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.