A Good Day to Fly a Kite, Not Chip a Ball Over the Flat Four
Wind: the hot sauce of weather (we had to play on the waterfront in Elizabeth today and while the temperature was a deceptive 47 degrees, the high winds really spiced things up).
Less Drama, Crisper Salads
Winter skipped the whole "coming" thing: it's here (especially in the English Office, which lost heat this week because a boiler pipe went . . . it was so fantastically cold inside that I was bringing random teachers in the hallway in just to feel it . . . our boss had to leave because she couldn't bear being there for an extended time, and we felt really stupid complaining it was too cold because we spent so much time last month complaining that it was so hot).
Nothing Like a Captive Audience (When You're Feeling Your Oats)
My first period creative writing class is comprised of eleven girls and one boy (and me) and this one boy wrote a wonderful personification piece (inspired by Sylvia Plath's "Mirror" and this gem from the New Yorker) from the perspective of a diamond engagement ring that was rejected once, stored away for a few years, and then got a second chance and found success . . . after the author read it aloud, I heard a few grumbles from the ladies, so I asked them-- knowing it was a loaded question-- if anyone had a problem with a recycled diamond ring, and then the festivities began . . . because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned with a secondhand ring; apparently, you should buy a "new" diamond specifically for the new person you have in mind (despite the fact that this "new" diamond is already 1 to 3.5 billion years old) and this led to a lot of good-natured early morning debate, and the ladies had to endure my various rants about strip-mining, the DeBeers conspiracy, the overhang, blood diamonds, rampant materialism, and the influence of the media on a saturated, overpriced market . . . in the end, we all agreed that it was a fun way to start the day, though I had little or no success convincing any of these women to forego engagement rings (and then, as an added bonus, a senior in my comp class said that people were getting sick because the weather dropped forty degrees in two days, so I got to call her "grandma" and lecture the class about why we actually get sick more when it's cold (it's mainly because viruses survive better in low humidity . . . although I also found some reasons that contradict my lecture-- perhaps when our feet are cold then our immune system doesn't work as well . . . so I'll have to apologize tomorrow for calling her "grandma," as perhaps the whole old-time "don't go outside with your hair wet" faction is right).
I Need to Stop Losing My Temper (But My Kids Also Need to Stop Doing Stupid Shit)
Catherine was at a cooking class last night, so I was in charge of dinner-- but she kindly ran to Costco and bought us two rotisserie chickens, so I didn't have a whole lot to prepare; I made some green beans and heated up some store-bought mashed potatoes (yuck) and put one of the rotisserie chickens on a baking sheet in the oven, and a few minutes later, once it was hot, I took it out of the oven and told the kids to come-and-get-it . . . meanwhile, as the kids started spooning out green beans and potatoes, I carried the other rotisserie chicken down to the extra fridge in the basement, not thinking that anything could go wrong during my momentary absence, but when I got back upstairs, my fourteen year old son Alex was carving the rotisserie chicken with a big knife-- and this was not the problem . . . his other hand was the problem-- as he was holding the chicken in place with, of all things, our big red fabric oven mitt, and once he carved some meat, he grabbed it with the thumb and paw of the mitt, and this mitt was absolutely filthy-- it's an oven mitt, for Christ's sake-- so it was filthy before he started fondling the chicken with it and now it was moist and filthy and soaked with rotisserie chicken fat and this simultaneously grossed me out and pissed me off, causing me to launch into a profanity laced tirade about common sense and culinary hygiene, after which I showed him how to use a fork . . . and then I apologized and told him I shouldn't have lost my temper over something so ridiculous, and he apologized for being really stupid and we all agreed that the oven mitt is NOT for handling food.
