I will apologize in advance. This is a rant for no other reason than for me to feel better. I yelled at my truck's radio this afternoon. Literally yelled. I am pretty sure I may have cursed in the process.
Doug Gottlieb had just uttered this statement, and I quote: "If you want to work just 8-3, become a teacher." He went on to say that he is never truly off the clock, and that that is how it is in business. But with teachers, "there may be some prep time, and they have to deal with parents, and they are grossly underpaid for the impact they have on our children, but when their workday is done, they are done" (Gottlieb).
He went on to dig the hole deeper, and I will paraphrase his comments here. Something about how there are blue collar jobs where people clock out and that is the last time they think about their jobs until they clock in the next morning, but that it just does not work that way in his business.
So, I yelled at the radio. Just one sentence, and then I was done. Besides, my phone rang at that point and Coach Warner offered to buy me a snowcone to finish off another day of working with athletes and then painting. Obviously, however, I am not over it. Stupidity bothers me. One may argue that Gottlieb is not stupid, and is simply ignorant. I would counter that when an individual chooses to speak from a place of ignorance, on national radio, in an effort to demonstrated how hard he works watching sports, reading about sports, and talking about sports, that is an example of stupidity. Doug, you watch sports, read about sports, and talk about sports for a living. For the rest of the world, that is what we do when we are off the clock. Having to check twitter so you can comment on how the injury to a linebacker will contribute to the Cowboys missing the playoffs (which is what he was discussing as one of the things that keeps him on the job around the clock) is not quite the same as coaching the backup linebacker so that he can step in and play, let alone being called in to perform surgery on the knee so a young athlete can continue his career. And yet, you consider checking a score or tweeting being "on the clock". If you wanted to avoid that backbreaking labor, you could have just become a teacher, right? Yes, I know that Doug has to do research so he can talk about sports on the radio. That research consists of reading about sports and sports figures, as well as traveling to venues where major sporting events are played and speaking with people associated with sports. That must be terrible.
Don't get me wrong: I am not complaining about the time I spend as a teacher. As a good friend likes to say, "I chose my profession." The time I spend "on the clock" before and after my contract time states I am supposed to be at the school allows me to do my job at a level that I can feel good about. As most quality teachers will tell you, at least the teachers I know and enjoy working with, we do not consider that "extra" time as extra. It is part of what we signed up for. I signed up for the long hours of grading because I chose to be an English teacher. I chose to read books all the time because I need to do that to effectively teach my students. And I like reading. I write lesson plans at 11 pm and 5:30 am because that is when ideas that might allow me to effectively reach kids hits me. I chose to carry on weekend Facebook conversations with former students about their reading or essays they are working on for a history class because I am glad they are thinking and that i can be a part of that. I chose to converse with a student on email one evening about how to cite information in MLA format because wanted to make sure he was doing it correctly because that fact that he graduated last year does not change the fact that he is my student and I want his to do well. I guess I could go into a discussion about the other subject I teacher, football. You know, that area where you hope you do well enough to work extra weeks for free, but would not trade that time working with great young men to win a championship for anything. That time is what I signed up for, and to honest, that time spent is incredibly worthwhile for me. And in that respect, I am no different than thousands of other teachers and coaches across this country. No. I am complaining about Doug Gottlieb spouting off that teachers work 8-3 and do not do much of anything outside of those hours that is related to their jobs. Actually Doug, I know there are teachers who do not put in the time we are talking about, but honestly, those teachers are not very good at what they do. I am sure there are radio commentators who do not bother to inform themselves before they pop off about topics that they do not know the slightest bit about. They are not very good at their jobs either.
Ok, I feel a little better. I apologize for the rant. I hope I did not waste too much of your time, but since you are all "off the clock", I am sure you do not have anything you need to be doing anyway, right?
Gottlieb, Doug. "The Doug Gottlieb Show" CBS SportsRadio. 27 May 2014.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Sunday, May 25, 2014
#Enjoythelittlethings
Haley Holland, recent BHS graduate, wrote in her senior metaphor, "I am the Kansas weather." Well, I would like to springboard off of her sentiment and apply her metaphor to myself and my writing. It seems that I have chosen to do all of my writing in one week in May in flood of sound and fury. Thanks Haley.
I have to credit Samantha Neill, Greg Freose, and Andrew Bauer for seeding this thunderstorm of words. Blog, baby, blog.
The trigger that compelled me to turn out a third post this week was breakfast. It is, afterall, the most important meal of the day. This morning, I chose to step out to the patio to take my morning sustenance, consisting of leftover potatoes, peppers and sausage coupled with eggs. I felt moved to post a picture of the scene, with #enjoythelittlethings attached, even though I have a strong aversion to tweeting food pictures. Snapchat is a different story, but we do not need to get into that right now. The moment on the patio this morning with my breakfast and coffee, with the cloudy skies and calm breeze, was a truly pleasant moment. It was not monumental, nor was it overly productive. However, it was peaceful, and it was immensely calming. It was a little thing.
A while back, I posted about the rules of Zombieland, one of which is "Enjoy the little things." I discussed going to Kwik Shop or getting a pop. Little things are often what make our lives to most enjoyable, meaningful, or memorable. Little things are sometimes what make our lives endurable, survivable, or sustainable. They might be the meat in the dish at dinner, or they might be the spice that makes the dish enticing and appealing. Little things. Think about about. It might be a gentle hand on your shoulder when you are frustrated, a soft kiss when you are leaving for work, a furry nuzzle when you lay down after an exhausting day, a walk to the corner store when you need the world to slow down a bit, or the repeated retelling of a joke about wearing jeans to a costume party when you are in the middle of a monotonous afternoon of work.
So, I am setting up another challenge for myself. I challenged myself when I started blogging to write at least once a week, and I have not completely lived up to that challenge. It has forced me to write much more than I used to thoughtfully put words down on paper or in print, as have the admonishments from my colleagues when I fail to write, so that challenge has been a success to some degree, and I will continue to try to meet that self-imposed standard. This next challenge might help me do that. This challenge is to consciously recognize and enjoy the little things. It is far too easy to let the little things slide by or tumble past leaving you with nearly nothing positive in your mental ledger at the end of the day, instead of gathering them up, piling the tiniest tidbits into bushel baskets of positivity to sift through at sunset.
That is my hope anyway. Feel free to take up the challenge yourself. It can't hurt, right? And as Bluto once said, "It don't cost nothin'."
