Absence makes the writing grow worse.

Hi again, all. I am beyond overwhelmed this fall, and the blog has been low on the totem pole. I have had several days the past few weeks when I've felt like jumping up and down and whining like a kid, because I don't want to do all that I must do.

The college success course I'm teaching has occupied my time to an extent I didn't think possible for a 2-hour credit. In trying to emulate our college-success guru by scheduling too many projects, I've ignored my basic need for survival. So one of my personal projects this weekend is to revisit the class schedule, already revised once, to see if I can revise it again. I've also been struggling with my confidence in teaching it, and one might say I'm struggling with my confidence in general. I am also shocked at some of the behavior I see in those classes, but that's another rant.

I have two classes' worth of library projects and two stacks of composition essays to grade, and another stack of learning support essays comes in next week. Luckily, this upcoming Tuesday there's no class; it's called discipline development day. Faculty are supposed to meet and discuss exciting curricular and legislative business of various stripes. I may go for one meeting of a committee I'm supposedly on, but after that I'm Audi.

My memoir class goes okay; I'm getting some surprisingly good writing out of it, but it's also a lot of work. It ain't no leisurely adult-ed class. We have oral reports, two shorter out-of-class papers, and a 30-page project.

I'm still tutoring and foresee giving that up come the beginning of '09.

Since I suffer from occasional (lately, more frequent) anxiety, the feeling is that my life has spun out of control and I'm never going to get it back. And since control (or the illusion of control) is important to me, you can imagine how much that freaks me out. So everything I must do becomes equally important, even when I know not everything has to be done perfectly. And I can't stop thinking about everything I have to do. It feels like a big wave constantly rolling over me. The way I'm feeling now, it'll keep rolling over me until December.

The clincher is that I know this is all out of proportion. I know it doesn't matter one whit if I can't complete 30 pages for the memoir class, yet it feels like a moral failing if I admit that. I know I don't have to grade all the library projects this weekend, yet something in me won't let me rest unless I do.

So of course, this makes me worthless as a fiance, and not much fun at dinner. In the fight-or-flight battle, I'm flight. I just want to walk (run) away for a day from all I've committed myself to. Even two.

More when the mood has improved.

It's all about meme.

Hi again--another lame excuse for posting, perhaps, but it's all I can muster these days. Thanks again indirectly to seabird78, and as before, I will not tag; please steal the guidelines and do 'em yourself if you're interested.

* Each blogger starts with ten random facts/habits about him/herself.
* Bloggers whom are tagged need to write on their own blog about their ten things and post these rules.
* At the end of your blog, you need to choose ten people to get tagged and list their names.

1. I made straight A's in math until my high school freshman year, when algebra came into the picture. Then, it was mostly B's and the occasional A. (Though I took biz calc in college and made an A.)

2. Yard work is not my forte, yet I find peace and relaxation in mowing the lawn and pulling weeds.

3. I haven't written a new poem or revised an old one in nearly a year.

4. I bite my fingernails, but only when they get long.

5. Once in a while (say, once every six months), I wish I were more of a typical male: beer-pounding, curse-word-spewing, dart-throwing, something. I resist my feminization even as I'm glad for it.

6. I miss my friends in western Kentucky, those who are still there and those who have moved on.

7. I'm getting married in May (provided we have a venue!).

8. I'm a closet fan of Game Show Network and know more about The Hollywood Squares than is healthy.

9. The last book that stirred me was Concerning the Book That is the Body of the Beloved, poems by Gregory Orr.

10. I'm way too hard on myself and at times don't know what to do about it.

What are we reading?

For me, it's currently Rick Bragg's All Over but the Shoutin', which I'm dashing through in time to do an oral report on for my memoir class. And in a word, the book's frustrating. I wait for it to settle down, but apparently it won't. Actually, now that he's into his dashing-around job-changing years at various newspapers, I'm just sorta rolling with it. I guess it's a memoir, but it sure is loose--not with the facts (I presume), but with the development.

I looked up Bragg on the lazy man's dream, Wikipedia, and found links to other places which limned his resignation from the New York Times a few years ago, because he'd taken credit for, or written himself, a story based on a stringer's notes and observations without giving credit to the stringer. Doesn't sound very sporting, and Bragg was apparently nonchalant and upfront about it, claiming to have done nothing that other writers haven't gotten away with. So since learning this, my estimation of him has gone down slightly.

The book is just ah-ight. The man had an amazingly hardscrabble childhood, and his mother sounds like a saint. I could read a whole book about her. Dare I say the book is more telling than showing? I extremely liked the chapter about when he went to the Baptist church; it's one of a few times where the writing is stopping to take a breath.

I don't really know how to focus this oral report I'm to do, yet, but I imagine I'll figure it out. I have two degrees in English, after all.

A new leaf, turned over.

Yes, I appear to have returned, but who knows, I may burrow deep again soon.

I proposed to the lovely lady on 8/28 and got a yes, so that's been the biggest deal of my life, so far. It was done just right, if I do say so myself. We went to one of our favorite local restaurants, I got down on one knee, and I was nervous. And dinner was just lovely, and the couple at the next table bought us each a glass of wine! I thought we were in a Frank Capra movie.

So plans proceed apace. We're this close (already) to nailing down the venue and the band, and the photographer may not be far behind. The date isn't until May next year, but why wait, especially when you're hyper-motivated?

I'm just trying not to think about the money...

On another note, and to reference the title, I've made a vow to spend less time grading essays this fall. I *must*, to stay sane. I have more students this fall than ever before. So far, so good: I churned through 18 short essays (1.5-2 pages each) in 2 hours this afternoon, roughly 9 per hour or 6-7 min. per essay. I'm forcing myself to write less or not at all on the essays themselves and just on my rubric sheet. Because you know, how many students really read what I write or care to delve into why they received the number they did? The ones who care are the (few) ones who sought me out in previous semesters and will do so again.

Everyone in this course has to revise two essays and re-submit them. Maybe, just maybe, my new method will force them to really re-read what they turned in.

In any case, it's a survival technique. And I finally don't feel guilty about it, after 10-plus years of full-time teaching. Wow. Maybe tomorrow I'll go bungee jumping.

He lives! (Actually, a cheat.)

Meme again stolen from seabird78--here we go. Like seabird78, I will not tag:

A) People who are tagged must answer on their blogs and replace any horrid question with questions of their own design.

B) Tag 8 people to do this quiz. These people must state who they were tagged by & cannot tag the person whom they were tagged by. Continue this game by sending it to other people.

1. How many songs are on your iPod?
I still don't own one. But on/in my iTunes player on this here computer, I dunno--150, perhaps.

2. Last book I really enjoyed?
American Band. About a marching band, and not Grand Funk.

3. Are you going to any concerts soon?
Probably Nanci Griffith, Variety Playhouse, early Oct.

4. What is your favorite scent?
Spearmint. Also honeysuckle.

5. If you had a million dollars that you could only spend on yourself, what would you do with it?
Pay off credit card, buy a new house, go wild on iTunes. The rest--yes--I'd probably save. And I'd teach part-time only.

6. What is your theme song?
Nearsighted, by Rupert Holmes.

7. Do you trust easily?
Yes.

8. Do you generally think before you act, or act before you think?
The former, big-time.

9. What are you most looking forward to right now?
In 2 hours, a lovely dinner and wine and talk with my fiance and two good friends.

10. Do you have a good body image?
Mostly, yes.

11. What's one thing you love to do that you really suck at?
Wow. I don't know. I tend not to pursue things I suck at. For a while last winter, yoga.

12. What websites do you visit daily?
Gmail, NYT, AJC, YouTube.

13. What have you been seriously addicted to lately?
String cheese.

14. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?
Well, indirectly tagged by seabird, I'd say introspective, slow to judge, anxious about writing--just like me!

15. What's the last song that got stuck in your head?
More Today than Yesterday, by Spiral Starecase (yes, that's how they spelled it).

16. What's your favorite pair of pants?
They're light-chocolate brown with pinstripes.

17. Do you think Rice Crispies are yummy?
Neutral.

18. What would you do if you saw $100 lying on the ground?
Take it and run.

19. What [item] could you not go without during the day?
My wallet.

20. What should you be doing right now?
Making a list of potential wedding invitees.

College success and the anxiety of influence.

According to Harold Bloom, Milton wrote with the anxiety of having come after Shakespeare. In the same vein, I'm teaching this college success course with a good deal of anxiety and uncertainty, esp. since I'm teaching it in the shadow of one of my colleagues, who's helping me out, has taught the course a long time, and is the guru.

This afternoon I was consulting with her about assignments and course content, and the old demons took over: "I can't possibly teach this course as well, there's no way, I'm not qualified," et al. Monkey mind. And I was stressing so much that I was barely aware of my desk, my clothes, my department mates. I haven't felt that wooged out from teaching in years, possibly not since my first semester as a full-time tenure-tracker 12 years ago.

But I got through both sections tonight, and it was fine. The biggest challenge will be figuring out how to effectively teach this stuff in two 50-minute sections per week I loathe 50-minute classes even more now than I used to, esp. since I'm used to 75, 105, and even more minutes per meeting. I can change my mind in 50, and that's about it.

Still, when I can burrow past the self-doubt and the stress of teaching a brand-new subject, I can see enjoying it. I actually did enjoy the second section tonight; they supplied a good deal of the energy, and I just had to conduct the orchestra.