Hey Stacey, A Good Podcast is Better Than a Bad Book
Jonathan Goldstein's podcast Heavyweight is by turns poignant, acerbic, mock-epic and-- of course-- funny . . . it generally has a very different tone than Malcolm Gladwell's often epically profound podcast Revisionist History, but each series has an episode that tackles the fickle and arbitrary nature of human memory; Gladwell's take on this theme is "Free Brian Williams,"a heavy tale of an NBC news anchor who told a war story that wasn't true and the consequences this false memory had on his career and reputation . . . Goldstein's version is a comic masterpiece, "#16 Rob" is about character actor Rob Corddry's attempt to convince his family that when he was a kid, he broke his arm (or did he?) and it's worth saving for a long drive with the kids . . . it's exactly an hour long and worth every minute (and I would recommend this podcast to my stupid friend Stacey, except that she's given up listening to podcasts and instead started reading/listening to books during the time she used to listen to podcasts-- she made this resolution because she started listening to a bunch of stupid podcasts where comedians waxed philosophical about how important comedy is and she wanted to break the habit, but I think she threw out the baby with the bathwater-- of course it's admirable that she's reading so much and I'll begrudgingly admit that she's compiled a huge list of books she conquered this year-- but still, listening to a good podcast is better than a reading bad book . . . and "Rob" is a really good podcast, certainly better than the last book I read).
Don't Blame Me . . . I Was Doing Laundry
I would like to point out, for the record, that I finished Christina Dalcher's dystopian feminist novel Vox in a laundromat . . . because the first half of this book seems designed to make women really angry at white men, for oppressing and subjugating them-- so I found it both ironic and appropriate that I was doing the kind of work that men in the novel freed themselves from when they shackled their women's voice boxes . . . women in this Fundamentalist Christian/Extra-Trumpian near future of this novel are forced to wear word counters on their wrists, which only allow them 100 words a day-- if they speak over the limit, then they get shocks of increasing severity . . . this book is the opposite of The Power in scope, quality, and theme; The Power is true sci-fi, the world is the main character and it is comprehensively evoked by Naomi Alderman, while Vox is a bit half-baked, the Pure movement version of Christianity and the surrounding corrupt politicians more of a caricature than a possibility-- although perhaps that's what people said about the Taliabn when they were just getting started-- and the larger themes of the book get lost in the plot, big ideas about how society can make children become monsters, how communication is the cornerstone of our society, and how Socratic dialogue between all people propels knowledge and civilization forward are pushed to the wayside as the story becomes a laser-focused, plot driven thriller (where, ironically, in the end, a bunch of men come to the rescue . . . it's a bit out of nowhere) and the science-fiction is lost in a world of chivralic fantasy . . . I finished because I wanted to know what happened-- which isn't saying much-- and while the premise had some potential, if you're looking for a dystopian feminist manifesto, try the aforementioned book The Power or the classic The Handmaid's Tale . . . or even the wacky Charlotte Perkins Gilman fin de siecle utopian novel Herland (I'd also like to point out that out of the several dozen people I saw come through the laundromat, I was the only one with a book . . . everyone else was either watching the weather on the TV or poking at their phones).
Capsule Reviews
I almost forgot to write a sentence today because Cat and I got so wrapped up in the Amazon series Forever . . . I can't tell you about it without ruining things (unlike the fantastic Netflix show I watched with my kids earlier in the evening, Adam Ruins Everything . . . a show in which Adam everything everything about everything, ruining these things but also enlightening you) but my advice is this: watch the first three episodes of Forever in one sitting and then decide if you're going to proceed.
It Would Be Thirteen Years
Here's some more house stuff that you might eventually learn, but-- unfortunately-- by the time you learn it, you won't get too many future chances to put your knowledge to good use . . . but perhaps some lucky homeowner will stumble upon this post before it's too late: if your contractor installs the stacked washer/dryer laundry center and then builds the bathroom cabinets, then thirteen years later, when the stacked washer/dryer laundry center breaks and you need to have it removed so a new one can be installed, there's no guarantee that the stacked washer/dryer laundry center will fit between the sink and the cabinets and then you'll have to rip out the cabinets, reschedule the installation, and make another visit to the laundromat.
Thanks Weather Gods!
The weather gods have responded to my plea for some decent fall weather, so I'm going to go outside and enjoy it; I'll write something profound once it starts raining again (and I have a feeling my sentences would be a lot shorter and a lot more vacuous if I lived in San Diego).
Dave Appeals to the Weather Gods
Hey Weather Gods . . . I know you're listening . . . I'm on a sentence-writing-strike until we get some fall weather up in here!
