I see a wide variety of those situations and experience the language demanded and enjoyed in those circumstances. I spend my time around fellow teachers, football coaches, and painters, among others. Many of them fill several of those roles at once. One, like me, holds the rare trifecta of Egnlish teacher, football coach, and part-time painter. This is also the same individual who, when approached by a young lady in McDonald's who just wanted to sell us some high quality books to help her earn money for college (that is another topic for down the road), responded, "I don't read." Actually, I believe, it was "I don't read, I don't like books, and you don't want to talk to me." "I don't read" is not the comment you would expect from an English teacher, not even one who coaches football. For the record, the comment was untrue, but it was pleasantly effective.
Throughout my 20 years as a teacher and a coach, I have received numerous questioning stares, doubtful sighs, and outright disrespectful scoffs from people who hear I teach English, read, write, and coach football. Why does that happen? Football is one of the most cerebral games men play. Lombardi was once approached by both the Democratic and Republican parties about possbily running on their tickets as a vice-presidental candidate. My college football coach was a double major in college, math and PE. The list of examples is long, impressive, and distinguished. Stereotyping anyone is rude at best, and dangerous at worst. Looking at the English team that I am a member of should shatter preconceptions about the nerds that teach English. The examples I give are incomplete, for each one of these people possesses depth and range of character that cannot be summed up in single sentences, but they are boiled-down examples that are supposed to prove my point. So, back off. One well-read scholar holds an advanced degree and has been known to fill the seat of an over the road truckdriver. Another has served as a newspaper editor and has proven as willing as any person I have met to attack new risks not as obstacles but as opportunites, all the while exploring the zombie apocalyse genre with a keen eye. One young lady, a former college cheerleader, aspires to become a college literature professor and can (and will) outshoot most men with a pistol. One English teacher, a young mom, is an avd and sometimes rabid NASCAR fan. Another talented young woman leaves her classroom, where she challenges her advanced students to by pushing them intellectually, driving them to write more and better than they think they are capable of, and straddles her Harley-Davidson for a pleasant ride home. I even have a fellow football coach on the hall, one who, gasp, reads and writes well and passes that passion on to his students.. So, yeah, we are just a bunch of nerdy English teachers. I am truly glad to be a member of that group.
What was the other idea? Oh, English is increibly interesting. Yes. Language is cool. I believe I will hold on to that idea for later. I have practice film to watch, and there is a book I want to start reading.
This morning, during my morning reading time, I came across an article posted on Facebook that focused on the use of adverbs and adjectives to introduce sentences, word and phrases such as Interestingly, most interesting, most striking, and most strikingly. I read the article, and after completing the piece, two major thought crossed my mind: one, language, especially, the English language, is a tremendously interesting subject, and, two, I am a nerd. Language is an incredible tool, and every situation and setting uses language differently, but in some common manner. I see a wide variety of those situations and experience the language demanded and enjoyed in those circumstances. I spend my time around fellow teachers, football coaches, and painters, among others. Many of them fill several of those roles at once. One, like me, holds the rare trifecta of Egnlish teacher, football coach, and part-time painter. This is also the same individual who, when approached by a young lady in McDonald's who just wanted to sell us some high quality books to help her earn money for college (that is another topic for down the road), responded, "I don't read." Actually, I believe, it was "I don't read, I don't like books, and you don't want to talk to me." "I don't read" is not the comment you would expect from an English teacher, not even one who coaches football. For the record, the comment was untrue, but it was pleasantly effective.
Throughout my 20 years as a teacher and a coach, I have received numerous questioning stares, doubtful sighs, and outright disrespectful scoffs from people who hear I teach English, read, write, and coach football. Why does that happen? Football is one of the most cerebral games men play. Lombardi was once approached by both the Democratic and Republican parties about possbily running on their tickets as a vice-presidental candidate. My college football coach was a double major in college, math and PE. The list of examples is long, impressive, and distinguished. Stereotyping anyone is rude at best, and dangerous at worst. Looking at the English team that I am a member of should shatter preconceptions about the nerds that teach English. The examples I give are incomplete, for each one of these people possesses depth and range of character that cannot be summed up in single sentences, but they are boiled-down examples that are supposed to prove my point. So, back off. One well-read scholar holds an advanced degree and has been known to fill the seat of an over the road truckdriver. Another has served as a newspaper editor and has proven as willing as any person I have met to attack new risks not as obstacles but as opportunites, all the while exploring the zombie apocalyse genre with a keen eye. One young lady, a former college cheerleader, aspires to become a college literature professor and can (and will) outshoot most men with a pistol. One English teacher, a young mom, is an avd and sometimes rabid NASCAR fan. Another talented young woman leaves her classroom, where she challenges her advanced students to by pushing them intellectually, driving them to write more and better than they think they are capable of, and straddles her Harley-Davidson for a pleasant ride home. I even have a fellow football coach on the hall, one who, gasp, reads and writes well and passes that passion on to his students.. So, yeah, we are just a bunch of nerdy English teachers. I am truly glad to be a member of that group.
What was the other idea? Oh, English is increibly interesting. Yes. Language is cool. I believe I will hold on to that idea for later. I have practice film to watch, and there is a book I want to start reading.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
"That Vacant House"
Below a sagging roofline, bowed by years of weight and neglect,
Shuttered eyes, dark and dusty
Hide even darker musings.
A slow fog (for misery does in fact love company)
Slouches its way about the gray house,
Leaving tears that track through the dust,
And gather on forgotten sills.
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