As long as I can stay two steps ahead, maybe I'll be ah-ight.

You never step in the same stagnant pool twice.

And so, on to another fall semester and a fresh crop of willing suckers.

Check that. Time for another fall semester and an exciting horizon of boundless opportunities!

I'm trying to channel a little more of the latter sentiment, though not in such gross terms. This college success course I will soon be teaching (first section in 4 hours!) has me wanting to be a little more peppy, a little more positive about this place. We'll see if it lasts. Their first assignment is a time management exercise, in which they have to keep a log of everything they do for a week and then perform some mathematical analysis. How does that sound?

This course has me feeling like a newbie all over again, though I'm much less of one than I was when I first began this enterprise in spring '95 (!). I intend to stay at least two steps ahead of the students, which is the same way I've always taught a course for the first time. Is there any other way?

I remember my intense "fish out of water" feelings from '95, and I remember how ambitious and rose-colored I was. I think my first-ever syllabus required eight essays, possibly nine. I remember breaking into tears one day and being consoled outside the room by a student. I also remember the intense notes I took from the textbook; I still have them here. I thought I needed to write it all down because it was all important.

I don't know much, but I know this: I've learned the art of faking it. So if I blunder through a class meeting or two, I won't be hard on myself--or not as much. I have the beginning and the end of the cousre figured out, but the middle is proving squirrelly. Luckily, our college-success guru is across the hall, and I will pepper her with questions later this week.

Did I mention I'm looking forward to teaching this course?

It's a Kingsized world of love.

This weekend, we two and a mutual friend journeyed into town for what's fast become a semi-ritual for us: the annual Elvis "death day" show at the Variety Playhouse, put on by lead man Mike Geier and a collective known as Kingsized. (Geier is a large man and sings full-throated, hence the name.)

I mean to tell you: these guys are super. They channel the latter-day Elvis, mostly, but they channel him and that well-hewn early-70s soul-country vibe without slavishly imitating either. They pull out all the stops, and then some: Geier's the main attraction, but there's also the rhythm section, a 5-piece horn section, a percussionist, and the Sweet Potato Inspiration Choir. Oh, and toss in the Dames Aflame; they're a local go-go-ish dancing troupe who provide nice, um, choreography. There's barely enough room onstage to hold them all.

Anyone who digs Elvis from the '68 comeback special on will probably dig Kingsized. They toss in a few early nuggets (thankfully, no "Heartbreak Hotel") but focus, rightly I think, on the more interesting and complicated body of work after Elvis gave up movies and returned to live performance. So you get the brass-heavy showstoppers ("Polk Salad Annie," "An American Trilogy," "Never Been to Spain") mixed in with some of the schmaltz ("My Way," "Bridge Over Troubled Water") mixed in with the gospel stuff ("How Great Thou Art," "Run On for a Long Time"). And they're further savvy by throwing in a few things which Elvis never covered but could have, such as "Little Egypt" by the Coasters.

The last two shows, Kinsgized has added an encore in which they leave behind the Elvis tribute and do a couple of similarly appropriate numbers. As mentioned, Geier has a bear of a voice and so needs the right vehicle. This time, they did a superb "With a Little Help from My Friends" (Joe Cocker, not the Beatles) and "Come Sail Away"; for me, Styx has always been a little icky, but they did it well.

I hasten to add this is no camp. This is a solid, well-built band. It's the perfect way to keep alive the spirit of Elvis. I like to think the King would have approved of Kingsized.

Two from Kay Ryan, new U.S. Poet Laureate.

I've just discovered Ryan's work--not hard to do, given how much out of the poetry loop I am, but apparently she's a low-profile person by nature, a bit like former laureate Ted Kooser in that sense. She teaches developmental English in the Marin area of California and has very quietly published 4-5 books over the last decade and a half.

She writes compressed gems such as these two (from her 2005 volume The Niagara River). Look/listen for her gentle internal rhymes and dig those sly line breaks. The poems are not quite like anything else I've ever read. She's being compared to Dickinson, but Dickinson is a lot wilder and more profane by any stretch. Enjoy...

The Best of It

However carved up
or pared down we get,
we keep on making
the best of it as though
it doesn't matter that
our acre's down to
a square foot. As
though our garden
could be one bean
and we'd rejoice if
it flourishes, as
though one bean
could nourish us.


Ideal Audience

Not scattered legions,
not a dozen from
a single region
for whom accent
matters, not a seven-
member coven,
not five shirttail
cousins; just
one free citizen--
maybe not alive
now even--who
will know with
exquisite gloom
that only we two
ever found this room.

What kind of man watches Man vs. Wild?

Answer: me. But only because the young lady had it on the other night, and only because her brother raves about it. So I've seen parts of two episodes, the one in Alaska and the one in the Baja desert.

I have just one question: for whom is this show designed? The dude (Bear) dispenses wilderness survival tips to an audience who will never hike through the Baja desert, let alone hike with only a knife and a tiny backpack. His peeling back the snake skin to pee into it (and thus to drink the pee and keep himself going) was morbidly fascinating, but I mean, all this advice ("Make sure you chop the head off and bury it, because the venom is still active!") is needless for me.

It would be more effective as a straight travel/adventure show, and it's pretty effective as it is. But you know what I want to see? A series about this dude's camera crew. They have to do what he does, but with cameras and mikes and all sorts of shit.

Part 2: Return of the civic spirit (somewhat) and beginning of the fall.

Not to overstate the case, but so far, for no particular reason, I'm feeling a bit more outreach-y, like I don't mind doing my civic duty. Tomorrow I'm helping out for an hour with registration after my advising is done; we have a ton of students descending upon us tomorrow, and I'll be answering general (hopefully easy) questions, directing them to the right buildings, pointing, showing, etc. Labor Day weekend, I'm volunteering at a local book festival by serving at the "concierge" desk one morning--probably the same sort of pointing and showing and answering.

And I'm still volunteering with our literacy volunteers organization, tutoring a student once a week in basic, basic, basic reading skills. I haven't mentioned it here yet because...well, progress has been slow to non-existent. I may elaborate later.

The young lady hopes to begin volunteering at a local animal shelter soon. She's already been through the training/orientation, and it kinda interests me, too.

Anyway, I'm not justifying my existence by writing this. I just mean to say that I'm feeling light about all of this, that it's no imposition, and that I'm doing something besides what I'm paid to do--something satisfying.

Return of the civic spirit (somewhat) and beginning of the fall.

Why, hello.

Out of the loop for a while, there. No reasons, really: no vacations, no house projects, nothing much other than staying out of the heat. I admire those of you out there who update every day; I wish I could, but I feel compelled to update only when there's something to update.

And now, frickin' fall semester is upon us like a loan shark. Lots of bustle today and yesterday. Yesterday was the annual college-wide "convocation" at our campus, a joyous occasion in which we all convocate and presumably share tales of the summer, but in which we mostly listen to administrators justify their jobs. Lots of razzle-dazzle, lots of encomiums, lots of abstractions and buzzwords. In the morning session, In a gym filled with, I don't know, 1000 people, such exhortations rang hollow. I got so dithered up about the level of hot air in there that I left at break and went back to my office to get work done. Which I did, lots of it.

Today, another meeting at our campus, this time just for our campus faculty (we have multiple campuses), and it wasn't so much a meeting as a facilities update and a brief intro of most of the department heads and visible folks in registration and such Not even a welcoming of the new faculty hires, because the dean didn't have the full list available. (This place is infuriating sometimes for how much faculty are shoved aside, but that's another post.) In short, I could have slept for another hour.

The upside is that I then had 3.5 hours between the end of that meeting and the beginning of our department meeting, during which I knocked out part of my evaluation portfolio due next Friday and made sure I had all the needed copies. (I'm up for promotion to associate professor, so I don't want to wait until last minute.) And I crossed off a few more items on my to-do list for the college success course, and emailed a couple of people about a couple of things.

Then the department meeting at 2:00. We are an enormous department now. I counted 31 people there including the chair. We lost one of our campuses this spring due to UGA usurpation (though we opened a new one way out east), so several faculty in the diaspora transferred to our campus. Plus, we have six new tenure-trackers. Of course, the campus has barely enough space to house everyone, and this fall, major renovations will begin on one building, soon to include two buildings, thereby creating more displacement.

It's kind of wild and fun, actually. This meeting today may also mark the only time most of the full-timers and term-to-termers are gathered in the same room. Now it's off to our disparate schedules and preps.

I'll elaborate on the first half of the title in the next post.

Forward motion: signing up for the rest of my life.

This fall I'm taking a break from the local choir I've sung with since 2000 and will take a memoir-writing class in its stead. Me and memoir? Well, I'm definitely too young to write my "memoirs" in the famous-celebrity sense, but I have to admit the explosion of first-person allegedly-true or partially-true or 75%-lie accounts fascinates me.

I don't have any glorious (or vainglorious) intentions in taking this class. I want to work on my prose skills, and that's about as modest as I can make it. I've made a few forays into what I want to do with the two music appreciation mini-essays I've put on here. Another fervent hope is to keep the writing juice supplied to where it doesn't feel like an insurmountable task to do some on a semi-regular basis. A third is, simply, to dig into some more personal stuff that needs to be written, much of which I wouldn't feel comfortable putting even here, since I know I have some readers.