Touch Typing = Coffee with Sugar and Creamer
The unemployment rate is low right now, but there are problems with the numbers-- they don't accurately represent all the people-- and it's a lot of people-- who have dropped out of the job market entirely: these people aren't retired, they aren't employed, and they aren't seeking employment . . . and they are mainly men; a recent episode of Hidden Brain attempts to explain one factor of this phenomenon . . . some of the sectors of the economy that are booming are regarded as "women's work," and men are having a hard time moving into these jobs; the episode-- entitled "Man Up"-- focuses on nursing, and how the men who have made the transition often need to compensate with extra-manliness because (unlike femininity) manhood is "hard to earn and easy to lose"; I never thought about this all that much until I listened to this episode, but I certainly work in a field that could be considered "women's work"-- I teach Creative Writing class!-- and I'm used to working side-by-side with women, and-- more often than not-- I've had a woman as my boss; I always thought of this as a perk of my job-- we have lots of smart, charming, attractive women in my department, but I also might compensate about certain things to accentuate my manliness: whenever my buddy Bob types anything-- he's a fantastic and flamboyant touch typist-- I give him a hard time for excelling at something so feminine, and whenever my friend Terry puts sugar and creamer in his coffee, I tell him that a man drinks his coffee black . . .on the whole though, it's fun to work with a bunch of women and it's easy to be the funniest person in the room (because women aren't all that funny) and if there's ever a heavy object that needs lifting or a tight jar lid that needs unscrewing, I'm at the ready.
Dave Tries (Awkwardly and Unsuccessfully) to Use an Interrobang‽
The interrobang is a very specific unit of punctuation, designed for use at the end of question that is both exclamatory and rhetorical; I attempted to use one the other night but-- perhaps because of lack of practice-- I did not meet with any success; my wife and I had just rolled in from a night of comedy at the State Theater and I was very thirsty-- it's always hot and dry in that theater-- and so I took a quick of slug of the first bottle of seltzer I found, which happened to be "mint lime" flavor, a flavor which i find detestable, and so I yelled, "WHO BOUGHT ALL THIS MINT FLAVORED SELTZER‽" and as soon as this exclamatory (and rhetorical) question left my lips, I knew I was in trouble . . . because my wife does the grocery shopping and so she bought all the mint flavored seltzer; apparently, she likes the various types of mint flavored seltzer that appeared in our kitchen recently (and the boys and I hadn't gotten around to gently breaking the news that we did NOT like this new-fangled mint flavored seltzer) and so she let me have it-- both for my exclamatory and rhetorical tone and for the fact that I never do the grocery shopping and therefore, I shouldn't be complaining about the products that miraculously materialize in our kitchen for our consumption, and I deserved all this vitriol and more (and then I found a great use for this seltzer that I formerly found detestable: a splash of it goes perfectly with mezcal on the rocks).
Was Bob a Coffee Samaritan or an Electromagnetic Rube?
Last week, my friend and colleague Bob was driving home from work and he spotted a travel coffee mug balanced on the roof of the Xterra in front of him and Bob is a good dude, so when he came to stop at a busy intersection, he exited his car, jogged up to the driver, motioned him to roll down the window, and told him about the cup on the back of the car and asked if he should grab it for him, and the driver-- without making eye contact-- said, "Sure" and so Bob jogged to the back of the Xterra and tried to pull the cup off the hood, but it was oddly heavy and kind of sticky, but he persevered, got it off the roof, and handed it to the driver, who took it from him and said, "Thanks" -- but still no eye contact-- and then the driver stuck the cup to the outside of his door, a defiant and gravity-defying move that made Bob realize the the coffee cup was magnetic, seriously magnetic, and then, without further explanation, the guy drove off; Bob jogged back to his car, through heavy traffic, confused as to what just happened-- he wasn't sure if he rescued a coffee cup from the perils of the open road or if he had just fallen prey to a weird practical joke; a few minutes later he pulled up next to the Xterra-- and he knew it was the right car because there was a coffee mug stuck to the driver side door-- and the driver still wouldn't make eye contact with him and so the question still looms large in both of our troubled minds: was Bob a good Samaritan or a gullible rube . . . and if Bob was a gullible rube, then was the coffee-mug-bit a piece of hilarious prop comedy or was it the work of a true menace to society, who likes to see good dudes run through traffic so he can show off his magnet.