I have to credit Samantha Neill, Greg Freose, and Andrew Bauer for seeding this thunderstorm of words. Blog, baby, blog.
The trigger that compelled me to turn out a third post this week was breakfast. It is, afterall, the most important meal of the day. This morning, I chose to step out to the patio to take my morning sustenance, consisting of leftover potatoes, peppers and sausage coupled with eggs. I felt moved to post a picture of the scene, with #enjoythelittlethings attached, even though I have a strong aversion to tweeting food pictures. Snapchat is a different story, but we do not need to get into that right now. The moment on the patio this morning with my breakfast and coffee, with the cloudy skies and calm breeze, was a truly pleasant moment. It was not monumental, nor was it overly productive. However, it was peaceful, and it was immensely calming. It was a little thing.
A while back, I posted about the rules of Zombieland, one of which is "Enjoy the little things." I discussed going to Kwik Shop or getting a pop. Little things are often what make our lives to most enjoyable, meaningful, or memorable. Little things are sometimes what make our lives endurable, survivable, or sustainable. They might be the meat in the dish at dinner, or they might be the spice that makes the dish enticing and appealing. Little things. Think about about. It might be a gentle hand on your shoulder when you are frustrated, a soft kiss when you are leaving for work, a furry nuzzle when you lay down after an exhausting day, a walk to the corner store when you need the world to slow down a bit, or the repeated retelling of a joke about wearing jeans to a costume party when you are in the middle of a monotonous afternoon of work.
So, I am setting up another challenge for myself. I challenged myself when I started blogging to write at least once a week, and I have not completely lived up to that challenge. It has forced me to write much more than I used to thoughtfully put words down on paper or in print, as have the admonishments from my colleagues when I fail to write, so that challenge has been a success to some degree, and I will continue to try to meet that self-imposed standard. This next challenge might help me do that. This challenge is to consciously recognize and enjoy the little things. It is far too easy to let the little things slide by or tumble past leaving you with nearly nothing positive in your mental ledger at the end of the day, instead of gathering them up, piling the tiniest tidbits into bushel baskets of positivity to sift through at sunset.
That is my hope anyway. Feel free to take up the challenge yourself. It can't hurt, right? And as Bluto once said, "It don't cost nothin'."
Saturday, May 24, 2014
"I Swear! I Thought Turkeys Could Fly!"
This morning, the beautiful young lady who is my daughter Emily donned her newest flannel and invited me and her brother to walk down to Hastings with her. She would have invited her mother, but she was partaking in her own Saturday tradition, chasing Zs, and, she does not really do "walks" if she can avoid it. So the three of us set out on our little jaunt to the local movie, music, and book store.
Upon arrival, Dylan vanished into the video game section, and Emily strolled through the music section, looking for copies of a couple of Green Day CDs. I wandered somewhat aimlessly into the DVD rental section and started scanning the titles, adding more films to my list of features I want to view but probably won't get around to seeing any time soon. The list is fairly eclectic. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, The Purge, The Wolf of Wall Street, Elysium, This Is the End, Django. I need to take a week or so and just watch movies. I saw a few intriguing titles that I had not heard before that seemed worthwhile, such as Calloused Hands. Of course, I walked home with the kids, but without a movie in hand. Maybe this evening I will run back up and actually rent something.
As I was looking through the newer movies, however, I started to think about movies I have not seen for a while, but that deserve to be seen again, or at least my memory tells me they deserve that. I find myself mentioning certain movies to people, and they stare at me dumbly, as if they have never heard of such a film. Risky Business. Field of Dreams, The Blues Brothers, Johnny Be Good. Pink Floyd's The Wall. All the Right Moves. Nightmare on Elm Street. The Breakfast Club. Surely that cannot be so. It happens with TV shows as well. Recently, our high school office was forced to relocate to the wrestling room for the summer as the school undergoes major construction. Andrew Bauer mentioned how the office looked, set up in one large space with no separation or privacy. I asked where Les Nessman had his desk and masking tape "walls" laid out on the floor, and Andrew seemed truly perplexed. Now, Andrew is a brilliant person, extremely intelligent and creative. However, he had never heard of WKRP in Cincinnati. I stood aghast. This is just wrong. (By the way, if you understood the title of this blog, then you are probably feeling me right now. And if you just read that sentence and are confused, or feel it is somehow entirely inappropriate, then you need to catch up on slightly out of date youth lingo.)
I have been forced now to accept one simple fact: I am getting old. Andrew Bauer is not some punk kid. He is a grown man. He has child for Pete's sake! Yet, he had not even the slightest hint of who Johnny "Dr.Fever", Venus Flytrap, or Jennifer Marlow, aka, Loni Anderson (sigh) were. I will admit that I was young when that show was on the air, but I remember it. I started to wonder:what other elements of cultural significance am I taking for granted? Does Andrew realize that MTV actual once stood for MUSIC TV? How old must a person be to remember that a large drink was once 16 ounces, or that there was once a world without such a thing as McNuggets? Who here remembers when the only way to watch cartoons on a weekday was to wake up early enough to catch a few minutes of The Bozo Show on WGN? Shoot, who can grasp that an antennae was once the only choice for TV reception, and that only granted you three channels, four if Bunker Hill PBS was coming in that night? And we lived in town!
I can pretend I am not getting old most of the time. My knees ache? Well, that is what I get for not losing weight sooner. If I exercise, they feel better. My beard is going gray (ok, white) at a frighteningly accelerated rate? That must be stress, and besides, Kevin Kohls has a lot more gray hair than I do. I fall asleep on the couch at 8:15 on a summer weeknight? Dang, I must have worked hard this week. I have looked at old friends' posts on Facebook about their kids going to prom or graduating, and I think, "No flipping way her daughter is that old." Then I remember that my daughter has just completed her junior year of high school.
I can play it off most of the time, but when I am forced to admit that we are losing our connections with the cultural icons and societally significant events that I still think are relatively recent, it bothers me. I am not bemoaning the youth of today or "this next generation". No. I am just lamenting the fact that I am in fact getting old. And I am saddened by the fact that Andrew Bauer will never experience seeing, over broadcast television, Loni Anderson in a sweater.
I feel bad for you, my friend.
Upon arrival, Dylan vanished into the video game section, and Emily strolled through the music section, looking for copies of a couple of Green Day CDs. I wandered somewhat aimlessly into the DVD rental section and started scanning the titles, adding more films to my list of features I want to view but probably won't get around to seeing any time soon. The list is fairly eclectic. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, The Purge, The Wolf of Wall Street, Elysium, This Is the End, Django. I need to take a week or so and just watch movies. I saw a few intriguing titles that I had not heard before that seemed worthwhile, such as Calloused Hands. Of course, I walked home with the kids, but without a movie in hand. Maybe this evening I will run back up and actually rent something.
