That Time of Year + A Letter to My Seniors

For those of you who do not teach, or who are not blessed have seniors in your classrooms each day, you may have missed the daily countdown of how many days our seniors have left. We are smack-dab in the middle of that time of year when teachers a grumbling and sporting bloodshot eyes from grading essays, labs, and tests. Oh and those "OMG! I forgot to put that in my folder! can I still turn it in?" assignments that we all love so much. Yes, Kellie, I am talking about you.

This year is a little different for me. My daughter, Emily, has blessed me over the last four years in ways that few people can understand. I had the proud pleasure of teaching her as a freshman in honors English, and she has continued to visit my classroom each school day since. Her sophomore year, on a day my senior classes were in the library, I heard a senior laughingly utter, "She;s coming in hot! and I turned to see this brown-haired angel sprinting (in a running style all her own) across the LMC to give me a hug. Mrs. Jordan has been telling me for two years that I need to value each and every one of those hugs in the hallway, but until recently, I did not really grasp just what she meant. My little girl is graduating. She will always be my little girl, but the days where she will be a daily constant are numbered. And I am starting to realize just how much I am going to miss it. It might not seem like a big deal to be able to trot down the southeast stairwell and duck into Mrs. Smith's room to see her, head bent low over some new sketch or painting, but it will be when I can no longer do it. I will miss flannel, an overloaded messenger bag, and bulky portfolio working their way down the hallway more than anyone can imagine. I will only need one coffee cup, but I will still keep a second around, just in case. The drawer of granola bars will stay stocked much longer, and that makes me sad.

And all of that is ok. You see, she is growing up, and that is how it is supposed to be. I know sometimes it seems as if life would be easier if our little ones just stayed little. But then we would never get to see them grow, and that is something we never want to miss. Emily is not that freshman drying her eyes before she slips back in the classroom, although she is in there somewhere, and always will be. She much more complex, stronger, and more mature. She is a young woman, a young adult who is uniquely herself. She is becoming more and more that person she is destined to be. Is she there yet? I don't think so; she has more growing to do. Shoot, so do I. And that is ok, too.

Without a doubt, I have been blessed beyond belief. For that, I say thank you. The amazing thing is, next year, I will be blessed to have my son in our building. And Dylan, he is definitely his own unique self, too.

I will probably write again on this topic as we near graduation, but I really do not want to right now. I would rather just enjoy the time that is left.  So instead, I will share a poem that I wrote.  I actually wrote this last year, but as we near the end of the year, my beautiful daughter's senior year, I thought I would repost.

“A Letter to My Seniors”

Jason Kohls

I just want to take the time, while I still can, to say one more thing to you

Before you walk out those doors and toss the cap and tassel.

Now, before you groan too loudly,

Remember that with one click, all evidence that you finished that senior project,

Will be gone. Poof. Just like that.

So zip it.

This is what I wanted to tell you, while I still can:

YOU DON’T KNOW.

You don’t know that this place,

Which some of you call a prison,

Has offered the freedom that only security can,

That for some,

This is the only place they feel warm, and safe, and unafraid.

Not everyone, but some,

But you don’t know.

You don’t know

That turning 18 does not really make you an adult

That some were forced to be grown up long ago,

And that others will take, just a little longer.

And some, much, much longer.

You don’t know

How much you will crave Taco Crunch

When you are reheating leftover ramen noodles because that is all that’s in the fridge

After your roommates ate the last hotdogs and it’s 7 days until payday.

You don’t know

That for one kid here,

That already happens every month, except mom lets him have the last hotdog

While she goes without,

Again.

You don’t know

That just when I want you to be gone from here,

Just like you dream of being and do not hesitate to express,

One of you will amaze me with a thought, an act, or words on a page.

You don’t know

That the impact you made here

Where you say you hate coming every day

Is deep and will be seen long after you are gone,

That someone little with wide eyes wants to be just like you

Even though you will be gone,

That the freshman you said “Hey” to on the stairs

Or the boy you helped with his books,

Or the kid who sees you and says,

“He’s like me, and if he can make it, then so can I”

You don’t know that each one of them

Feels a little better today than yesterday

Because of you.

You don’t know

How many times your mom, your dad, your aunt, or your grandpa

Has thought “I’m proud” and smiled

Because you are you.