Done and Gone (Are Not the Same)
Catherine and I went our separate ways today; she took the boys and a friend to Comic Con at the Javits Center in NYC (apparently it's a vast venue and after lunch she let them go off by themselves while she wandered alone and collected free stuff and at 3:30 PM she sent me a text that said, "Going to the parking deck now . . . Boys are gone," which scared the crap out of me until I realized she meant to text "done," not "gone") and meanwhile I had another schizophrenic day . . . early this morning I took the dog to the beach-- her first time there-- and it went extremely well: she didn't get carsick (I sat her in the front seat, kept the window open and gave her a Swedish fish at the beginning and middle of each ride, all internet tips that seemed to do the trick) and she loved the sea and sand and surf . . . the water was so warm that I took a swim; then I headed home because our washer/dryer died and I needed to drag four giant baskets of laundry to Wayne's Wash World III, a laundromat "conveniently" located right in the middle of town, so there's not much parking . . . no spaces in the little lot in the back so I had to settle for a spot right across from the place, but on the other side of Route 27, which is quite busy on Sunday; so I lugged the four baskets across the road, washed them, dried them, and then carried them back across the street; my second time doing this I had some serious attitude when I plunged into traffic, I was hot and bothered from digging around in the giant dryer and basically tempting someone to hit me and my laundry . . . perhaps the money from the lawsuit would pay for the new appliances; then I rushed home to meet the guy who needed to flush out our tankless hot water heater and when we cleared some space for him to get to the equipment and hook up his lines, I noticed that under the box that held my wife's wedding dress, there was a bunch of black mold . . . but the beach was beautiful, as was our walk from Ocean Grove into Asbury, it's just unfortunate that it didn't happen in the reverse order (because now all I'm thinking about is cleaning that mold in the basement, instead of the warm surf . . . but at least I have a couple photos to refresh my memory . . . and after doing all that stuff, I went and coached my travel soccer team, which has merged with my friend Phil's team, and Phil carried the ball bag from the goal over to the bench and then he asked me what the deal was-- he said the bag smelled like vomit and so I told him that was because my dog puked on it and I hadn't washed it yet . . . but that was two weeks ago, hopefully-- with a Swedish fish or two-- Lola won't be doing that anymore).
From Mitvah to Melee
Today, we went from a lovely bar mitzvah-- featuring marvelous speeches from both the man of honor (Martin) and his dad (Adrian's speech was a bit of a roast about Martin's artistic nerdiness, complete with references to D&D, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Magic: The Gathering, popsicle stick sculptures, and Kubo and the Two Strings . . . which are all things my kids enjoy as well) and an awesome meal at Stage Left . . . to something else entirely: Ian, Ben and I hustled out of the restaurant to get to their club soccer match, which turned out to be the opposite of spiritual nerdery and delicious foodery; the Cosmos played a team from Paterson, which seemed to be comprised of a number of kids with either pituitary disorders or forged paperwork, and the game got ugly and then it got uglier; a kid kept punching my son in the back of the neck and the ref finally noticed and issued a yellow card and called a PK, Ian buried it and all hell broke loose, the ref issued another card, the recipient cursed out the ref, some sort of scuffle erupted and the refs finally ejected two players from the Paterson side . . . so they were down to 9 players (but winning the game 3 -1) and then the Cosmos scored again; meanwhile, the red-carded players came over to the bleachers and the Paterson parents congratulated them for their spirited and violent play, and then cursed us out (in both English and Spanish) and the game slowly wound down and the Cosmos got one last corner, and Ian launched a perfect ball and before our kid could head it, he was pushed to the ground . . . no call and the final whistle was blown and then-- of course-- there was fight during the handshake line-up and the refs confiscated the Paterson team's player cards so they could red card the entire team and the coach and consequently prevent them from playing their next match, then the Paterson players came back to the field, with their parents following close behind, a ref got pushed, and it looked like a full brawl was imminent, but the Cosmos coach got our players away from the field and then there was a lot of angry milling around and finally the refs vacated the premises with the Paterson player cards and then there was more angry milling around and then the refs came back and spoke to both teams for a while and then the refs made the players do the handshake line again-- a good intention that everyone knew would result in more chaos-- and apparently, according to several witnesses, the Paterson players spit on their hands-- of course-- so there was even more discussions and arguing and then we finally split, and it was a bipolar day to say the least (but I never felt threatened because I brought Lola to the game and she was ready to rumble).