As I was looking through the newer movies, however, I started to think about movies I have not seen for a while, but that deserve to be seen again, or at least my memory tells me they deserve that. I find myself mentioning certain movies to people, and they stare at me dumbly, as if they have never heard of such a film. Risky Business. Field of Dreams, The Blues Brothers, Johnny Be Good. Pink Floyd's The Wall. All the Right Moves. Nightmare on Elm Street. The Breakfast Club. Surely that cannot be so. It happens with TV shows as well. Recently, our high school office was forced to relocate to the wrestling room for the summer as the school undergoes major construction. Andrew Bauer mentioned how the office looked, set up in one large space with no separation or privacy. I asked where Les Nessman had his desk and masking tape "walls" laid out on the floor, and Andrew seemed truly perplexed. Now, Andrew is a brilliant person, extremely intelligent and creative. However, he had never heard of WKRP in Cincinnati. I stood aghast. This is just wrong. (By the way, if you understood the title of this blog, then you are probably feeling me right now. And if you just read that sentence and are confused, or feel it is somehow entirely inappropriate, then you need to catch up on slightly out of date youth lingo.)
I have been forced now to accept one simple fact: I am getting old. Andrew Bauer is not some punk kid. He is a grown man. He has child for Pete's sake! Yet, he had not even the slightest hint of who Johnny "Dr.Fever", Venus Flytrap, or Jennifer Marlow, aka, Loni Anderson (sigh) were. I will admit that I was young when that show was on the air, but I remember it. I started to wonder:what other elements of cultural significance am I taking for granted? Does Andrew realize that MTV actual once stood for MUSIC TV? How old must a person be to remember that a large drink was once 16 ounces, or that there was once a world without such a thing as McNuggets? Who here remembers when the only way to watch cartoons on a weekday was to wake up early enough to catch a few minutes of The Bozo Show on WGN? Shoot, who can grasp that an antennae was once the only choice for TV reception, and that only granted you three channels, four if Bunker Hill PBS was coming in that night? And we lived in town!
I can pretend I am not getting old most of the time. My knees ache? Well, that is what I get for not losing weight sooner. If I exercise, they feel better. My beard is going gray (ok, white) at a frighteningly accelerated rate? That must be stress, and besides, Kevin Kohls has a lot more gray hair than I do. I fall asleep on the couch at 8:15 on a summer weeknight? Dang, I must have worked hard this week. I have looked at old friends' posts on Facebook about their kids going to prom or graduating, and I think, "No flipping way her daughter is that old." Then I remember that my daughter has just completed her junior year of high school.
I can play it off most of the time, but when I am forced to admit that we are losing our connections with the cultural icons and societally significant events that I still think are relatively recent, it bothers me. I am not bemoaning the youth of today or "this next generation". No. I am just lamenting the fact that I am in fact getting old. And I am saddened by the fact that Andrew Bauer will never experience seeing, over broadcast television, Loni Anderson in a sweater.
I feel bad for you, my friend.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
The Swirling Toilet Bowl of Ideas...
Well, I certainly was called out, wasn't I? I will admit that it has been nine days since my last post, and my goal with this blog was to write at least once a week. So, I cannot be too upset that my friend and colleague, Samantha Neill, called me on the carpet since she and Greg Freose both have blogged in the last 24 hours. (We will let it slide that Mrs. Neill went 10 months between blog posts before dropping two in the last month. :))
My problem is that while my mind seems to swirl almost constantly with ideas and thoughts, sometimes like some mental toilet with a valve stuck open, I often do not find those tidbits deserving of public inspection, as one would gather from that oh-so-pleasant simile. I don't want to write about something just because it floats; there needs to be more substance. I suppose I could discuss politics. That is always fun and not depressing at all. I wonder why the toilet bowl simile led me in the direction of politics? Anyway, the Honorable Steven Becker of the Kansas House of Representatives attended our Summer Advance planning meeting earlier this week to present Cindy Couchman with recognition by the Kansas State House of Representatives. I use Honorable in a completely sincere manner here and not sarcastically, as the term is so often used in reference to our present politicians. He seems to be one of the good ones though, and by good ones, I mean one of those elected officials who still seems to think about issues and how they affect the state and its residents rather than blindly following a herd of sheep, which can be found on either side of the aisle, off some dogmatic ideological cliff.
Maybe politics should be saved for another time.
I could discuss how lost our youth are today, but as my daughter belts out lyrics from a variety of Green Day songs, I have to smile and admit that there is hope. Besides, even on the most frustrating days I have as a teacher and coach, some kid says, does, or writes something that renews my belief in the future.
So, here I sit, on the couch in case you were wondering, and I need a topic. I will once again turn to Samantha Neill. Her most recent blog mentioned, among many other points, Common Core and the common misperception many people have regarding the standards. Let's go with that little bit of little fare.
Just kidding.
Sam really just used the CCRS as a jumping off point, and I enjoyed reading her blog this morning. Go read it, after you finish here of course. (Link to Samantha Neill's blog)
I could use another friend and fellow BHS ELA teacher as inspiration. He started a blog today, and mentioned our ELA Team, so I could write about how the effect being around intelligent and creative people has on my own creativity and desire to write, read, respond, and create. That might be interesting. Both Sam and Greg wrote of how incredible our fellow teachers are, and they are entirely accurate in their statements. I work with inspiring, creative, and intelligent people. Sometimes, I am amazed by how far some of them will to positively impact young people. By the way, you should also go read Greg's blog. He is entirely comfortable with having as many people as possible join him on his blogging journey (Here is a link to Greg's blog. Andrew Bauer also blogs, and he blogs well. Read his too.). Of course, you should finish reading this post first.
I think I will hold on to that topic. A look into our little family we call THE BHS ELA TEAM deserves a post all its own, as opposed to a post which most people abandoned long ago as meaningless and without direction.
No, today I will address a topic that that very team has discussed on several occasion. This is a subject that has led to shouting matches and more than one fistfight. A point that led, if I remember correctly, to my sister calling me an "ass". I know; that is just rude.
If you have not yet guessed it, the topic is none other than the Oxford Comma.