You don’t know

What the word “commencement” actually means,

That is is not an end, but a new beginning,

You don’t know

That what you are now is no where near what you will become

And that where you will go could surprise nearly everyone

Including you.

You don’t know

How many doctors, builders, teachers, mechanics, mothers, lawyers, nurses, musicians, artists, and leaders

Sit among you right now,

You don’t know

That for every heartbreak and struggle you have felt these past years,

You will feel even more as you grow,

And they will each be worth it,

As you become who you are meant to be.

You don’t know

That despite the headaches

The frustration,

The struggles,

And the anger,

I am glad you have been here,

For a moment or two,

Before you go.

Tell My Story...

This weekend I have had the pleasure of working with young writers at the Prairie Winds Retreat. It is an amazing opportunity, and it is a terrific way to begin spring break. One of the greatest aspects of the camp is that I get to actually complete some of the writing activities with the kids. Yesterday, one of the tasks was for each kid to find something at the camp that they found interesting, silly, impressive, you know, basically awesome. They were to take a picture, and later we returned to the scenes and wrote the story that scene had to tell. 

Below is my offering. I had fun with it. Some of the young writers created some truly impressive tales. 

So, here you have it:

"Tell My Story..."

My rings should tell my story, swirling the years of growth and drought, etching my tale for the world to read. That is not happening. The surface where the saw bit through decades is now charred, and my voice is choked, even as young feet shuffle past what is left of me toward something better, something new, with concrete and steel. I want to scream out that I was not always this stump, this lifeless remnant of what had once been strong and tall.

I want to once again whisper with the breeze, to tell the story of those two laughing lovers who sat beneath my branches. He had leaned against me as he sat, and she had leaned into him, letting the sunlight that tumbled through my leaves dance on freckled cheeks as she closed those bluest of eyes and allowed his arms to wrap around her. Later, as the rays of the sun dipped below my branches, he took a small blade and pressed the tip through my rough bark, carving four letters set in pairs and joined within the border for a heart. I did not mind the discomfort that the scar left, no more than he regretted the indelible mark she would carve into his heart itself, where he hoped to hold her forever. The scar on me fell when I did; I wonder now if those four initials one day became three, or if those two youths would one day become one more.

But I cannot let that story drift do to those who walk past me. That gently carved heart has been replaced with only the blackened char of regret and death.

What treasures I would shower if I could only once more drop the leaves of the tales from years passed. Someone should hold a leaf to the sky and trace the veins that reveal the story of that young girl, pig-tailed and pinkless, who clamored up my lower branches to the highest limbs that would hold her, climbing a ladder seemingly built just for her. I must admit that more than once I leaned my arms toward her, allowing an outstretched hand to pull her up higher, leaving those boys far below. Boys who threw rocks, pine cones, and cruel names, but who would later chase her as high as she would let them.  In my fallen state, I cannot see beyond the horizon of age, and I wonder if she is still climbing, forever fearless, no limbo out of reach, or did she one day fall to earth?

In my leveled state, I cannot see. But, the truth is, I know now I never truly fell. Not when the weevil bored deep within my core, ring by ring, and left me creaking in the Kansas wind. Not when then dropped me from my height, sending me crashing to the grass. Not even when they reduced me with blades and wedges and let flames devour me. No, I still live on. As long as new initials trace the roots to those carved initials or young climbers give life to tiny crawlers, I continue to spread my branches.

Hey you! Yes you, Skinny. I have been ignoring you since they dropped you into the earth and your roots began intertwining with mine. I see they have staked you upright. That is good. We all need a little guidance, especially when we are young and easily bent by the winds that blow. Grow straight and grow strong. And listen: if one day, small, filthy  hands yank you down, trying to pull some laughing creature up or if some smooth, strong hand presses a steel point into your rough flesh, do not sway away. The scars will be worth it.

Thanks, Lacy Pitts @pacylitts

I was called out last night. It must have bothered me because I awoke at 2:30 this morning in a cold sweat, tossing and turning in a fit of guilt and anxiety that would not let me rest. I tried to coax sleep back to my bed, willing my eyes to remain closed while behind those fitful eyelids danced images of failure and frustration. Tortured and tormented, I lifted myself from my useless cocoon of slumber and resigned myself to a long day, thanks entirely to a cruel jab on social media that shined a light on my failure as a writer, a teacher, and, in essence, a man.