College, Expensive and Absurd (and great fodder for a novel)
Take a second rate college with an inane administration, add a number of irate and eccentric teachers of the arts, add curricular and campus dysfunction and you've got the kind of novel English teachers love: the academic satire . . . it's a fairly narrow genre but-- typical of my profession-- I have read too many books of this ilk and I have a number of favorites (Moo by Jane Smiley, Straight Man by Richard Russo, Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon, I Am Charlotte Simmons by Tom Wolfe, White Noise by Don DeLillo, Giles Goat Boy by John Barth are a few) and I'm going to add Julie Schumacher's epistolary novel Dear Committee Members and the traditionally written sequel The Shakespeare Requirement to the list; The Shakespeare Requirement, like it's predecessor, is mainly very funny, though it tackles some serious issues as well-- especially if you're a parent or student, shelling out 50,000 dollars a year for your education-- Jay Fitger, the unhappily divorced and always irate Creative Writing Professor, is now department chair and he needs to garner consensus on a statement of vision, so the college doesn't prune his worthless non-STEM department down to nothing; he's teaching a "Literature of the Apocalypse" class in an antediluvian science classroom that is literally (and inadvertently) apocalyptic: " a faintly illuminated bunkerlike enclosure . . . this windowless chamber had an emergency showerhead in one corner and presumably, at the time of the first atomic explosions, been a science lab" and he informs his students that they "should leave all gleaming gewgaws at home and take notes by hand," and he's not just talking about cell phones," Fitger-- though his face is swollen from several wasp stings-- more apocalypse-- says he is talking about everything: "iPhones, iPads, laptops, desktops, earbuds, tape recorders, DVD players, Game Boys, minifridges, pocket pets, laser pointers, calculators, e-readers, slides rules, astrolabes and-- unless they could supply a note form a medical professional-- iron lung or dialysis machines," which is pitch perfect tone for a sardonic professor in a slowly dying department in a system that has become too expensive for the students, too bureaucratic for intellectual pursuit, and too pragmatic for the arts and there is the battle between liberals and conservatives-- and though the liberals outnumber the conservatives, their departments are being starved, while Econ has the fund-raising ability, the new digs, and the blessings of the dean-- the school is going to weed out less successful departments, departments that can't pull in "customers," and this is based on some real facts-- college students are shifting their majors to studies that seem more practical--so less students are majoring in English, History, Philosophy, etc and more students are majoring in STEM (science, technology engineering and math) thought he research doesn't really show that majoring in these means you''re more likely to find a career but it does feel that way . . . if you're spending so much money on college, than perhaps you should study money, not something silly like literature or philosophy or art . . . or Shakespeare; Schumacher also satirizes the whole "coddling of the American mind" situation, the micro-triggers and the overly liberal feel-good campus zeitgeist of the bulk of the students, in sharp contrast to the tactical advances made by the various teachers and administrators . . . this may be the last book in this genre I read until my kids graduate from college, for obvious reasons.
Peanuts Solves Your Existential Woes
I was nervous all day today because (as rumor had it) we were facing the best middle school team on our schedule-- Metuchen-- and my crew hadn't lost a middle school soccer game in nearly two years; we were undefeated last year and only lost one game the season before . . . but all good things have to come to an end and we went down today to a big, fast, skilled team; my team is generally quite small and we got knocked off the ball in the middle of the field and struggled to penetrate . . . the score was 1 - 0 at half, off a half-volley rocket shot, and in the second half we failed to clear a couple balls in the box and ended up losing 3 - 0; my only advice was that we could have run through the ball more and we could have committed more fouls-- as we were so overmatched in size and speed that the refs weren't calling much when we did slam our bodies into the larger kids . . . luckily, there's always a Peanuts comic to celebrate a rough day on the pitch, and this one immediately came to mind.