I am sorry if the mere mention of the Oxford Comma sends you into shell of terror due to horrifying past experiences. I apologize if i offend any of you. Maybe I should have stayed with politics. Or religion. I tell you this: the Oxford Comma is an explosive subject.
The Oxford Comma, or serial comma, is the comma found just before the conjunction in a list. You have all seen it, and most of you have even used them. You should not be ashamed. The Oxford Comma is correct. "I bought apples, aspirin, and bleach at the store." That last comma is the Oxford variety. For some reason, those of a journalistic ilk seem to feel that they do not have follow every rule of Standard American English if they find them inconvenient, and they choose to omit the Oxford Comma. My sister, one of those journalism people, informed me that omitting that comma stems from the need to same space, and Oxford Comma takes up too much space. (I have noticed that journalists tend to "inform" us, the unclean masses, as opposed to "discuss" topics.) Well, I find that taxes take up too much of my paycheck, and I would like to simply omit that inconvenience from my life. Sorry folks, it just does not work that way! We have rules! This is not 'Nam. (Yes, that is The Big Lebowski.)
For some reason, this issue gets under my skin. I am pretty laid back. I take the world as it comes, gather up what I can, and try to build something worthwhile from it. My brother, at his high school graduation, uttered the mantra "Don't sweat the small stuff." The Oxford Comma, or the omission of it, should not bother me so much. I am blaming Kiley Porter. I do not have a reason, but I am going to blame her. Earlier this week, an educator moved through a truly interesting and engaging presentation. However, at one point, on the screen there appeared two sentences. Each sentence contained a list of three words. The first utilized the Oxford Comma. We will call that the correctly written sentence. The second sentence, located at the bottom of the page, contained a three word list, but the Oxford Comma was omitted. Let's just say that this omission triggered my level 2 energy. I fixated on that little punctuation mark. No, I fixated on the lack of that little punctuation mark.
I know some of you (the ones who are wrong) are thinking that this is ridiculous. However, it is not. If we let the Oxford Comma go, what will be next? The next thing you know, journalist will start putting book titles in quotation marks instead of putting them in italics.
What is that you say? Well, crap.
My problem is that while my mind seems to swirl almost constantly with ideas and thoughts, sometimes like some mental toilet with a valve stuck open, I often do not find those tidbits deserving of public inspection, as one would gather from that oh-so-pleasant simile. I don't want to write about something just because it floats; there needs to be more substance. I suppose I could discuss politics. That is always fun and not depressing at all. I wonder why the toilet bowl simile led me in the direction of politics? Anyway, the Honorable Steven Becker of the Kansas House of Representatives attended our Summer Advance planning meeting earlier this week to present Cindy Couchman with recognition by the Kansas State House of Representatives. I use Honorable in a completely sincere manner here and not sarcastically, as the term is so often used in reference to our present politicians. He seems to be one of the good ones though, and by good ones, I mean one of those elected officials who still seems to think about issues and how they affect the state and its residents rather than blindly following a herd of sheep, which can be found on either side of the aisle, off some dogmatic ideological cliff.
Maybe politics should be saved for another time.
I could discuss how lost our youth are today, but as my daughter belts out lyrics from a variety of Green Day songs, I have to smile and admit that there is hope. Besides, even on the most frustrating days I have as a teacher and coach, some kid says, does, or writes something that renews my belief in the future.
So, here I sit, on the couch in case you were wondering, and I need a topic. I will once again turn to Samantha Neill. Her most recent blog mentioned, among many other points, Common Core and the common misperception many people have regarding the standards. Let's go with that little bit of little fare.
Just kidding.
Sam really just used the CCRS as a jumping off point, and I enjoyed reading her blog this morning. Go read it, after you finish here of course. (Link to Samantha Neill's blog)
I could use another friend and fellow BHS ELA teacher as inspiration. He started a blog today, and mentioned our ELA Team, so I could write about how the effect being around intelligent and creative people has on my own creativity and desire to write, read, respond, and create. That might be interesting. Both Sam and Greg wrote of how incredible our fellow teachers are, and they are entirely accurate in their statements. I work with inspiring, creative, and intelligent people. Sometimes, I am amazed by how far some of them will to positively impact young people. By the way, you should also go read Greg's blog. He is entirely comfortable with having as many people as possible join him on his blogging journey (Here is a link to Greg's blog. Andrew Bauer also blogs, and he blogs well. Read his too.). Of course, you should finish reading this post first.
I think I will hold on to that topic. A look into our little family we call THE BHS ELA TEAM deserves a post all its own, as opposed to a post which most people abandoned long ago as meaningless and without direction.
No, today I will address a topic that that very team has discussed on several occasion. This is a subject that has led to shouting matches and more than one fistfight. A point that led, if I remember correctly, to my sister calling me an "ass". I know; that is just rude.
If you have not yet guessed it, the topic is none other than the Oxford Comma.
I am sorry if the mere mention of the Oxford Comma sends you into shell of terror due to horrifying past experiences. I apologize if i offend any of you. Maybe I should have stayed with politics. Or religion. I tell you this: the Oxford Comma is an explosive subject.
The Oxford Comma, or serial comma, is the comma found just before the conjunction in a list. You have all seen it, and most of you have even used them. You should not be ashamed. The Oxford Comma is correct. "I bought apples, aspirin, and bleach at the store." That last comma is the Oxford variety. For some reason, those of a journalistic ilk seem to feel that they do not have follow every rule of Standard American English if they find them inconvenient, and they choose to omit the Oxford Comma. My sister, one of those journalism people, informed me that omitting that comma stems from the need to same space, and Oxford Comma takes up too much space. (I have noticed that journalists tend to "inform" us, the unclean masses, as opposed to "discuss" topics.) Well, I find that taxes take up too much of my paycheck, and I would like to simply omit that inconvenience from my life. Sorry folks, it just does not work that way! We have rules! This is not 'Nam. (Yes, that is The Big Lebowski.)
For some reason, this issue gets under my skin. I am pretty laid back. I take the world as it comes, gather up what I can, and try to build something worthwhile from it. My brother, at his high school graduation, uttered the mantra "Don't sweat the small stuff." The Oxford Comma, or the omission of it, should not bother me so much. I am blaming Kiley Porter. I do not have a reason, but I am going to blame her. Earlier this week, an educator moved through a truly interesting and engaging presentation. However, at one point, on the screen there appeared two sentences. Each sentence contained a list of three words. The first utilized the Oxford Comma. We will call that the correctly written sentence. The second sentence, located at the bottom of the page, contained a three word list, but the Oxford Comma was omitted. Let's just say that this omission triggered my level 2 energy. I fixated on that little punctuation mark. No, I fixated on the lack of that little punctuation mark.