In the past I have written a few short stories. My fiction skills are, shall we say, underdeveloped. I tip my dusty cap to all y'all who write short stories, because I think they're the hardest thing ever. I have a fondness for the quotidian--an overfondness, actually--and my chief weakness has always been forward motion, making the story frickin' do something on the page. So maybe memoir/personal essays/remembrances/whatever will be a workable way back into prose.

There's something refreshingly workmanlike about writing prose when the writing goes well. Journalists are perhaps the most workmanlike simply out of necessity. But it seems like progress in a prose piece can be measured more defiinitely, or one can set benchmarks along the way a little more readily than with, say, a poem. I don't ever remember setting the goal of writing one more stanza, say, or finding two more unusual end-rhymes before the night was done. Procrastination cuts across all genres, of course, but--I don't know, I equate writing prose to solving a puzzle, in a way. Poetry just doesn't have that feel for me, somehow; it's more like buffing one piece of the puzzle rather than finding out the design of the whole puzzle.

And that's as far as I want to go with that. A theorist I am not.

Progress/regress report: summer term, the end.

Just entered my second set of course grades and am now done! For ten days or so, anyway, then it's time to gear back up for more jollity. Urgh.

Comp II's final grade distribution surprised me a bit, but Comp I didn't so much. Comp I: 2 B's, 5 C's, and 2 D's. Comp II: 6 B's, 5 C's, and 2 D's. No A's or F's in either bunch, which I should count as...something. Both victory and defeat is what it feels like, and a little bit of relief. Comp II, overall, performed much better on the final exam than I predicted, though there was also a 48 and a 51; interestingly, the student who made the 48 managed to pass by .2 point, whereas the 51 student failed by 1.4 points. The passing student was saved by a near-perfect score in daily work, see. Not to sound like a drill sergeant, but it goes to show that turning in work and being dutiful can make the difference.

As hinted, the biggest feeling I have is one of relief. After every semester, the relief is accompanied by an inescapable sense of futility, too. The deepest, most cynical recesses of me maintain it doesn't matter one whit if I modify my course layout, change assignments, or emphasize until I'm blue in the face the importance of keeping up, doing the work, blah blah--that the grade distributions will more or less stay the same. But the optimistic, naive side of me says my main purpose each new semester is to offer the material, offer the roads to success--that everyone who registers for me has a decent chance to do well.

Shouldn't it be relatively difficult to get an A, anyway? Doesn't that grade signify work, skills, effort, and/or results that are above the usual expected levels? And conversely, shouldn't it be relatively difficult to get an F if you at least show up and give it somewhat of an effort? (Is my standard for an F lower [or higher] than it should be?) In any case, it really is difficult to out-and-out fail one of my courses, but a D? Not as much.

Anyway, enough of that. To do before first day of fall semester:

1. Prep this college success course which I've never taught before. I feel like an infant thrown into the deep end.

2. Nail down my developmental English syllabus. Chances are I'll keep the layout largely the same as before, but the tinkerer in me is saying I should save all the punctuation and small-scale stuff for later, say two-thirds through the term--not until they've had a good solid chance to turn in 4-5 pieces. That would mean I'd have to change the nature of my written comments, too--not sure I want to do all that, but we'll see.

3. Buy some new shirts. OK, *a* new shirt. I think upon it and realize I haven't bought an article of clothing for myself in 9-10 months.

4. Mow the gd lawn AGAIN. I can't believe how much it still sprouts even in these dire summer months. But then, we've had more rain this year than last and so far haven't had the triple-digit living hell we had last August.

5. Do something fun during the weekdays--see some area things I haven't seen. The Flannery O'Connor house, for example, remains high on the list. If the Braves were playing better, I'd hop over to Turner Field--still might.

From the immortal Fail Blog.

I like "Buy Get One One" just as much.

Movie-watching meme via seabird78.

A/k/a taking a break from grading. Feel free to steal for your own purposes.

1. What movie have you seen the most times in the theater? How many times?
Star Wars--three times. No Country for Old Men--twice.

2. What was the last movie you walked out of in the theater?
Don't remember walking out ever. I badly wanted to walk out of Hocus Pocus, but I was reviewing it for the student paper.

3. What is the first movie you remember seeing in a theater?
On TV: The Wizard of Oz. In a theater: one of those Disney Don Knotts vehicles, probably The Apple Dumpling Gang.

4. What is your favorite movie soundtrack?
Jackie Brown.

5. Have you ever dressed up as a movie character for Halloween? If so, who?
Yes: C-3PO.

6. What was the first R-rated movie you ever saw? Were you allowed or did you sneak?
Silver Streak. Mom took my brother and I out to the lobby halfway through while Dad finished watching.

7. Star Wars (orig. trilogy) or Lord of the Rings?
Star Wars when I was a youngster. Now, they're all silly.

8. Pacino or DeNiro?
DeNiro.

9. Titanic...did it suck or was it great?
It wasn't great but damn close--and I was surprised how engrossed I was.

10. What's your take on Cassavetes?
Worthwhile in small doses.

11. Favorite John Hughes character?
Ferris Bueller. 2nd place: Edie McClurg's character in the same movie.

12. What movie gives you a boner (or makes you tingle)?
Basic Instinct.

13. What movie always makes you cry like the big puss you are?
Field of Dreams.

14. What's the furthest you've ever gotten in a movie theater? (i.e, second base...)
Holding hands.

15. Speaking of sports metaphors, what's your favorite sports movie?
Tie: North Dallas Forty and Bull Durham. Friday Night Lights is close.

16. (a) Favorite... teen movie?
Then: The Breakfast Club. Now: Superbad.

(b)...Quentin Tarantino movie?
Tie: Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown, for entirely different reasons.

(c)...Bill Murray movie?
Ghostbusters or Groundhog Day.

(d)...romantic comedy?
Recently, Once.

(e)...gangster movie?
The Godfather.

(f)...horror movie?
The Blair Witch Project.

(g)...made for TV movie?
Jesus of Nazareth has its moments.

(h)...director?
Scorsese.

(i)...drug movie?
Requiem for a Dream.

17. What movie have you seen already but will never, ever, ever watch again?
Two gruesome ones: Hostel and The Passion of the Christ.

18. What movie are you embarrassed to really like?
Hustle and Flow. But you watch the sections when they're creating music and try not to be enthralled. That, friends, is what art is all about.

19. What movie should be remade asap?
Robert Altman's A Wedding, directed by Baz Luhrmann or one of the Bollywood filmmakers.

20. What's your favorite musical?
Singin' in the Rain, and the final sequence of An American in Paris. I stood and applauded after the latter--and we were watching it on DVD.

21. For the love of everything that's sacred, please someone stop (insert answer) from making another movie!
Tyler Perry.

22. What movie do all your friends love but you're not that crazy about?
The Matrix.

23. What movie do you love but none of your friends do?
Me and You and Everyone We Know.

24. If you could hump/date/marry any movie character, who would it be?
I don't know...Daryl Hannah in Splash.

25. Best...movie....ever?
Nashville.

26. Book you wish would be made into a movie, and who would direct it?
An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England, directed by Paul Thomas Anderson or Alexander Payne.

We're comin' to your town, we'll help you party down: reading update.

Yeah, I'm a wimp. I got through 10 pages of To the Lighthouse and realized I don't have the presence of mind for it right now. I'd forgotten how much Woolf loves the relative clause--thrilling syntactical ride, but more effort than I can give it right now. So I'll keep it in the long-range viewfinder.

I've turned to the equally thrilling but syntactically easier Stephen Dunn's New and Selected Poems, 1974-1994. And gee, wouldn't you know, he covers material far more wide-ranging than my previous (limited) knowledge of him suggested. Very engaging, straight-up, yet not simplistic--kind of like Billy Collins without the impishness. No, nothing impish about Dunn at all:

Welcome

If you believe nothing is always what's left
after a while, as I did,
If you believe you have this collection
of ungiven gifts, as I do (right here
behind the silence and the averted eyes)
If you believe an afternoon can collapse
into strange privacies--
how in your backyard, for example,
the shyness of flowers can be suddenly
overwhelming, and in the distance
the clear goddamn of thunder
personal, like a voice,
If you believe there's no correct response
to death, as I do; that even in grief
(where I've sat making plans)
there are small corners of joy
If your body sometimes is a light switch
in a house of insomniacs
If you can feel yourself straining
to be yourself every waking minute
If, as I am, you are almost smiling...

***

Alongside Dunn, I'm making my way into a book that covers a year in the life of a marching band in Indiana; it's called (what else?) American Band. Looks promising, and seems spot-on. My high school band wasn't nearly as fanatical (or as accomplished) as this bunch, so the geek in me is fascinated by how esprit de corps can work.

How do I find these books? Bless the Web.

Progress/regress report: summer term, week 6.

This is a tale of regress. We wind down the summer term, finally, and my students are feeling the crunch. This is the time: bleary eyes, mopey faces, downcast expressions.

Research essays have come in for one class, and the other class turns in theirs today. Bad habits have caught up with everyone. In Comp I, I surmise it's easy enough to shuck and jive through my first two essay processes; they're largely narrative and descriptive. But boy, when that research essay comes around, and when they're faced with devising a workable solution to a problem they have some interest in--well, the same old habits (read: bad habits) just can't fly.

In this tiny nine-student Comp I class, five of them turned in their essay on time; one folder I gave back because it lacked all the required supplementary materials. Three more came in yesterday, and one student still hasn't turned in anything; if she doesn't do so today, she gets a big hairy zero.