Thanks Lacy Pitts.

Maybe I exaggerate, just a bit. It was awake a 2:30 am. I did toss and turn before giving up and getting up just after 3:30. I was not thrown into turmoil by a tweet by young Miss Pitts. I am not really sure what woke me and kept me from falling back into sleep, but I suspect the second enchilada may have had a part in the process. Perhaps another bill making its way through the dual houses in Topeka started my mind turning. Shoot; the Governor may have introduced another education bill for discussion about the time I gave up on sleep. To paraphrase Hamlet, now, in the darkness of night, is the best time to do dirt, to undertake deeds that would force one to blush in the light of day. Of course, that idea assumes that said individuals are actually capable of feeling embarrassment and shame. Evidence would indicate some of our "leaders" have lost such ability.

So no, I should not blame Lacy Pitts and her tweet calling me out for not blogging enough for my inability to settle gently into the peace of sleep. However, I will thank her for nudging me to work toward clicking "Publish" once again.

So, instead of filling my mind, and yours, with more images of sleazy politicians masquerading as social and economic scientists gathered in a back room filled with cigar smoke and the stench of failed "experiments", passing money from pocket to pocket and chuckling about the ignorant fools who actually put them in the position to achieve, well, whatever it is they think they are achieving for the state of Kansas, I will compose incredibly long and rambling sentences that even Vicki Jewel would find challenging to diagram, sentences that turn our thoughts toward more cheerful ideas and more energizing ambitions.

Ironically, I turn to my classroom for such inspiration. My honors sophomores are studying poetry, you see. Currently, they are attempting to create audio-visual products which bring to life extended metaphors that they fashioned to create images of school. The assignment is inspired by Emily Dickinson's "'Hope' Is a Thing with Feathers", Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall", and Shane Koyczon's "To This Day".

This project can be a minefield at times, but it can aso allow some students to blossom. "Writer what you know" is how the old saying goes, right? We did discuss cliques this year, and I was hoping to avoid the yearly nugget "School is a prison." I pointed out that that metaphor may have outlived its usefulness and has lost its value due to overuse as an expression of young hyperbolic angst. "Elsinore is a prison" muttered the inky-cloaked Hamlet, and ages later he was echoes by Will Farrel's "This house is a prison!" in Stepbrothers. If that sentiment is in fact what this year's crop of creative minds wants to convey, they should strive to develop a new image that strikes the mind's eye of the reader.

I am excited by what I read. Not every student has a positive  view of school, and the images created by their metaphors are clouded in gloom or cracked by violence. While I am not happy to see those images tied to my mission, the creativity and emotion is sometimes truly impressive. Many are positive, and some shift in mood and tone as the mental pictures unfold on the page. The young poets  have created images for school and its various aspects that range from carrot cake to zoos, from racetracks to shoes, from beehives to mountains as they ahve crafted their extended metaphors (I have avoided calling these poems in class; I have found that simply calling them extended metaphors results in a much lower level of frustration for young men and women who i am trying to nudge away from groaning when they hear the word poetry).

I have witnessed young people labor for dozens of minutes trying to discover just the right word to fit in one line, only to change it again the next day when they reopen the document. Students become poets as they shift from using tired adjectives to vibrant participles. One event that no one outside my classroom may notice truly made me appreciate the opportunity I have each day. One student had created a rather lengthy metaphor comparing school to a zoo. The assignment required 8 lines, and she had placed at least twice that on the class document that held the entire class's offerings. However, she had actually composed perhaps 16 additional lines that she had not pasted with her other work. She was not sure if it was good enough, and she asked me to read it. In it she compared herself, as a student, to a wolverine, caged and observed, but eternally ferocious, fighting to overcome and break free, following an inner drive to go beyond the zoo's walls. It was not flawless, as no piece of writing ever is, but it was vivid. When I told her that her metaphor needed the lines she had written, that it completed the image and the idea, her face lit up, and she smiled, squirming in her seat.