I know some of you (the ones who are wrong) are thinking that this is ridiculous. However, it is not. If we let the Oxford Comma go, what will be next? The next thing you know, journalist will start putting book titles in quotation marks instead of putting them in italics.
What is that you say? Well, crap.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
It's the End of the World As We Know It...
How's that for an attention-getter?
R.E.M. released that single while I was in high school, in 1987 I believe. It is a catchy little diddy, although it is not about Jack and Diane. It seemed appropriate for the ideas rambling through my head today as I sit down to put thoughts to page. Now, before you send a concerned text or make a quick call to some hotline on my behalf, I do not feel as if things are spirally out of control toward imminent destruction. In all honest, the world a pretty neat place right now. School is out, professional development was rewarding last week (thanks to a an amazing group of teachers who prove over and over again that laughter and learning do in fact go hand in hand), Emily and Dylan are tolerating each other pretty well so far this summer, I am adjusting well to early morning weights, and I spent most of the weekend doing nothing in particular but being together with my beautiful wife Heidi. Life is pretty neat.
No, the thoughts that might be wrapped up in such a song are aroused by a book I have started. It is titled The Road, and it was recommended by a friend and colleague by the name of Greg Froese. I am not very far into the novel, so I cannot honestly give much of an assessment. I am intrigued by it, and I find myself wanted to read further whenever I have to put it down for a time. However, the tale is, well, unpleasant. Thus far, I know only two characters, a man and a young boy. There has been disturbing mention of a female character, and a new man has just entered the picture, although his stay seems as if it will be short. The setting is gray. Gray, ashen, burnt, and smoldering. As I said, i am just getting into the novel, but I am going to go out on a limb and say someone done messed up. Bigtime.
I started to think about the popularity of works that present the reader, or viewer, with a world that has dark and dangerous. Why are we gripped so tightly the tales that have humankind destroying itself, its core systems of beliefs, its surroundings, and its hope? Some create dystopian worlds where humans have created societies that seem ideal and perfect, or at least are presented as such, while masking the darkest, most savage realities. Others paint post-apocalyptic images of worlds scorched and barren, sometimes literally burned by warfare and unchecked human malice, at other times simply purged of the majority of mankind, nearly erased by disease, drought, or self-destruction.
Pleasant places to visit on a spring afternoon. I have to admit that I enjoy reading and teaching these types of literature. They can be seen as flashing lights, as hints to us as human beings to take a look at ourselves and what we do more closely. They can be hyperbolic symbolism of the world which we have already created, meant to comment on our own follies, to point out what we have already done so horribly. They might tap into the eternal pessimism that so many people seem to wallow in and seem to need to survive. Whatever the reason, they are good reads, and often good movies. People seem to love seeing just how horrible things might be.
So, with that in mind, I thought I would throw together a "Best of" list of literature about the worst possible futures we can expect. A "You think your world sucks? Just wait until this happens" who's who, if you will. I am only going to include pieces I have actually read, and not those that I have only seen as films. I would love to include films such as V for Vendetta or The Book of Eli, but since I have only seen someone else's interpretation of each piece, I do not feel that I can speak to those works. I am sure to leave off some good pieces as well, so feel free to add your own favorites in the comments. Who knows? That might lead to some young soul opening a book at some point over the next three and a half months. I am hoping The Road will eventually find its way onto this list. I will have to finish it first.
Now, in no particular order...
1984: George Orwell's novel is dark, harsh, and painful. The governments watches everyone, or at least might be watching everyone, at any given time. Even thinking negatively about the country's leaders is a crime, rats and facecages are employed as tools of persuasion, and every fact is a lie. The protagonist is so attracted to Julia, a woman who proudly wears the ironically scarlet sash of the Junior Anti-sex League, that he can think of nothing else but smashing her face with his fist. Big Brother is always watching, and everything is just fine, or else.
Fahrenheit 451: Hey, a future in which houses are constructed of inflammable materials seems like a good thing, right? Unfortunately, the firefighters union is rathers strong, so that profession shifts to setting fires rather than quenching them. They burn books, and since the only reading material that is not outlawed is the drivel produced by the government, firefighters are tasked with rooting out those rebels who insist on foolishly holding on the bound-pages of the past. Wall-sized TVs have taken the place of human friends, and the protagonist's wife wants only to acquire a fourth wall so she can be surrounded by her televised friends and to ingest as much mind-altering substances as possible so she can feels as if she is in their world. Montag just wants to read a book, or at least figure out what the big deal is about reading one, and avoid being stabbed by a hypodermic needle wielded by a mechanical dog that can actually smell fear and deceit. Neat place.
"The Marching Morons": This is a short story, so you have no excuse for not finding it and reading it. It seems that at some point, humans master cryogenics, and one man awakes from a long sleep to discover that the human race has forgotten about all technology. The least intelligent members of society have bred at a high rate, while more intelligent people have chosen not to have children. The result is a culture idiocy, and he feels that this puts him in the enviable position of being so far above those people who make up the new society, that they cannot even fathom how much he knows. He will be a god! Or not. Hilarity ensues. Or not. Read it.
"By the Waters of Babylon": This is another short story (I hope you have noticed I italicize novel titles and place titles of shorter works in quotation marks. I am a member of the MLA Gang, and I refuse to let the lax habits of journalism school grads infiltrate my writing.) John is the son of a priest, and he hopes to one day become a priest himself. Priests hold a special place in his primitive society, and he is willing to undergo whatever ritual is required to reach that lofty position. His rite of passage takes him along the god roads, to a place of forgotten statues and packs of wild dogs. It is quite a journey, but one more familiar than we might imagine.
I Am Legend: I am referring to the short novel by Richard Matheson, not the film starring Will Smith. Don't get me wrong; I enjoyed the movie, and I have watched it several times. I simply wish they had not titled it after this piece of literature. Too many changes were made. The novel is amazing. It focuses on Robert Neville, an ordinary man who just happens to be living in a world of what appear to be vampires. His family is gone, victims of some strange disease, and his neighbors, also victims of that contagion, taunt him nightly, trying to get him to come outside so they can devour him. This isolated man must determine what has caused his world to be ravaged, so that he can somehow survive it. He explores the details of our legends, such as the idea that vampires cannot stand garlic or cross running water, to learn why we have these legends in the first place. Why are they so prominent in our shared histories if they do not in fact spring from some nugget of truth that long ago became cloaked in what we call legend? Even more frightening: what if those who were the subjects of the legends, once a minority, are suddenly the inventors of future legends, based on their own fears and prejudices?