Of the six essays I've graded, the grades are 85, 84, 76, 67, 62, and 59. A couple of those incurred late penalties, true. But I fully expect the 85 to be the top grade, and I may well see some lower than the 59 before I'm done.

The Comp II research essays are a series of disasters waiting to happen, by and large. I feel it. It's in the air.

Needless to say, this pisses me off beyond all measure. It makes me feel as though I'm not doing my job. Maybe I'm not.

Comp II is where this all comes to a head. I have a few students in there who shouldn't have gotten through Comp I, yet there they are. Comp II is a humdinger of a course: it's writing-based, but the writing assignments are analytical and argumentative and take poetry, fiction, and drama as their texts. So for example, if you're some dude from overseas still learning English as a second language, and you don't have much reading knowledge of literature, and your writing skills are suspect, you're going to have an exceedingly difficult time.

I hasten to add this problem isn't limited to non-native speakers. If your writing skills are suspect, if you don't read much, if your tendency is to do it all at the last minute, if you have little interest in language--all of which is true of, I'd say, 65-70% of our student population--you'll be blown over by Comp II. And Comp I, for that matter.

So the word for today is "frustration."

Childhood albums #2: Spinners, Mighty Love.

"Yes, Thom Bell is the inventor. The Pace Setter. The one the world regards as being different. Because he is an instrument between the physical plane and the spirit plane pulling tunes out of the air like man capturing electricity...Thom has a lot to say to the world and much of it is said through the Spinners. So Talk On Thom Bell--With Your Bad Self."--from liner notes

Mighty Love is a childhood album by way of my dad, who regularly purchased LPs at JCPenney and K Mart, back when department stores had record sections. (Parks Belk, too: I remember bringing home Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes along with a few pairs of underwear, or perhaps a shirt.) Who knows what prompted him to buy it? He and Mom had titles by the Kingston Trio and the New Christy Minstrels, so the Spinners were quite something else.

Now, I think I know what drove him, or what would have driven anyone, to purchase Mighty Love. It’s the same quality that drove me to put their followup, Pick of the Litter, on my Christmas wish list the next year. That quality is warmth, and that warmth is created by the tag team of lead singer Philippe Wynne and producer Thom Bell. Oh, sure, there are four other Spinners, but these two are the money. Wynne knows how to not just caress, but massage, a tune: “Love Don’t Love Nobody” segues into one thrilling chorus (and key change) after another, while on “I’m Coming Home,” he weaves a delectable vocal line around chugging strings and horns. And the signature title tune approaches ecstasy.

The liner notes above may exaggerate Bell’s importance, but not by much. His formula had been well established for several years with such acts as the Delfonics and the Stylistics, but what a delectable formula: layered, close-miked, deceptively simple arrangements, simultaneously lush and filigree-free. To a degree, this is assembly-line music—you get the basic template after a few songs--but so was Motown. The subjects rarely stray from love: finding it, losing it, recovering it. But Bell had the best of the best Philly players at his disposal, a reliable coterie of writers, and Wynne’s voice, so if this is product from a factory, at least it’s great product.

To be sure, Bell’s magic touch was temporary. After Pick, the Spinners began to sound static and packaged. Wynne, ever a restless and cantankerous presence in the group, finally had enough and left, only to record a middling solo album and fade from view. The Spinners carried on and carry on, nostalgia-touring through the glory years, but it’s best to hear the glory years in their original incarnation. Mighty Love is an album of earthly beauty and incredible, graceful peaks, yet it never goes over the top. It’s not just soul music, but soulful music—unflashy yet committed, honest without boasting.

Proof that I'm going to hell.

I apologize in advance. Not only did the young lady and I watch this last night, we DVR'ed it--which means we were actually curious about it. We watched it; we were disgusted with ourselves.

The season premiere of Project Runway somewhat mitigated the, um, bad taste in our mouths.

***

Hurl!, G4's new show designed to make you laugh until you puke, will debut this summer, proving that it's never not funny to watch someone lose their lunch.

So what exactly is Hurl! you ask? Well, picture a large party in a parking lot after dark. Stay with me. Said party is focused around five contestants, attempting to prove their iron stomach prowess. These five warriors must each eat large amounts of a specific staple American food like Chicken Pot Pie or Mac and Cheese or Chili Dogs in a short period of time. The contestants that ate the most food and didn't regurgitate will then move on to a physical challenge. And no, I'm not talking about climbing a rock wall. I'm talking about nausea-enducing feats of bravery like strapping into a gyroscope or sitting down for a particularly sadistic tea-cup ride. I think you're starting to get the idea.

After that round, anyone who hasn't lost their lunch will then be forced to eat MORE, different food--Ambrosia salad, pumpkin pie, etc,-- while still keeping it all in. Then, the final elimination round steps the physical challenge up a notch, tossing in a rogue element of danger. One can only imagine. Hurl!'s release date hasn't been announced yet, but TheFeed predicts that sometime this summer you will be laying down friendly bets over a few beers with your peer group while watching men of similar age and background spew on national television. You're welcome.

Very well then, I contradict myself.

In a recent post, I waxed positive over my increasingly playlist-based music-listening habits and didn't feel regrets for the slow passing of the CD.

And then this weekend, I bought five LPs, one a two-fer: Songs of Kristofferson, The Troublemaker (Willie Nelson), Killing Me Softly (Roberta Flack), The Best of Rod Stewart vol. 2, and 1975: The Duets (Dave Brubeck & Paul Desmond). So which version of me is right? Which era am I in now?

Friday, I read a really persuasive article in a local music rag that made a strong case for vinyl and against music for convenience. It asserted, in fact, that there's no question that sound quality is superior on LPs. I'm not an audiophile, but I would add the sound is definitely warmer. It's just a different listening experience. So even though I can get all the above titles on CD and/or download, I got the vinyl.

But storage and transport are big issues, no question. I have about 150-175 LPs stored in this media cabinet to my left, and apart from this weekend, I've busted out an LP for listening maybe five times in the past 12 months. Since we bought our house, I've gotten rid of so much--books especially. But not my LPs. And I have to be realistic and ask what I'm saving them for. It's true that the listening experience is different and arguably more pleasurable than listening on a computer or CD player, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I don't listen to music overall as much as I used to. I definitely have far fewer occasions to just listen and do nothing else--and that's regrettable.

The old saw is true, though: there's still a boatload of music out there that was never reproduced for CD and likely never will be. I wouldn't know, for example, that Ronnie Milsap was once a Ray Charles-ish soulster before he became a country superstar. The two LPs of his I have from that era (collections on some fly-by-night label called Buckboard) are the only evidence. I wouldn't have known, had I not been browsing today, that Columbia released a Willie Nelson gospel record in '76 after Red Headed Stranger tore the roof off; it had been recorded a few years earlier (clue: Larry Gatlin played guitar and sang backup, and Arif Mardin produced) but shelved. And it's really great--it's of a piece with Stardust and his more tuneful excursions.

Holding an LP is like holding a little bit of music history--it feels like there were hands behind its making. CDs and downloads feel corporate and efficient. I had 45s and LPs early in my life, and I remember more than once kneeling on the floor to watch them spin, like I was waiting for gold to bubble up from the grooves.

So every time I buy an LP now, do I secretly wish to be in first grade again? Do I just wish, perhaps, to preserve something which would otherwise be lost? Is there still something worthwhile in listening to Dave Brubeck on vinyl vs. listening to him on CD or in cyberspace?

More to come, perhaps.

I tawt I taw a quatwain.

Wonderful Billy Collins article from the WSJ on poetry, Looney Tunes, and influences.

Grading for extra pay, redux.

It's 9:15 Friday night, and I've just finished barnstorming through 130 Regents' essays, reading them through once and assigning a rating of 1, 2, or 3 to each. 2 and 3 are passing, 1 is failing. How long did it take, you ask? My rate's up to about 25 essays an hour, so all told, that's 5 hours. I don't calculate the hourly rate, which would be depressing--we get paid a flat rate per essay--but it's an easy way to make some chump change. And if there are still a bunch of unrated essays at the end of the rating period, as was the case in the spring, I hope to get selected as one of the lucky few to finish up (mo' money!).

There are three rating periods a year--one each for spring, summer, and fall. I've rated these essays for several semesters now and have it down to a science. It used to be super-easy for me to tell what rating an essay should get after reading the first paragraph, but not so much this time. Several started out weak but got better halfway through and managed to pass, and not a few started out as superior and quickly slid into average. One of our stated mandates, which probably should go without saying, is to read the whole essay and not come too quickly to a decision.

The conditions for writing this essay must be daunting for students to whom writing doesn't come easily: they get one hour (if ESL, an hour and a half) and a choice of four topics, and they don't know any of the topics in advance. If a student fails, he has to retake it until he passes, because it's a graduation requirement. In some cases, depending on how many hours the student's acquired, he has to take a 10-week essay prep course before he re-takes the test.

It's "writing on demand" in the purest sense. I don't know how well I would do. Many of the topics seem to invite shitty writing: unfocused, unorganized, shallow. At the same time, it really doesn't take much to pass and thus demonstrate the state-mandated definition of "competency." That word strikes me as hollow, a euphemism for "average," "boring," "drone," "automaton," etc. Writing on demand has its merits, but this version of it was created by government officials eager to crunch numbers and create pie charts.