That reaction made my day. That is why I teach young people. Those moments are present each and every day, and we sometimes have to remind ourselves to enjoy them. The smile when a kid finds just the right word, the tear that runs down a cheek when a stanza or paragraph touches something inside a 16-year-old, the furrowed brow when a bright student pushes a little harder to reach a higher expectation, the look of hopeful satisfaction on the face of the student who went beyond the basic requirements for an assignment for the first time this year. Those moments lead to higher assessment scores, and they allow a student to meet standards, believe it or not. More importantly, they lead to learning and growth. They open up minds and hearts, and they let kids find their ways. It does not happen with every kid on every activity, but we strive to make it happen as often as possible. It is not always immediately quantifiable, but it is without a doubt qualifiable.

So, it am going to go to work now. It is what we do. I will image upon image about school. Some will make me laugh, some will make me grind my teeth, and some will warm heart.  And one more thing is certain: they will make me want to go back tomorrow.

Oh, and thank you Lacy for calling me out. Sometimes it has to be done.

Play it a gain, Sam

This evening before I pull up my Honors Sophomore research papers and dive into grading another batch (Yes, Sydney, I am going to grade your tonight, so chill a minute), I decided I need to clear my head a bit, for the good of my students and myself. I do not mind giving the students' work my time on a Wednesday evening, despite the fact that our state senators cannot give even five minutes to discuss a proposed bill that will directly affect how and what we teach in our classrooms.  I chose my profession, and this is my job. It is what we do. However, as I said, I need to clear my head, so I will not write about that. You're welcome.

This week we did a creative writing activity in class which used music. I have the kids close their eyes and listen to a portion of a song. They then have three minutes to create the scene they see. Some kids love it; some do not love it quite so much.  I was impressed with what some of the students produced. I try to use a variety of music with each one offering a different tone and painting a different picture. After one song, a student muttered, "Wow, they just ruined that song." Personally, I like the song. I started thinking. It is amazing how often comments from my students lead me to thinking. I starting thinking about cover songs. Songs originally performed by one musician or band that some other performer has chosen to remake. For some individuals, it is a veritable crime against music to do this. I disagree. The error that is sometimes made is when a band tries to be the original when they cover a song. That is a mistake. Odds are that the second go around will fail precisely because the first attempt was exceptional. A cover song has the potential to be something more, something great, when the performers recreate the song, not in the image of the original but as their own. Notice I said "potential". Even if the new performers make a song their own, it still may not be very good. The potential for greatness is there, however, if the performers are potentially great in the first place.

I am sure some out there will disagree with me. That is completely understandable. However, they are wrong. All right, they are not wrong; they just have a different opinion and differing tastes. And they are wrong. Here is the song that started this rambling train of thought. The original is performed by Elvis Presley. The cover is by a punk band that goes by Leatherface.

Personally, I like the second version. They make no attempt to be Elvis or sound like him. That would be true folly. What they do is perform the song in their own way. They are a punk band, and they made it a punk song. The words are the same, but the tone is different. The energy is different. The song is different. And it is good.

Music is often a matter of taste. I am not a Taylor Swift hater. I actually like her music. However, one band had the guts and gusto to take Taylor's tune and craft it in their own, unique way. The second band is I Prevail, and they might be considered hardcore. It's not screamo. Personally, I prefer their jam, and it is on my workout playlist.

Maybe I Prevail had an easier time with covering "Blank Space" because the song was so new when they put out their cover. Other artists, like Leatherface reach back and grab a classic. That takes some intestinal fortitude. Another band that did that was featured in my previous blog post, but I will use them again. Battleme put out a tune titledPlay it  "Into the Black" which is a cover of a Neil Young song.  My seniors definitely preferred the newer version. The songs are different. Once again, Battleme made the song their own. They did not copy or regurgitate what Young produced. They performed it as Battleme. The made the right choice.

I am sure someone is wondering how in the world I can prefer a cover over an original, or the original over the cover. Honestly, each song stands on its own. The shifts in genre and tone fascinate me. Granted, I am a massive nerd.