Brave New World: Written in the late 1930s, this novel creates a world that is still disturbing, partly because it seems so frighteningly familiar. Genetic engineering, emotional detachment, chemical dependence, and consumerism play major roles in this novel, along with forms of entertainment that break moral and ethical boundaries and vacations to primitive lands where what we call the nuclear family still exists. It is a brave new world indeed. Greg Froese has assigned a comparison/contrast of this novel and 1984 for his AP seniors English students this summer. I love that idea. The ways the novel presents the dystopia's moral views of intimacy, love, contentment, and social conditioning should lead to some interesting and thought-provoking discussions. I envy Mr. Froese.
Anthem: I am not sure that I would call this a terrific read, but I do find it interesting. Society has removed as much individuality as possible, and the way to true contentment is to be content with your role in society. That sounds good, until the a street sweeper discovers a lightbulb, something that does not exist any longer, in an old sewer tunnel, and light goes off in his head, and his heart. Sorry. Anyway, he starts to think about what might be, and what he might become. And that will not do. Hilarity ensues. Or not.
World War Z: Once again, I refer to the novel of this title, not the film. The film was fine; the novel was better. It is the chronicle of the lead up to, escalation of, and playing out of the zombie wars. Black market organ transplants, Israeli isolationism, audio hallucinations, far north zombie popsicles, trapped in sunken ships and submarine zombies, mercenaries, and sacrificial lamb battle plans. Sounds neat, right? Well, it is. The world is dark place, my friend, when everyone you once knew wants to devour your flesh. There are even people who take the "if you can't beat them, join them" approach and become zombies even though they are not zombies, only to discover that the zombies know the difference even if the wannzombies don't.
The Stand: I have not read this work by Stephen King for quite a while, but it still sticks in parts of my brain, so it needs to be on the list. The world's human population has been decimated by a superflu. Those who remain simply hope to survive. They seem drawn to one of two places, and one of two groups: a farm in Nebraska where an old woman lives and speaks to them in their dreams, or Vegas, where a dark figure who has long walked the lonely roads promises carnal pleasure. I think you can see where this one might head. I remember the characters being well-written and conflicted. Maybe I should go back and read it again. Stephen King will eventually find his place of respect as our era's Poe or Hawthorne. Maybe The Stand is not his best work, but it is interesting.
I did not want to give too much away in my list, so I apologize if my ramblings are confusing. My recommendation would be to read them for yourself. Disagree with me if you feel I am wrong. Add to the list if you feel a worthy work has been ignored. So what if someone disagrees with you? It's not the end of the world.
R.E.M. released that single while I was in high school, in 1987 I believe. It is a catchy little diddy, although it is not about Jack and Diane. It seemed appropriate for the ideas rambling through my head today as I sit down to put thoughts to page. Now, before you send a concerned text or make a quick call to some hotline on my behalf, I do not feel as if things are spirally out of control toward imminent destruction. In all honest, the world a pretty neat place right now. School is out, professional development was rewarding last week (thanks to a an amazing group of teachers who prove over and over again that laughter and learning do in fact go hand in hand), Emily and Dylan are tolerating each other pretty well so far this summer, I am adjusting well to early morning weights, and I spent most of the weekend doing nothing in particular but being together with my beautiful wife Heidi. Life is pretty neat.
No, the thoughts that might be wrapped up in such a song are aroused by a book I have started. It is titled The Road, and it was recommended by a friend and colleague by the name of Greg Froese. I am not very far into the novel, so I cannot honestly give much of an assessment. I am intrigued by it, and I find myself wanted to read further whenever I have to put it down for a time. However, the tale is, well, unpleasant. Thus far, I know only two characters, a man and a young boy. There has been disturbing mention of a female character, and a new man has just entered the picture, although his stay seems as if it will be short. The setting is gray. Gray, ashen, burnt, and smoldering. As I said, i am just getting into the novel, but I am going to go out on a limb and say someone done messed up. Bigtime.
I started to think about the popularity of works that present the reader, or viewer, with a world that has dark and dangerous. Why are we gripped so tightly the tales that have humankind destroying itself, its core systems of beliefs, its surroundings, and its hope? Some create dystopian worlds where humans have created societies that seem ideal and perfect, or at least are presented as such, while masking the darkest, most savage realities. Others paint post-apocalyptic images of worlds scorched and barren, sometimes literally burned by warfare and unchecked human malice, at other times simply purged of the majority of mankind, nearly erased by disease, drought, or self-destruction.
Pleasant places to visit on a spring afternoon. I have to admit that I enjoy reading and teaching these types of literature. They can be seen as flashing lights, as hints to us as human beings to take a look at ourselves and what we do more closely. They can be hyperbolic symbolism of the world which we have already created, meant to comment on our own follies, to point out what we have already done so horribly. They might tap into the eternal pessimism that so many people seem to wallow in and seem to need to survive. Whatever the reason, they are good reads, and often good movies. People seem to love seeing just how horrible things might be.
So, with that in mind, I thought I would throw together a "Best of" list of literature about the worst possible futures we can expect. A "You think your world sucks? Just wait until this happens" who's who, if you will. I am only going to include pieces I have actually read, and not those that I have only seen as films. I would love to include films such as V for Vendetta or The Book of Eli, but since I have only seen someone else's interpretation of each piece, I do not feel that I can speak to those works. I am sure to leave off some good pieces as well, so feel free to add your own favorites in the comments. Who knows? That might lead to some young soul opening a book at some point over the next three and a half months. I am hoping The Road will eventually find its way onto this list. I will have to finish it first.
Now, in no particular order...
1984: George Orwell's novel is dark, harsh, and painful. The governments watches everyone, or at least might be watching everyone, at any given time. Even thinking negatively about the country's leaders is a crime, rats and facecages are employed as tools of persuasion, and every fact is a lie. The protagonist is so attracted to Julia, a woman who proudly wears the ironically scarlet sash of the Junior Anti-sex League, that he can think of nothing else but smashing her face with his fist. Big Brother is always watching, and everything is just fine, or else.