What was I talking about, anyway? I hope y'all are reading the wonderful Educated and Poor, written by fellow college professor and Regents' rater Miss Kitty. Look for her guffaw-worthy excerpts from actual Regents' essays (such as these) to get an idea of the writing this test can sometimes inspire.

Another advantage of teaching summer courses.

My students' writing abilities have been all over the map, but mostly, they haven't bitched and moaned about the work. And that trait seems to be common to every summer course I've ever taught. One would think they'd complain more, but no, most guys seem to accept that time is crunched in a six-week term and they have to buckle down and do the work or get left behind.

Today, for example, the Comp II'ers had an essay due and a written response to Nine Lives due, and I expected a good deal of them to have ready the former and not the latter. But a cursory glance at each pile suggests that everyone turned in both assignments. On top of all that, I threw two new assignments at them today, and they listened to one of our librarians give them a speedy overview of available research locations in the library. They were mostly polite and didn't show too many signs of strain, even though they're under it.

Whoever said that 90% of life is showing up is right. No excuses--show up.

To *To the Lighthouse*: reading update.

No, that title isn't a typo--it's just me being smart-assy with syntax.

Many moons ago, in an undergraduate English course, I was required to read Virginia Woolf's Jacob's Room and I didn't understand most of it. I got that the novel was the mapping of a mind at work, a shifting between past and present, between memory and reality, but it didn't add up for me--too fragmentary, perhaps, or just too non-linear. (By contrast, I loved Puig's Kiss of the Spider Woman, read for the same course and perhaps just as non-linear.)

So why is it now, 17 years later, that I fancy myself ready for To the Lighthouse? Maybe having two English degrees and not just one has made me more fragmentary. More likely, I've just read and lived more and am more open to non-linear texts now. Our lives are non-linear texts, too, much as we think we impose linear designs on them. And don't get me started on memory.

Anyway, I have that to read, and I also want to delve into Stephen Dunn's new/selected poetry volume from the 90s. Dunn has long seemed like my kind of poet, but I know precious little of his work. I've taught "At Every Gas Station There are Mechanics" before and gotten good reactions to it. He works the white-male apologia angle well, and I have to say that's an angle I used to come from, back in the good old days when I wrote poetry. Who knows, maybe a spark will be struck.

Tales of the quotidian.

In no order of any kind:

1. I saw fireworks this 4th for the first time in eons--eons, I tell you! That is, we actually drove to where fireworks were happening and got out of the car to watch them. They were right lovely, and they lasted a good 25-30 minutes. Fireworks scared the shite out of me as a kid, all kinds and all volume levels, and even now they still pack a mighty punch. The kinds I still don't like are those that just ascend and go boom--no fireworks, just loudness. Boring.

2. One of the dogs--indeed, the very doggie you see in the top right picture--is lying next to me, anticipating some dinner action soon. She will be rewarded.

3. We bought a new slick patio set last weekend at Sam's and ordered a nice red umbrella for it, which came today. I even assembled it and placed it in the umbrella hole. So easy, a trained monkey could do it. It looks festive and helps out the patio molto. Hmm, I'll have to take a picture.

4. In my Comp II we started watching Nine Lives today. Great film especially if you enjoy alternative, compressed storytelling methods. It's not one long story arc but nine short, charged scenes, some of which have overlapping characters. Moments in time, flashpoints, little slices of pie. The filmmakers had 16 days to shoot, and the film is nothing if not an interesting way of working around that dilemma. Since our class is now at the end of the fiction unit, I thought this would be a way to see how short story techniques can actually work in a film format. (BTW, when you see it, the final shot of the final scene is guaranteed to blow you away.)

5. A "yee ha" and "hell yes" to Rathbun's, in Inman Park, where we and a couple of friends supped last Saturday (and over-imbibed: for me, a glass and a half of sparkling wine, a whiskey sour, and at least two glasses of wine, closer to three). Mere adjectives cannot do it justice. I enjoyed the pork belly soft tacos and the crispy duck with Thai risotto (the green curry reduction almost made me come). And we four enjoyed four little desserts on one common plate. If y'all watch Iron Chef America on Food Network, the Rathbun brothers had the distinct pleasure of beating Bobby Flay, one of the "resident" chefs--not easy to do. But if what they slapped together on TV was half as delicious as what we had Saturday, it's no surprise.

6. I'm in the final stages of The Book of Evidence, mentioned in a previous post. It's the best kind of page-turner, one where the plot doesn't matter but where character (read: guilt, confusion, frustration) does. Banville is breezy, in his angst-ridden way, and I will read more of his stuff.

7. Heard about this on NPR today, and sure enough, it's true. Those of you who are teaching a compressed summer class right now and are using every minute to squeeze everything in, thank your lucky stars that you don't teach in one of these setups. Dear god. They're new at Vol State this fall. One of their rationales for offering this is high gas prices; by squeezing in 12 hours of coursework on Fridays, students can take a full load without having to come to campus as often. What I can't tell is how often the face-to-face setup meets each week. I think it's every Friday but am not sure. What do y'all think--is Vol State giving students, even "highly motivated" ones, a recipe for disaster?

That's all for the list. Headed to self-checkout now.

Progress/regress report: summer term, week 4.

It's the very beginning of week 4, in fact, and the first class today after the July 4th weekend. The two of us over-imbibed three nights in a row this weekend, and I'm feeling more than the usual Monday I-don't-wannas.

Not much to report on classes, actually. They're fine, and they're as good as they're going to get. I have a few pretty brilliant students, several that are above average (certainly more than I get in fall and spring), and just a few whose writing skills are in serious need of remediation.

In a way, the idea of taking any college course in six blinkin' weeks is insane. There's not much room (or time) for real development or betterment; you have to hit it and keep the pedal to the floor the whole time. Conversely, you (arguably) retain more, and there's less chance to slack. But I don't know if *I* could take a composition course in six weeks and come out on the other side feeling anything more than relief. Like basic training, I surmise.

Sorry I haven't been more diligent in posting. Life intrudes. I may soon do a "laundry list" post and get a lot of little things said.

New York, London, Paris, Munich.

Call me dorky (many have before), but this is one of the coolest early videos ever. It's one of the first videos I remember which had a visual reason for being.

Progress/regress report: summer term, week 3.

Forgive me if this post is more rant than reason. But tonight I have to grade some essays written by the very same students I'm about to rail on, so maybe working out my frustration here can help me be fairer to them later.

How can I get students to realize that fundamentally, I don't care why they can't make it to class--that fundamentally, I only care that they show up and make some kind of effort?

How can I get students to realize that I make no distinction between an excused and an unexcused absence, that they all count the same, that this is why I set a maximum number of absences?

How can I get students to realize that showing up an hour late to a one hour and 45-minute class cheats themselves, their classmates, and their instructor?

How can I get students to realize that if they schedule a doctor's appointment that makes them late to class, it was their choice and I don't fundamentally care if they had it scheduled that day at that time for the last six months, that they're still missing class and missing important information?

How can I get students to realize that school is as serious as their jobs and requires the same kind of time management?

I know, I know--I'm taking the high road, and how can a little old thing like a college education compete with bills, divorces, court dates, and the mayhem of life? But I just don't understand why some of these people who don't have it together, and clearly don't have the attention or energy for going to school, don't at least take one semester off.

But I have to remind myself that my college experience was not the same as theirs is. I didn't have to work, raise a family, battle daily traffic, or (mostly) scrape for money all while going to school. At the same time, I like to think I understood the severe importance of college and took it pretty seriously. Some of these guys--I just don't think they understand that. They want the same experience they had in public high school, which is, unfortunately, to be passive recipients of information they can then spit up on a test. Just to get through it, to endure, to survive.

We're all players in this game, all of us--from students to teachers to administrators to an advertising-saturated world that tells us we can do it all and then some. Touting online classes, our school essentially tells prospective students, "You can go to school in your pj's! You don't need to change anything else about your life! We'll make it convenient for you!" And convenience is nice--but if that's all we sell, then how are we different from your average Wal-Mart Supercenter?

A former department chair (who has since left and taken another job) nailed it on the head in a department meeting when he said, "This school doesn't care about quality of instruction; it only cares about numbers." Indeed, our numbers are impressive and getting more so every year, but how many of our students are truly getting something resembling an education? I'm sure that somewhere exists a record of how many students who enter our doors actually hang on long enough to either get a 2-year degree from us or transfer to a 4-year school. And I'll bet that's a record no one's eager to make public.

Still, we offer a chance. And that's what many of our "customers" come to us for: a chance. And it's far better to grant them the chance, and give them what they need to become better, than to get too riled up about how they don't belong--as I was doing earlier.

One of my long-time friends, a librarian, once told me, "Just because they didn't learn it doesn't mean you didn't teach it." So being at heart a control freak, I have to relinquish my desire for control whenever steam begins to pour out of my ears. I can put an absence policy in the syllabus. I can give them reading quizzes and written assignments. I can stress how summer classes require even better time management than fall and spring classes. But they have to have the presence of mind and the desire to do the work and get better.

Rose-colored glasses: Carlin and the first SNL.

Thanks to Lorne Michaels and NBC for re-running a seminal moment in TV history last Saturday: the first episode of SNL in its entirety (in its original running order, only missing, as far as I could tell, a "hosting next week" segment from Paul Simon). I'd only seen famous bits before ("Wolverines," Andy Kaufman/Mighty Mouse, "New Dad"), so it was highly cool to see them in their original context.