At this point, I must go. The music is playing, the paper are waiting, and I made Sydney a promise.  I must do what I do, and do so with a clear mind. Mission accomplished.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light"

For the last week or so, my seniors have been exploring British poetry that could fall under the umbrella of "Carpe Diem"-themed selections. It has been one of the most interssting and enjoyable units that I have the pleasure to teach. Seniors in high school are a unique tribe, varied and volitile, intriguing and infuriating, energetic and exhausting. We dived headlong into Herrick's "To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time" and combed the lines of Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night. (On a side note, my son bears that poet's name. He was not actually named after Dylan Thomas as much as the name chose him, seeing as it was the only name that Heidi and I both liked and that fit the 'little booger' when he was born. I am confident he will rage, against any dying of the light.) The students examined the "If"s of Kipling in an effort to decipher what it might take to become a Man (or Woman), and composed their own conditionals along those lines. They pondered the truth and fault in the theme Housman expressed in "To an Athlete Dying Young", drawing parallels with "Into the Black" (I prefer the Battleme rendition; sorry for all those Neil Young fans) or The Dark Knight. 

I have been impressed with how many of the young people in hours 1, 3, and 4 have peered into the words and images, drawing from them emotions and ideas worthy of in depth discussion. They "gathered their rosebuds", argued that they will indeed catch and sing the sun in flight, and questioned whether it is better to set "foot on the threshhold of shade" before having a chance to experience the silence of decline. 

This week, we moved our way through what many might see as metaphorical "streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent", and I am sure some truly do dread the likelihood that I may ask "What is it?" We examined "The Lovesong of Prufrock", and as the yellow fog cleared from the eyes of one young lady, she asked me "What in the world does this depressing poem have to do with Carpe Diem?" That was a legitimate question. Seizing the day was not exactly Prufrock's thing. "Do I dare?" He didn't dare. So, what was the point? 

A more Modernist view of Carpe Diem was less optimistic than Mr. Keating might have been as he urged his young charges to live life while they could. 

Where some see "Life is short, so live it" others see "Life sucks, so why bother?" Where some see rosebuds and the pleasures of scent, sight, and touch, others see nothing but thorns. I told her I lean toward the more positive view, even though I love the powerful imagery and depth of Eliot's piece. You could say I enjoy the artistry of it all, although I think my definition of artistry might differ significantly from Kanye West's. The fact is, I can understand the lament of Prufrock; I can even relate to it. I do not, however, subscribe to it. That is my choice, and it is a choice we all have. 

So, where am I headed with this? Each day, we have a decision to make. Sometimes we have to make the choice consciously, and sometimes it just seems to happen with little effort. Regardless, each of us controls how we seize the day. For teachers in today's schools in Kansas, it does seem that a yellow fog seems to be sliding around our house, covered in the soot that has filtered down from the scorched remains of what some once called a Great Experiment. But, as my cousin stated last week on Twitter, WE will return to our classrooms each morning and do our jobs. We will seize the day. Why? We will do so because we have to. It is not about us. It is about the kids we see each day, who are learning to read, learning to think, learning to live. We have to seize the day. We have to help them gather the rosebuds, because "this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying" and not one of us wants to steal away from those uncalloused hands, those as of yet unjaded hearts, the chance to make themselves the best possible members of this little world we live in, even if time may be short. They deserve to be "chaired...through the marketplace", and we will not be the reason they lose that chance. 

So, seize the day. Let those who have helped you gather your rosebuds know you appreciate it, and let those who now seem to want to tear up the rose bushes by the roots and crush them know that you will not stand for it. In short, "Rage, rage agaisnt the dying of the light" and we will not "go gentle into that good night."

I Have Plenty to Do, but I Chose to Blog

I am plodding my way through late work, trying to assure myself that these grades for the first semester are as accurate as they can be. At the same time I have the Packers-Seahawks game on, which draws my attention now and then. Upstairs, a mixture of seasoned ground beef, onions, and cabbage waits for dough to rise so I can craft bierocks. I need to mix the broiled chicken breasts and bacon I prepared this morning into pasta salad for our ELAFL team lunch tomorrow. In short, I have plenty of tasks before me right now. So, naturally, I went on a bike ride earlier, and I have chosen to close out buhlerdocs and open up Blogger for a little while. Makes sense.

This week, I worked on a film for when we begin our spring morning workouts. I love working on those videos. The thought went through my head that I could have done that for a living, maybe working my way up the ladder, squinting and sweating over thousands of hours of sports or news footage, perhaps fooling someone long enough to let me into an NFL Films office or ESPN studio. It could have happened. Or not.