Dave Retires From Parent Activism
My wife and kids were very proud of me for all my parent activism (unlike Marls and Zman-- see yesterday's comments) and I must say that, while the process was exhausting, I was happy to help enact some change around this ponderous journal assignment and to open up the dialogue about homework in general at the high school level . . . I ended up celebrating my anti-homework crusade at the laundromat last night (how dare the dryer break during soccer season!) but I want to post the email I received from the principal and superintendent to show how seriously the administration in Highland Park took my concerns and how timely they replied to all my emails . . . while I never want to tackle an issue like this again, I'm glad to see that if you're logical, persistent, and thorough . . . and you talk to everyone you know about the problem, that you can actually get something done at the local level:
Hello Dave
The humanities director and I met with the English Department this morning. The humanities director and I will also be reaching out to Ms. Berit Gordon, a Literacy consultant, to work with the department on its efforts to tier expectations for writing by taking into account best practice research and differentiation of assessments. We have already reached out with Dr. Taylor's assistance to Dr. Heather Casey, the coordinator of the literacy program at Rider University for her guidance as well. One of our teachers is also working with Rutgers on the expository writing class so we have a vested interest in reviewing practice.
Improving our writing assignments is in line with each high school department's goal this year to identify differentiated assessments and share them with each other moving forward. I have requested that the English department revise current practice for double entry journals to include as part of the evaluation of the task that the students select five to ten entries/annotations they feel are the best reflection of their efforts and for which they will receive written feedback from the teachers. This will encourage the students to be reflective with their writing and to take more ownership of the assessment process. As I stated in the previous email, Dr. Taylor, Ms. F., and I all agree that to make any other large-scale changes to the assignment so late in the process is not practical. Ms. M. did share with me today that she made an adjustment on her own with her students today regarding the word count requirement and the due date for the assignment.
The department along with all its members is committed to reviewing practice and improving the writing feedback process moving forward. They also strongly believe that students need to write more in order to improve their writing, which I support wholeheartedly.
Ms. F. and I have also expressed to Dr. Taylor the need to revise the homework policy since it is outdated. He has expressed that he will work on this timely issue with the board.
I hope that this addresses the issues you have raised and ask that you continue to reach out to teachers first when you have a question or concern. If you are unable to resolve the concern at that level, I will always do my best to assist.
Hello Dave
The humanities director and I met with the English Department this morning. The humanities director and I will also be reaching out to Ms. Berit Gordon, a Literacy consultant, to work with the department on its efforts to tier expectations for writing by taking into account best practice research and differentiation of assessments. We have already reached out with Dr. Taylor's assistance to Dr. Heather Casey, the coordinator of the literacy program at Rider University for her guidance as well. One of our teachers is also working with Rutgers on the expository writing class so we have a vested interest in reviewing practice.
Improving our writing assignments is in line with each high school department's goal this year to identify differentiated assessments and share them with each other moving forward. I have requested that the English department revise current practice for double entry journals to include as part of the evaluation of the task that the students select five to ten entries/annotations they feel are the best reflection of their efforts and for which they will receive written feedback from the teachers. This will encourage the students to be reflective with their writing and to take more ownership of the assessment process. As I stated in the previous email, Dr. Taylor, Ms. F., and I all agree that to make any other large-scale changes to the assignment so late in the process is not practical. Ms. M. did share with me today that she made an adjustment on her own with her students today regarding the word count requirement and the due date for the assignment.
The department along with all its members is committed to reviewing practice and improving the writing feedback process moving forward. They also strongly believe that students need to write more in order to improve their writing, which I support wholeheartedly.
Ms. F. and I have also expressed to Dr. Taylor the need to revise the homework policy since it is outdated. He has expressed that he will work on this timely issue with the board.
I hope that this addresses the issues you have raised and ask that you continue to reach out to teachers first when you have a question or concern. If you are unable to resolve the concern at that level, I will always do my best to assist.