I know they meant it as a tribute/farewell to Carlin, but it's strange how (inevitably) tame the whole episode seems, 35 years on--especially Carlin's four separate monologues. I was dismayed and amused to learn that Carlin's baseball/football routine, which was new here, was already 6-7 years old the first time I heard it, and largely unchanged from the '75 version. The only semi-biting monologue was the last one, which aimed some deservedly low blows at organized religion. The rest felt very G-rated and "amusing."

You can tell it took the show a while to find its feet, and it's wild to see just how different a beast it was the first few weeks, and especially how much they crammed into the first episode. It's more like a weird revue than a sketch comedy show. Each of the two musical guests gets two songs. There's the Kaufman bit, the Valri Bromfield Lily-Tomlin-ish bit (was this funny in '75?), the Albert Brooks film (also not that funny), the three or four fake commercials (absurd more than funny), and the Muppets (trippy more than funny). What scant sketch comedy there is appears in short bursts--the longest, Aykroyd's home-security salesman thing, is probably about three minutes--and Carlin appears in none of the sketches. Chevy's Update is a little forced (and remarkably brief), and he and the camera are out of sync for at least three jokes; at least he has the presence of mind to poke fun at the awkwardness. A door audibly opens and shuts during Janis Ian's first song. Don Pardo announces the "Not for Ready Prime Time Players."

How funny was it in '75? There's a cynical part of me that says SNL was trying very hard to be cool: "Look, we're making fun of television pitchmen! Look, we're lampooning the evening news!" All I remember from the late-night TV of the mid-70s is old movies and Johnny Carson, so if one goal of SNL was to be different from anything else on TV at the time, it succeeded. Watching it from the comfort of my living room these many decades later, I didn't laugh, I'm sorry to say--but I did smile a lot, and I was transfixed. It's a piece of our culture. And all evening the Mighty Mouse theme has been in my head.

George Carlin (1937-2008)

The news took the wind out of my sails. Hard to believe the old misanthrope was 71, and it's too soon for him to not be with us.

Carlin was one of the first comedians I remember laughing out loud at; a friend and I howled while listening to Carlin on Campus in the early 80s. Then I backtracked in his catalog and discovered Toledo Window Box and FM & AM and Class Clown, and I discovered he was topical too.

He was well known for recycling old bits time and again, and I regret that his stage persona turned into "bitter old man"--what he gained in edge, he lost in humor. But he was always good for reality checks, whether he was musing on the absurdities of English or railing at white people to stop being black.

We need more reality checks a la Carlin; I doubt anyone of his caliber will step up to provide them.

Jumping late onto the iTunes bandwagon: life (again) as a jukebox.

I don't own an iPod and don't think I'll ever have one: I feel little need to podcast, and I have other stereo components and music devices that fit the bill just fine. I still buy CD's and carry a zippable envelope of them in the car. Recently, though, I've discovered the pleasure and potential pain of downloading from iTunes. Given enough time and a bigger budget than I have now, I could do serious damage.

But even before iTunes--even when simply listening to a customized playlist on Media Player within the past couple of years--I sensed my listening habits had changed. Not the kinds of music I like, which have expanded, but how I hear it. If this were the 70s, it would be as though I had an expanded collection of 45's and fewer LP's.

The age of downloadable, "rippable" music strikes me as not something revolutionary but as a throwback to the eras when singles were a viable commodity. If you liked the hit, you bought the 45 and didn't necessarily buy the LP. Sometimes you had to buy the single, because artists often released songs for single issue only ("Suspicious Minds" is the first example that comes to mind). And back before LP's were a viable commodity, singles were definitely it.

So lately, I find myself less nostalgic about the passing of the CD era than I thought I would be. Over recording history, I think we've more often had music as a series of singles than as unified statements, and I'd rather think of the download era as power in our hands. Does this lead to a sort of "greatest-hits" skimming of an artists' catalog? Maybe. But with some artists, skimming is all that's needed. I can indulge my guiltiest pleasures (OK: early-70s AM one-hit wonders) one 99-cent song at a time and not have to suffer through inferior work.

The one-at-a-time method allows for an infinitely customizable "soundtrack" of one's life--ebbing, flowing, eternally in flux. Like, right now, my iTunes player is playing James McMurtry, soon to be followed by Dave Brubeck, Allison Krauss/Robert Plant, Fountains of Wayne, and Richard Thompson. I don't know what thread binds those artists together, and I don't want to know.

Yeah, that sounds exactly like my childhood. I just remember the radio was on a lot and my consciousness formed one song at a time. Perhaps downloading makes me, in fact, more nostalgic and not less.

A walk in the neighborhood, and a clearing of the head.

Feeling refreshed and sweaty now after a pair of walks on this sweaty, overcast day, one with our dogs and one without--total of app. an hour. (Btw, yes, the new pic in the upper right is one of our dogs; she's striking a pose next to a paint can.)

Big revelation: sustained, vigorous exercise is the best thing for jettisoning evil thoughts. Who knew? Last night was almost a wash: with the young lady out of town at the beach this past week with her friends and me here, I nearly caved in to the "woe is me" line. But I caught myself and finally called a few friends before finding one who was around for dinner, and I drove up to meet him.

After a week of mostly chicken variations for lunch and dinner, what did I order? Wings. Of course! But they hit the spot. Well, they and three beers hit the spot. But I needed it. Good times: we watched a bit of the Braves game, chowed down, remarked ruefully on the passing of youth. This friend has been a friend since we were knee-high to a grasshopper--we grew up in the same subdivision for a while, graduated from the same high school, attended the same university for a bit. Our paths separated and re-crossed for 8-9 years, and now they've reconnected since I moved down here (almost nine years ago!).

Anyway, I had cabin fever and broke it. And the young lady should be back in town in a few hours. Yay!

Doofus play-by-play.

I think this is a put-on. Whether yes or no, effin' hilarious.

The not-writing beast comes back to haunt.

Today before class, I saw Colleague C, who co-directs a writing program for our faculty. (It's a fairly unique program for a two-year college, in that its purpose is to encourage faculty writing and research through grants and mini-grants. Two-years are teaching-centric, of course, and the teaching load wears out a body, so it's heartening to see such a program in place. Full disclosure: I received one of said mini-grants in '06 and received course load reduction; it was awfully nice.)

But we were standing there in the library atrium, trading pleasantries, and CC asked me the question that's become the bane of my existence (the albatross around my neck?): "How's the writing going?" And I wasn't bothered that he asked me, because the last time we crossed paths, I was probably writing. But I had to be honest: "It's not." Which triggered anew feelings not unlike those in this post.

CC has a novel to his credit and has just closed the deal on his second novel, which'll be out at the end of the year. I don't begrudge him that one iota. Novels are hard as hell for this ol' boy, let alone short stories, so I tip my hat to anyone who can submerge themselves for that long. But then, he theorized it might be the last novel he has in him, because he's so wiped out from the "non-writing" parts of the process--by which I suppose he means editing, rewriting, proofing.

And I immediately remembered what I hate most about writing: the "non-writing" parts. The submissions, the stamps, the incessant waiting. And for what?

Just to be writing poems should be its own reward, and it has been before. But I dunno--I fear I've been away from it for so long that I won't be able to find that groove again. And all the time, I question how interested I really am in poetry anymore, whether I'm not writing in a niche for a niche audience.

I keep thinking of the Rilke line (is it from Letters to a Young Poet?) which advises the poet to look deep inside his heart and ask whether he must write--and I can't say that I must write, at least not right now. And it bugs the shit out of me, and I seem unwilling to do anything about it--other than bitch about how bad a person I am for neglecting my obligation.

"The New Poem," by Charles Wright.

Wright lived for much of his childhood in my hometown, so I'm naturally a big fan. His best work is not normally this declamatory, but he does declamatory well. For me, this is a powerful rebuff to Hallmark-sappy poems.

***

It will not resemble the sea.
It will not have dirt on its thick hands.
It will not be part of the weather.

It will not reveal its name.
It will not have dreams you can count on.
It will not be photogenic.

It will not attend our sorrow.
It will not console our children.
It will not be able to help us.

Progress/regress report: summer term, week 1.

Actually, it's too early for much regress, but I full-on expect it next week--when the first batch of essays rolls in. (Or maybe it's stasis.) So far, both classes are fine; Comp I has 9 students, and they're very quiet so far. Or, they're not quiet exactly, but they aren't interacting. That will change tomorrow, if only for an hour, when they bring drafts for peer workshop. I hate to force camaraderie when the vibe isn't there, but by god, they will interact.

They seem like diligent little worker bees, and they're mostly paying attention, I think. But they're dry; not much energy flowing yet. I see a nasty trend starting, of getting to class right at the beginning or a few minutes late; can't do much when two people are on time. Even though it's in the syllabus, I better have a word with them tomorrow. Technically, I can't say much if they arrive within the first ten minutes, because I give them that much in the syllabus, but some folks are stretching it already.