I mentioned that to my Dad. The fact is, I could have done something else. I am fairly intelligent and enjoy putting myself into endeavors, working hard to complete a project or task, tapping into what creativity I can muster, calling forth the skills that great teachers and role models have managed to massage through my thick skull. I think I could have found a path that would have allowed me to make a fair living, probably much more money than I make now.  My Dad cleared things up though, as he has a tendency to do. "But you are doing what you want to be doing. What you love to do. What you are supposed to do."

Dad tends to be right when he says something. This time really is no different. Despite the fact that it seems as if every day I read another article about the gloom and doom that sits on the horizon for those of us in education, I am doing what I am meant to be doing.

Do you know what keeps so many teachers from going that direction? What allows people in the profession to keep rolling in each morning, often 30-45 minutes before "contract time" starts? What keeps them up late on a Wednesday so they can celebrate completing a set of papers that need to be graded or a test that needed to be written? It is so simple that many outside of education cannot understand it until they think of it in terms of their business. It is what we are supposed to be doing. It is what some people refer to as the "why" we must all identify and always keep in mind. Seeing a kid light up when she "gets it", watching a "Sweathog" cross the stage on a May Saturday, reading a letter or twitter message from a former student who found his way and his own passion, learning you made a connection with a student who needed to connect with someone, or getting a hug from a player who overcame setback after setback to win a championship gives a teacher the same reward that closing a deal for a Fortune 500 company, seeing a patient walk out of the hospital doors with loved ones, hearing a song you penned stream from the radio, or seeing a new model of automobile roll off the assembly line for the first time does for each of those professionals. Would it be nice to receive a little more in each check along with that reward? Sure. I would not turn it down. However, when you are doing what are supposed to do, what you have a passion for, and you can put food on the table doing it, you are wealthier than many people who cash comparatively large checks and hate their lives every day.  In addition to that, do you know what we, as educators, get to do each and every day in some way, large or small? We get to help young people discover their own "why". We have the opportunity to help them develop the tools to not only identify their "whys", but also to become successful in those endeavors. How neat is that? (In case you are unsure: it is pretty dang neat.)

Why do I like making those videos? It is because those players are my kids. Our kids. My why. It is just that simple.

Sure, I could do something else. But why?

Writer's Block, Football, Movies, and Music

I do not know what to write! There. Now the few of you that actually read this once in a while and have uttered those frustrated words in my direction can feel I am finally getting my just reward. I have writers' block, and I do not like that. It is not that I do not have any ideas; it is just that every idea seems to be a rehash of something I have already hashed before or is not really worth putting on paper, even the electronic kind.

In my classroom, when some youth, worn down with the grind of academic struggle, brow glistening with the sweat of intellectual exertion, lifts his or her eyes, bloodshot and brimming with tears of frustration, to me in desperation because the words will not work themselves free from the locked cage the imagination and mind, I usually nudge that fine young scribe gently toward creative greatness with such encouraging nuggets as "I cannot tell you what you think; you have to put it together" and the thoughts immediately begin to flow from pen to page, partly, I am sure due to my osmotic creative presence. (If you are bored and nerdy, diagram that sentence. I will hold you in amazing high esteem from today forward.) It is just as simple as that. Actually, when a student looks at me and hisses through clinched teeth how hard it is to write, I usually will sit down next to her and try to work toward some ember that simply needs a little creative oxygen and a bit of fuel to ignite. It is there for most kids, more of us as writers, but finding the proper tinder is not always obvious and simple as blowing on a bundle of sticks and straw.  Sometimes it takes some searching, a few extra swipes across the mental flint, and some sheltering from the factors that spit on the tend flames.  Sometimes, it does take a stern stroke, and the writer will hear the words "Write something. It might be something bad. If you have something, we can build on that." And that always works. Always.

Sometimes, I am in that same spot at my students. I do not know what to write! I cannot get started. Nothing sounds new, fresh, or worth developing. So, I write. I write something, even if it is bad. From there, maybe I can build.  And with that, I give you a string disjoined thoughts that fall out of my head and land on the keyboard.