Fahrenheit 451: Hey, a future in which houses are constructed of inflammable materials seems like a good thing, right? Unfortunately, the firefighters union is rathers strong, so that profession shifts to setting fires rather than quenching them. They burn books, and since the only reading material that is not outlawed is the drivel produced by the government, firefighters are tasked with rooting out those rebels who insist on foolishly holding on the bound-pages of the past. Wall-sized TVs have taken the place of human friends, and the protagonist's wife wants only to acquire a fourth wall so she can be surrounded by her televised friends and to ingest as much mind-altering substances as possible so she can feels as if she is in their world. Montag just wants to read a book, or at least figure out what the big deal is about reading one, and avoid being stabbed by a hypodermic needle wielded by a mechanical dog that can actually smell fear and deceit. Neat place.
"The Marching Morons": This is a short story, so you have no excuse for not finding it and reading it. It seems that at some point, humans master cryogenics, and one man awakes from a long sleep to discover that the human race has forgotten about all technology. The least intelligent members of society have bred at a high rate, while more intelligent people have chosen not to have children. The result is a culture idiocy, and he feels that this puts him in the enviable position of being so far above those people who make up the new society, that they cannot even fathom how much he knows. He will be a god! Or not. Hilarity ensues. Or not. Read it.
"By the Waters of Babylon": This is another short story (I hope you have noticed I italicize novel titles and place titles of shorter works in quotation marks. I am a member of the MLA Gang, and I refuse to let the lax habits of journalism school grads infiltrate my writing.) John is the son of a priest, and he hopes to one day become a priest himself. Priests hold a special place in his primitive society, and he is willing to undergo whatever ritual is required to reach that lofty position. His rite of passage takes him along the god roads, to a place of forgotten statues and packs of wild dogs. It is quite a journey, but one more familiar than we might imagine.
I Am Legend: I am referring to the short novel by Richard Matheson, not the film starring Will Smith. Don't get me wrong; I enjoyed the movie, and I have watched it several times. I simply wish they had not titled it after this piece of literature. Too many changes were made. The novel is amazing. It focuses on Robert Neville, an ordinary man who just happens to be living in a world of what appear to be vampires. His family is gone, victims of some strange disease, and his neighbors, also victims of that contagion, taunt him nightly, trying to get him to come outside so they can devour him. This isolated man must determine what has caused his world to be ravaged, so that he can somehow survive it. He explores the details of our legends, such as the idea that vampires cannot stand garlic or cross running water, to learn why we have these legends in the first place. Why are they so prominent in our shared histories if they do not in fact spring from some nugget of truth that long ago became cloaked in what we call legend? Even more frightening: what if those who were the subjects of the legends, once a minority, are suddenly the inventors of future legends, based on their own fears and prejudices?
Brave New World: Written in the late 1930s, this novel creates a world that is still disturbing, partly because it seems so frighteningly familiar. Genetic engineering, emotional detachment, chemical dependence, and consumerism play major roles in this novel, along with forms of entertainment that break moral and ethical boundaries and vacations to primitive lands where what we call the nuclear family still exists. It is a brave new world indeed. Greg Froese has assigned a comparison/contrast of this novel and 1984 for his AP seniors English students this summer. I love that idea. The ways the novel presents the dystopia's moral views of intimacy, love, contentment, and social conditioning should lead to some interesting and thought-provoking discussions. I envy Mr. Froese.
Anthem: I am not sure that I would call this a terrific read, but I do find it interesting. Society has removed as much individuality as possible, and the way to true contentment is to be content with your role in society. That sounds good, until the a street sweeper discovers a lightbulb, something that does not exist any longer, in an old sewer tunnel, and light goes off in his head, and his heart. Sorry. Anyway, he starts to think about what might be, and what he might become. And that will not do. Hilarity ensues. Or not.
World War Z: Once again, I refer to the novel of this title, not the film. The film was fine; the novel was better. It is the chronicle of the lead up to, escalation of, and playing out of the zombie wars. Black market organ transplants, Israeli isolationism, audio hallucinations, far north zombie popsicles, trapped in sunken ships and submarine zombies, mercenaries, and sacrificial lamb battle plans. Sounds neat, right? Well, it is. The world is dark place, my friend, when everyone you once knew wants to devour your flesh. There are even people who take the "if you can't beat them, join them" approach and become zombies even though they are not zombies, only to discover that the zombies know the difference even if the wannzombies don't.
The Stand: I have not read this work by Stephen King for quite a while, but it still sticks in parts of my brain, so it needs to be on the list. The world's human population has been decimated by a superflu. Those who remain simply hope to survive. They seem drawn to one of two places, and one of two groups: a farm in Nebraska where an old woman lives and speaks to them in their dreams, or Vegas, where a dark figure who has long walked the lonely roads promises carnal pleasure. I think you can see where this one might head. I remember the characters being well-written and conflicted. Maybe I should go back and read it again. Stephen King will eventually find his place of respect as our era's Poe or Hawthorne. Maybe The Stand is not his best work, but it is interesting.
I did not want to give too much away in my list, so I apologize if my ramblings are confusing. My recommendation would be to read them for yourself. Disagree with me if you feel I am wrong. Add to the list if you feel a worthy work has been ignored. So what if someone disagrees with you? It's not the end of the world.
Friday, May 2, 2014
A Confession
I love poetry. There, I said it. (sigh)
For some reason, admitting out loud that one likes, or even worse, loves poetry, can sometimes be like admitting you chew your toenails or enjoy watch HGTV because you want to, not just because your wife changed the channel. It should not be something a person is ashamed of (Ok, the toenail thing is gross, but that is completely on that person, and as long as he does not ask me to join in, I cannot protest too much.), and more people are into it than want to reveal it in public, but there is usually an odd reaction when a person openly admits to loving poetry. Add to the mix that the person also loves football and lifting weights, and eyebrows seem to rise even more.
Ok, so I am a little melodramatic. People who know me, my wife, my kids, my students, my parents know that I am fond of verse.However, that does not erase the fact that there is a stigma among us common folk, and among those who populate high schools, attached to such an affinity for poetry.
It should not be that way. Poetry is more accessible than most people think. It is diverse in subject matter, it is varied in its depth, and it is nearly endless in its approaches to the human language. I have related this episode before, but I will bring it back up here again. I had a student say she hated poetry. I told her she hated the poetry she had read so far. To say one hates poetry is akin to saying one hates food because one does not like Indian food or to saying one hates music because a person hates Eminem. (That also shows that we should probably have a little sit down, so we can examine where your logic is flawed, whether it be one specific point or just your outlook in general.)