Comp II, by contrast, is shaping up to be fairly lively, though I've had plenty of lively Comp II's before. For the first few classes, everything couldn't be better as long as we're talking. Then, when they sit down to write their essays and realize yep, this class requires work too, the ol' doldrums set in. In discussion, though, they seem open, curious--they're participating and seem properly sober about poetry. I made a mistake in assigning Jane Hirshfield's "The Lives of the Heart"--it's brilliant but daunting, and it requires big imaginative leaps. If you're not used to doing that, then of course it's gonna be a long slog. In contrast, though, they did just fine with "A Time Past" by Levertov.

When it comes to Comp II essays, though. they often do better with short poems than with 9- to 10-page short stories. Something about the stories invites plot summary and not analysis--maybe their length? Student panic/laziness? So far, I've been emphasizing the need to have a "lens" through which to write about (and talk about) a poem, whether that's metaphor, diction, connotation, imagery, or any of a thousand others. Here's hoping.

And this is the summer of the international student: I estimate 90% of my 25 or so students in both classes are from outside the U.S. Funny thing is, a good many of them will write better essays than my native English speakers.

Free(d) Willie.

I'm still surprised and wanly amused at how the Mets let go Willie Randolph. I'm not surprised they did it, just how awkward and unprofessional they were about it. Randolph strikes me as a good manager, and I surmise he won't be unemployed for long. 2-3 years ago, he had the Mets on the right path, as the official line went, and now he can't catch a break. He gets fired after the Mets win three of their last four?

That Mets management sounds like a hot tranny mess, in any case. Buster Olney seems to have the right indignant attitude. Funny thing is, I don't think they're out of it yet. The Tigers seem to have turned themselves around after being lambasted for under-performing, and I bet the Mets follow suit.

As for the Braves...just when I'm ready to write them off, they also win three of their last four. With their 5000 injuries, they should by all rights be playing like the middling team their lineup suggests they are. The starting staff seems to be Tim Hudson and whoever else wants the ball. Jurrjens and Reyes have had their moments, though. Looks like the hitting has come around the last few nights, too.

I realize, in writing this, why I could never be a pundit for a living. That's too much reading. But I will go out on this limb: Chipper will not be able to maintain .400. His body (read: his "strained" quad, his knees) isn't gonna cooperate.

A burrito, a sick dog, and four hours of sleep.

At the moment, the song is "She May be White (But She be Funky)" by Howard Tate. Yep, that title says it all: not one of the soul legend's, um, better offerings. It's from his not-long-ago comeback CD Rediscovered, and it's kinda forced, sadly. I love the guy's voice but the backup doesn't do him proud--except for the last cut, a re-do of "Get It While You Can" which works just fine with piano only.

A burrito: first excursion to Chipotle Mexican Grill tonight, and it won't be the last. It's a fast-food/fresh Mexican stuffed-burrito place along the lines of Moe's, but 1000 times fresher and more flavorful. Yum, I say!

A sick dog: one of our critters has had some diarrhea problems (inside the house, unfortunately) but I think she's through the worst of it. Last night, and through the night, she had to go outside every hour or two, and she paced and got up/down all night long. She ate no breakfast and slunk back up the stairs, but she ate some dinner tonight after much prodding from me. So I take that as progress.

Now I think she's just worn out, because she hasn't moved from the living room in a couple of hours. But she also hasn't been jumping to go outside, so maybe the stomach's calmed down. I have some cooked white rice and cut-up carrots ready to go, and I'll try to slip her a little bit before the night is through.

Four hours of sleep: see above.

A poem to jolt you awake, from Gregory Orr.

I want to go back
To the beginning.
We all do.
I think:
Hurt won't be there.

But I'm wrong.
Where the water
Bubbles up
At the spring:
Isn't that a wound?

It could be worse, it could be better.

The word came down a few minutes ago: my American Lit. course got axed, and in its place, I now have a Comp II. So that's one Comp I and one Comp II--eek. But they're back to back, I've taught them both 500 zillion times, and I've had overall good luck with summer students. As well, Comp I will be small; 9 students now. (23 so far in Comp II, so an average of 15-16; in terms of grading, not bad.) I think our dean and department chair had mercy on me by letting that one make, but I'll take it.

So it's to school tomorrow to cobble together a C II syllabus and print the C I syllabus, plus gather some prelim. materials, and gather my rosebuds while I may.

My baseball-writing stuff is about done and ready to send. I think I'm on the right track tonally and informationally, but we'll see. I will say that writing capsule reviews of all these tasty Atl. restaurants makes me want something other than stew for dinner. :)

Now, away from this computer for the rest of the night.

College is not for everyone.

For those of you in the teaching world, this article has garnered a good deal of attention. If you haven't read it already, it's a real eye-opener and a sadly true indictment. I appreciate it for its frank opinion, but I also like how Professor X counts himself in the same situation as his students; he avoids the usual snark. And it's also perhaps a sad indicator that he has to use an alias.

As a former idealist, I have come almost full circle in a few years of two-year college teaching (about 10, all told): the best thing that can happen to some students is to fail a course or two, or be put on academic probation. I can't begin to tell you of the utter inability I saw this spring--not always lack of motivation, just inability.

But I can type my complaints and be satisfied, or I can do something like I'm doing this fall, which is teach our college success course--how to study more efficiently, determine a major, get to know your teachers, figure out your course of study, et al. So I'm still an idealist, in some sense.

I don't think motivation alone can guarantee a shining GPA, but with some, it's amazing how sheer tenacity can mean the difference between passing and failing. This article, to me, focuses on ability more than motivation, and I've always wondered how you determine the difference between the two, especially for a first-generation college student or someone who's back after a few semesters out--the "at-risk" group.

The third time most likely won't be a charm.

I have a stunningly unmotivated student who has taken me twice the last two semesters for basic comp; each time he has failed, his final grade this spring being lower than his score last fall. He has signed up to take me again this fall for the same course.

I'm not really sure why, other than he knows my style and presumably knows what to expect. But I just can't see what he's going to get from me the third time that I haven't already offered the first two times. He isn't without ability, but his time management and motivation are poor, and his writing skills just don't cut it. And he's as much admitted to my colleague (who failed him in a college success course) that he doesn't want to work all that hard in college.

He seems to have his "eyes on the prize" but not on the work it's going to take for him to read and write at even a rudimentary college level. His placement scores were low; he's been plotzing along part-time in learning support courses since last fall and has not passed a single one yet, math or English. This fall is the first time he'll take reading, from what I can tell.

In the GA public college system, there's a three-strikes rule; if he doesn't make at least a C in basic comp next time, he will be banned from attending for three years. I know that seems harsh, but it's the rule.

I'm half tempted to contact him and urge him to sign up for another section of basic comp. Maybe he would benefit from another instructor's presence and skills; maybe he would find the motivation he needs. Or, more likely, he will continue his unsuccessful ways. Unless someone rips him a new one before this fall, I just can't see that much will change. As well, I'm also tempted to urge him to drop out for a semester or year, make some money, come back when the time is right.

What would y'all do, faced with this scenario? Am I just trying to pass him off to someone else?

As many different topics as possible.

I'm going to violate a cardinal rule of my comp classes and squeeze in as many different topics in this post as I can and under-develop them all.

The birthday dinner went over well. Even though I needed potato-baking tips and, in the case of the steaks, cooking assistance from the young lady, it was still 85% my effort. The roasted red pepper and artichoke relish was superb--that shit'd be good on regular ol' bread. Don't think I'm not thinking ahead. The recipe will be saved if only to replicate that. The potatoes were done nicely, and the asparagus turned out well too. Asparagus is the simplest fresh veg to prep. I roasted them in the oven; a little olive oil, a little salt and pepper, a little toss, and what do you know, I'm Tyler Florence. Top 'er off with a bottle of red, and you got some tasty goodness.

I've been to two Braves games this week--both losses, sadly--and now have enough hastily scribbled notes from which I will fashion the remaining pieces for my little freelance thingie. I need to have them done by the end of the week but probably will have them done before then, knowing how I work. Turner Field is in some ways a hard place to write about. My goal is, through these short one-page pieces, to capture some of the flavor of the place--but it's hard to say what's unique about the place. It's really like a big, loud Disney World; it's a place for the kids and the families, and I don't think I mean that disparagingly.

One of the pieces will be on the in-park food options, and that will be tough. Not that it lacks in food options, but they're overfamiliar and replicated on every level of the park: hot dog, burger, pretzel, popcorn, nachos, etc. I guess one strategy is to mention these and then briefly mention one or two standouts. That seems workable, and I have to remember these are 250-word pieces. I think my favorite semi-off-the-path food experience, nothing mind-blowing, was a bag of cinnamon-glazed roasted almonds that the young lady bought at this unassuming stand called The Nutty Bavarian. And yesterday's Chicago Dog was tasty--I have no idea how authentic it was, but it was piled with the onions, the spicy peppers, the celery salt, the sweet relish. Normally I'm not one for sweet relish but it was delightful.

So I'll get something together, and it won't even be what I intend, probably.

Still no word on whether my two summer classes will go. Enrollment in both hasn't budged in at least two weeks--still eight in one and four in the other. But like a good foot soldier, I'm prepping my syllabi anyway.

And it's hot! It's too early to be this hot, even in metro Atlanta in early June. Yesterday's game was a scorcher. I paid for a cheap upper pavilion seat and only sat there two innings; the rest of the time I wandered around, ate, and took notes. Tried to stay out of the sun. Left at the bottom of the sixth to catch the shuttle. I didn't much care we were tied; the game was plodding along and I had all the notes I wanted.

There--what grade would you give this post?