1.  Every once in a while, it is good to go on a youtube adventure. Call it falling down the rabbithole or surfing or just killing time. Whatever title is fixed to it, it can be rewarding on some level. Not every time or in a deep, life-affirming or life altering way, but sometimes, and in ways that make life more interesting. I have found some very interesting spoken word pieces on some of those rambling jaunts. Some intriguing musical selections have made their way onto my playlists after I stumbled upon songs and artists I would never have discovered had I not allowed myself to float down those internet streams into darker, more dangerous waters. I discovered several groups who perform a harsher form of rock music than most of the music on my itunes (It's not screamo! It's hardcore!"), but I find myself listening to them more and more often, especially during workouts. However, some of it just freaks me out. I am a metalhead from way back, so that takes something.  I have also found some musicians that fall under the modern version more traditional umbrella, such as  Avery Watts, Danko Jones, or Redlight King, and I doubt I would have heard the offerings from these bands had it not been for insomnia, an internet connection, and suggestions lists down the right side of the youtube page.

2.  There are movies that demand that you stop and watch. Sometimes, I do not even know why I stop and watch. Napoleon Dynamite  is not a great film, and I have yet to find a reason to watch any part of the movie even once, let alone repeatedly. However, if the movie is on TV and I flip past that channel, the odds are I am going to watch part of it. I do not know why. He doesn't even have any skills. Gosh!

I find it nearly impossible to skim past The Departed or Gangs of New York, despite the fact that I own each of these films on DVD. These two are different from ND in the fact that they are both extremely good movies. However, I have seen each of them multiple times. However, if I see a filthy DiCaprio strolling the streets of the Five Points with Bill the Butcher, plotting the return of the Dead Rabbits, I am dropping the remote. If I hear Wahlberg spouting obscenities and Damon whispering about how good he is at lying, you have lost me for an hour or two.  The addiction is not limited by genre either. Full Metal Jacket, The Breakfast Club, High Plains Drifter, The Green Beret, Cool Hand Luke, Stalag 17. Any one of those films will stop me in my tracks.

3.  Football fans are fanatical. Most cannot discuss much of anything that is connected even remotely to "their" team without completely losing their minds. We see it at some points with professional teams, but usually it raises its ugly head when college ball comes into play.  It is annoying it many people, and it actually diminishes the enjoyment that should come from the game.  By all means, support your team, even if it is not really "your" team. If you educate yourself on the game beyond how great your team is and how much everyone else is terrible, you would probably enjoy the games more, and actually appreciate what the team you cheer for is actually doing.
By the way, this applies to college basketball fans as well. I did not want KU fans to feel left out of this discussion.

4.  With that in mind, can we now admit that the SEC is basically like the other power conferences in college football? They are a great football conference. They are not the SE Conference of the NFL. Some years they have an unbeatable team.  Some years they have several very good teams. Guess what? That can be said about the PAC-12, BIG 10, and BIG 12 year to year. And, apparently, the ACC is pretty stout too, evidenced by what Georgia Tech did to a top SEC team in their bowl. Top to bottom, those conferences are very comparable. To argue that each year the SEC must have the top team in the playoff, and probably two teams in the playoff, is just as ridiculous as saying the BIG 12 should have had two teams in the playoff this year.

5. On a football-related note, I do not like to listen to college football announcers.  I cannot tell you what sportscaster first said it, or what sport he was discussing, but I do remember hearing an old broadcaster speak on how the best quality a broadcaster can have is to let the game happen for the listeners or viewers, and simply fill in the blanks for them so they feel the game and can become a part of it. I wish more broadcasters could follow that mantra. So often it seems that today's college football broadcasters feel they have to be part of the game, as opposed to helping bring the game to those at home. In doing so, they talk continuously. In order to keep that constant noise going, they often overstate the obvious, or blather on with useless and often incorrect information. If an announcer wishes to break down the running game of Oregon or K-State, he really needs to become informed on those running schemes first. Otherwise, he sounds like an idiot.
Oh, and announcers should read #4 as well. Hate to tell you, but while the east and west coasts play some amazing football, the middle of the country, from Minnesota and Wisconsin to Texas and points in between can do some amazing things on the gridiron. Always have.

Well, I was able to get a few things down on paper. Maybe I will come back to one or two of them later and expand. Or maybe not. I wrote, and for now, that is something.

Even if it is something bad.