Now, I can guess what some of you with more critical minds are now saying. "If it is unfair to say that I hate poetry because I have not in fact experienced all poetry, is it not just as flawed for Kohls to say he loves poetry when in fact there may be poetry out there that he does in fact hate?" Notice that I did not say I loved ALL poetry. There are some stinkers out there. Some are stinkers because they are horribly written, while others stink just for little old me because their funk is based solely on my personal taste. People may not want to admit it, but the odds are good that in Shakespeare's day, there were poet's who were flat out bad, and what they wrote was shallow and clique. Even more shocking might be the chance that some of the Bard's verse did not find its way into the Folio, and instead was used to light a fire or was employed in the privy. In other words, Shakespeare might have written some stinkers. Dunt-dunt-dahhhhhhh.
I do not know if I have lost most of you by now, and I hope not, but if I have, well, I guess that does not matter because you are not reading this anymore are you? What got me going today on this topic was an email I received. There is a program called "Poetry 180" sponsored by the Library of Congress. It is intended to encourage use of poetry in the classroom, and as a subscriber, I receive an email with a poem for the day each school. Actually, right now, I am receiving a poem for each day the rest of you go to school because our students were finished Wednesday. Just saying. Let's get back to the point. Some days I read the poem, say, "Huh" and move on. Other days, I bookmark the poem, note the poet and the title, and hold on to it later. Some days, I am forced to stop. I have to let the lines roll around my head a little, or crawl inside my mind and find a place to curl up. Those days are special. Those poems are gems that I have the pleasure to dig up and hold up to the light. I try to share those with my friends and colleagues. It is not just Poetry 180 that supplies these nuggets. Kiley Porter shared a link for a spoken word poem on the Upworthy site today. Students have sent me links to pieces they enjoyed. If I was in the LMc this spring, senior who is not in my English might share a title with me while he slaved away at his duties as an aide, and they usually proved to be good.
My point is this: poetry is everywhere. Sure, the lyrics of the songs on the radio or a person's ipod can be poetry. Not always good poetry, but poetry. And to be fair, some of those examples are brilliant pieces of poetry. There is poetry on every topic and emotion, every thought and struggle. Once we step coolly past the thought of "Why would you read poetry?" we begin to see just how amazingly well-stocked the treasure-trove is. It often only takes a minute, sometimes less. Then, one day, you will find yourself stopping to reread a line or a stanza, turning it over between your ears to see what is hidden in its crooks and crannies. At that point, you know you are hooked. If you have not gotten there yet, that is fine. Keep reading. You just haven't found the right poem yet, but it is out there.
Today's "Poetry 180" selection
http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/147.html
Earlier in the week, they sent this piece:
http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/144.html
For some reason, admitting out loud that one likes, or even worse, loves poetry, can sometimes be like admitting you chew your toenails or enjoy watch HGTV because you want to, not just because your wife changed the channel. It should not be something a person is ashamed of (Ok, the toenail thing is gross, but that is completely on that person, and as long as he does not ask me to join in, I cannot protest too much.), and more people are into it than want to reveal it in public, but there is usually an odd reaction when a person openly admits to loving poetry. Add to the mix that the person also loves football and lifting weights, and eyebrows seem to rise even more.
Ok, so I am a little melodramatic. People who know me, my wife, my kids, my students, my parents know that I am fond of verse.However, that does not erase the fact that there is a stigma among us common folk, and among those who populate high schools, attached to such an affinity for poetry.
It should not be that way. Poetry is more accessible than most people think. It is diverse in subject matter, it is varied in its depth, and it is nearly endless in its approaches to the human language. I have related this episode before, but I will bring it back up here again. I had a student say she hated poetry. I told her she hated the poetry she had read so far. To say one hates poetry is akin to saying one hates food because one does not like Indian food or to saying one hates music because a person hates Eminem. (That also shows that we should probably have a little sit down, so we can examine where your logic is flawed, whether it be one specific point or just your outlook in general.)
Now, I can guess what some of you with more critical minds are now saying. "If it is unfair to say that I hate poetry because I have not in fact experienced all poetry, is it not just as flawed for Kohls to say he loves poetry when in fact there may be poetry out there that he does in fact hate?" Notice that I did not say I loved ALL poetry. There are some stinkers out there. Some are stinkers because they are horribly written, while others stink just for little old me because their funk is based solely on my personal taste. People may not want to admit it, but the odds are good that in Shakespeare's day, there were poet's who were flat out bad, and what they wrote was shallow and clique. Even more shocking might be the chance that some of the Bard's verse did not find its way into the Folio, and instead was used to light a fire or was employed in the privy. In other words, Shakespeare might have written some stinkers. Dunt-dunt-dahhhhhhh.
I do not know if I have lost most of you by now, and I hope not, but if I have, well, I guess that does not matter because you are not reading this anymore are you? What got me going today on this topic was an email I received. There is a program called "Poetry 180" sponsored by the Library of Congress. It is intended to encourage use of poetry in the classroom, and as a subscriber, I receive an email with a poem for the day each school. Actually, right now, I am receiving a poem for each day the rest of you go to school because our students were finished Wednesday. Just saying. Let's get back to the point. Some days I read the poem, say, "Huh" and move on. Other days, I bookmark the poem, note the poet and the title, and hold on to it later. Some days, I am forced to stop. I have to let the lines roll around my head a little, or crawl inside my mind and find a place to curl up. Those days are special. Those poems are gems that I have the pleasure to dig up and hold up to the light. I try to share those with my friends and colleagues. It is not just Poetry 180 that supplies these nuggets. Kiley Porter shared a link for a spoken word poem on the Upworthy site today. Students have sent me links to pieces they enjoyed. If I was in the LMc this spring, senior who is not in my English might share a title with me while he slaved away at his duties as an aide, and they usually proved to be good.
My point is this: poetry is everywhere. Sure, the lyrics of the songs on the radio or a person's ipod can be poetry. Not always good poetry, but poetry. And to be fair, some of those examples are brilliant pieces of poetry. There is poetry on every topic and emotion, every thought and struggle. Once we step coolly past the thought of "Why would you read poetry?" we begin to see just how amazingly well-stocked the treasure-trove is. It often only takes a minute, sometimes less. Then, one day, you will find yourself stopping to reread a line or a stanza, turning it over between your ears to see what is hidden in its crooks and crannies. At that point, you know you are hooked. If you have not gotten there yet, that is fine. Keep reading. You just haven't found the right poem yet, but it is out there.
Today's "Poetry 180" selection
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Earlier in the week, they sent this piece:
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