Kick it up...another notch!

OK, sorry for the Emeril reference. But! I'm making birthday dinner for the young lady tonight, and here's the entree.

I've budgeted out the time, I've figured out what we have on hand, and I've been to two, count 'em *two*, stores to get what we don't have on hand. How do baked potatoes and asparagus sound with this main course? We'll find out.

Preppin' for the inevitable.

...or at least what I think is inevitable: the six-week summer term, which starts 6/16. At the moment, the two courses I'm slated for have alarmingly low enrollments, so I'm trying to prep some but with the possibility of plan B.

Every semester I resolve to scrap my current schedule/layout and revamp, and every time I never budget enough time to re-think my way through it. American Lit. II, which I've done many times before, would benefit from a genre- or theme-based approach, but if it makes, chances are I'll substitute a few readings and keep the chronological format largely the same. If I don't revamp it, I should at least reduce the number of readings and concentrate more fully on certain authors and/or trends/movements. I already do a bit of that with the Harlem Renasissance, and I think it's the best time of the semester. Maybe a unit on realism/naturalism, one on feminist/protest writing...

My dream course forever has been titled "The American Dream," and I could definitely restructure Am. Lit. around that motif. But with only four students enrolled at this writing, I'm not gonna push it.

Comp. I has eight enrolled at this writing, which is a bit surprising--but maybe we overestimated how many summer students we'd have. I theorize that one reason is our fucked-up summer term structure, different yet again from the summer before. We have one eight-week term and one six-week term, and that's it. There's no longer a "first half" and "second half," and I believe students can't take as many classes now.

Anyway, I'm cautiously optimistic Comp will make, and not at all that Am. Lit. will. The word from on high is not to worry comma yet.

Quotation time.

A meme-challenge borrowed from seabird78. My five quotes:

1. But pain... seems to me an insufficient reason not to embrace life. Being dead is quite painless. Pain, like time, is going to come on regardless. Question is, what glorious moments can you win from life in addition to the pain?
Lois McMaster Bujold, "Barrayar", 1991

2. The very purpose of existence is to reconcile the glowing opinion we have of ourselves with the appalling things that other people think about us.
Quentin Crisp

3. The road to hell is paved with adverbs.
Stephen King

4. It's never too late to be who you might have been.
George Eliot

5. The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape...
Pablo Picasso

The puzzling '08 Braves.

Sigh...another road loss today. At least it was more than a one-run margin! Who can explain such a disparity? As of today, 22-7 at home and 7-21 on the road. I would wager such a trend can't continue if they want to be in the thick of things.

A quick check of the standings shows the Braves aren't the only team with this strange Jekyll/Hyde trait. The Red Sox and Cubs also have been stellar at home but underwhelming on the road--almost night and day. One theory I've read is that a team uses its relief corps differently on the road; does that have to do with playing for a tie versus playing for a win?

Anyway, I'm stumped. At what point does it become a psychological obstacle for them? Has it become one already? My guess it's a combination of ill hitting, poor pitching, and uncharacteristically shoddy defense (witness the single through Chipper's legs the other night).

Hey, that's at least as good as John Kruk. Put me in a suit and get me to Bristol, CT.

Pigs and gators and rhinos, oh my (and a saber-toothed cat).

A quick shout-out (props? notes?) to this site, where Dad and I visited today. This is a big-time big deal and practically in our backyard--major archeological dig going on. They've dated the bones and fossils back to the Myocene,between 4 million and 7.5 million years ago, and there's enough here to dig for at least this century. Likely it was once the site of a lake or pond, and quite possibly a comfortable place for most species to have their babies. If I heard correctly, at least one new species has been discovered here, and several other quite rare species too.

This is one of those mind-blowers. To think that short-faced bears, tapirs (pig-like species), rhinos once traversed here--well, in the abstract, of course they did, but to have such evidence this close hammers it home.

So if you're in the east TN area, check it out. The dig site and permanent exhibit about the fossils and digging methods are the most interesting. There's also an exhibit on poop (I, um, shit you not) until September.

Indiana Jones and the curse of the overlong movie title.

At home in east TN this weekend, very little on the plate today except to see abovesaid movie this afternoon at 3:15 and then, as Mom and Dad are feeling the ill effects of colds, to probably order a pizza, pick 'er up, and take 'er home. (Did I just split an infinitive?)

I don't hold out a lot of hope for the new Indy, but it still might be enjoyable. I will go in with no expectations. I enjoyed the first three just fine. If this one holds true to form, it'll move so briskly I won't have time to think. What I remember about Lost Ark and Last Crusade in particular was how much fun the filmmakers were having with the Saturday-morning serial form, so if this new one can do that, I'll be fine.

Which leads me for no reason into the shameful admission that I laughed out loud while watching Anger Management. More than once. The movie's total bullshit, as are most Sandler joints, but he has the knack of eking out a genuine laugh or two. OK...and I laughed more than is healthy during Happy Gilmore, back in the day.

Sandler's movies strike me as very conservative and Republican--I mean the ones he produces and stars in. There's always a healthy level of hoo-ah male bonding, lots of sports, and always these groan-inducing "patriotic" moments like the Giuliani cameo in Anger Management, and Sandler's "You did the right thing!" Overall, the movies are also really shoddy in their character development and scene management. I remember being offended by that clumsy courtroom scene in Big Daddy, as well as the whole idea that a man who teaches a kid to urinate in public could conceivably make a good father.

The man has some acting chops, I think--or at least he can be convincing playing a certain kind of soft-spoken, warm-hearted guy who is seething inside (see Punch-Drunk Love, even parts of Spanglish). But the fatal flaw of Sandler productions is how, time and again, they hold up the Sandler type as misunderstood and thus admirable. At least in Anger Management he has Nicholson's even more raging character to eclipse him.

So to sum up: 1) at home this weekend; 2) going to see Indy; 3) going to eat pizza; 4) I've seen more Sandler movies than I care to admit.

Home ownership ain't so bad, part 2: the air in here.

Nearly 400 bucks later, our a/c appears to be running much more efficiently.  I'm sitting in the study/computer room, normally one of the stuffier rooms, and I feel it on my legs way more than usual.  The temp isn't decreasing as fast as I thought it would, but it definitely feels cooler now.

We've been in this house 10 months and it took us that long to realize the a/c wasn't working efficiently.  It was running for long periods--5-6 hours at a stretch--and the house wasn't cooling very fast.  "Oh well," we instinctively thought, "it's just how it is."  Why did we think this for so long?

It's not a long-term fix, but the unit should be more functional for a while.  Unfortunately, the best long-term fix is to get a new system; this one isn't up to current SEER specifications and is also teetering on the edge of its lifespan.  But we aren't made of money.  

Again, donations accepted.

Recent and future reading, and reading that will never be.

Started today: Grace, Fallen from, by Marianne Boruch.

Just completed: Lincoln's Melancholy, by Joshua Wolf Shenk.  As someone who has suffered from melancholy, the title alone drew me in.  Shenk makes his case a little too cheerfully and often, but it's a good portrait of the man.  The links between mental imbalance and genius are massaged but not strained.

Recently completed: The March, by E.L. Doctorow, and The Sea, by John Banville.  Doctorow pulls off the trick of making General Sherman a sympathetic character and does his usual great job of juggling characters, philosophies, points of view.  An engaging mosaic.  The Sea was my introduction to Banville and I wondered how I missed him before.  He's prolific, some 10-12 novels.  I loved this book--it teems with sensuality, energy, and obsessiveness.

Upcoming: Banville's The Book of Evidence, and (yes) To the Lighthouse.  I don't know why, but reading Banville's fluid excursions into and out of memory and back again made me think of Virginia Woolf, and then I remembered trying to read Jacob's Room as an undergraduate and being baffled.  But years later I read A Room of One's Own and found it engaging, and then a few more years later I read Cunningham's The Hours, and I began to understand a little more of where she was coming from.  Then I taught "The Mark on the Wall" in American Lit. and thought "Aha!"  So now, soon, finally, To the Lighthouse.  If that goes well, perhaps Mrs. Dalloway.

The best thing I've read this year, I believe, is The Road by Cormac McCarthy--relentless and grim and beautiful, and soon to be a major motion picture starring Viggo Mortensen.  Not far behind is An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England by Brock Clarke--morbidly funny or funnily morbid.

No rhyme, no reason to my reading habits.  In the last two years, much more history and fiction, and that's intentional.  Less poetry, and that's probably one reason my own writing has--well, I was going to say stalled, but it hasn't really.  Writing blurbs about baseball games (for pay) is a different, um, ballgame, but it still counts, doesn't it?  Even though it's no Banville.

Reading that will never be, at least for a while, despite my wishes for it to be so: Ulysses, Moby Dick (started twice, never finished), The Scarlet Letter, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.  I could go on.

Blurbing for dollars.

I'm now involved in a little side project: contributing blurbs (anywhere from 2-3 sentences to a page, depending on the topic) about the baseball experience at Turner Field.  Two brothers in Chicago have a small business writing fan guides to ballparks; the guides are meant for true fans and are a little cheeky and irreverent.  So I'm doing my best to maintain cheekiness. :)  

It's writing for pay, which I haven't done too much of.  It's fun, so far, and I hope to do justice to TF.  So far, I've concocted a bit on the huge Jumbotron and a few restaurant blurbs.

How did I find out about this?  Craigslist.