The End of Homework? Not Quite . . . But It's a Start
Here is the next (and hopefully final) chapter in the saga of the anti-homework-crusade: today, Alex's teacher made some concessions on the assignment, including:
1) removal of the 150 minimum for each entry;
2) time in class each day to do one entry;
3) she pushed back the due date;
4) the kids get to select their best five journals and they comprise the bulk of the grade;
and then Alex met with her after school and thanked her for revising the assignment; I talked to her on the phone after school and she confirmed what I figured was the case-- she inherited this assignment from her mentor (and then she added the 150 word minimum in an attempt to make it more rigorous, perhaps not fully quantifying the consequences of that choice) and she swore that she would read "thirty percent" of the journals for each child-- so seventeen journals per student-- and since she teaches two honors classes, this adds up to 850 journal entries; I am skeptical of this, but some teachers are gluttons for punishment so perhaps she will wade through all this pre-sophomoric writing . . . I also explained to her that in my district, we don't do any analytical writing at home because the kids cheat and plagiarize, so we make them do the analytical stuff in class-- usually with pen and paper-- and have them read and do more creative stuff at home; she understood this temptation and said that they were going to try to put the journals in to Turnitin, an anti-plagiarism website-- but they were just starting that this year (so anyone with an older brother or sister that took honors English is still set because their work is not in the database) and I couldn't resist expressing how perfectly ironic I found it that this stream-of-consciousness novel of teen disillusionment was being used to make students embittered about education; she countered that some students later expressed that they were glad that they really pushed themselves on this assignment, but it just seems odd to use this particular book to institutionalize kids and I told her that J.D. Salinger is probably turning over in his grave because of the way his novel is being used . . . aside from that monologue, which she endured without complaint or comment, the phone conference was civil and I'm happy that the assignment has been amended . . . the principal and superintendent also got back to me-- as they did through the entire process-- and they're really taking this seriously and meeting with the English department about writing expectations, revising the homework policy, revising the writing assignments, and really revamping how this large scale assignment is being done-- so I guess I really opened a can of worms, and possibly helped to foment some real change in how writing is assigned and assessed and the takeaway is that it was exhausting to "be the change that you wish to see in the world," especially since the change Alex and I wanted was to do less work . . . we ended up putting in a concerted, laborious, and organized effort to advance the principle that we should all be doing less work, and that may be the greatest irony of all.
1) removal of the 150 minimum for each entry;
2) time in class each day to do one entry;
3) she pushed back the due date;
4) the kids get to select their best five journals and they comprise the bulk of the grade;
and then Alex met with her after school and thanked her for revising the assignment; I talked to her on the phone after school and she confirmed what I figured was the case-- she inherited this assignment from her mentor (and then she added the 150 word minimum in an attempt to make it more rigorous, perhaps not fully quantifying the consequences of that choice) and she swore that she would read "thirty percent" of the journals for each child-- so seventeen journals per student-- and since she teaches two honors classes, this adds up to 850 journal entries; I am skeptical of this, but some teachers are gluttons for punishment so perhaps she will wade through all this pre-sophomoric writing . . . I also explained to her that in my district, we don't do any analytical writing at home because the kids cheat and plagiarize, so we make them do the analytical stuff in class-- usually with pen and paper-- and have them read and do more creative stuff at home; she understood this temptation and said that they were going to try to put the journals in to Turnitin, an anti-plagiarism website-- but they were just starting that this year (so anyone with an older brother or sister that took honors English is still set because their work is not in the database) and I couldn't resist expressing how perfectly ironic I found it that this stream-of-consciousness novel of teen disillusionment was being used to make students embittered about education; she countered that some students later expressed that they were glad that they really pushed themselves on this assignment, but it just seems odd to use this particular book to institutionalize kids and I told her that J.D. Salinger is probably turning over in his grave because of the way his novel is being used . . . aside from that monologue, which she endured without complaint or comment, the phone conference was civil and I'm happy that the assignment has been amended . . . the principal and superintendent also got back to me-- as they did through the entire process-- and they're really taking this seriously and meeting with the English department about writing expectations, revising the homework policy, revising the writing assignments, and really revamping how this large scale assignment is being done-- so I guess I really opened a can of worms, and possibly helped to foment some real change in how writing is assigned and assessed and the takeaway is that it was exhausting to "be the change that you wish to see in the world," especially since the change Alex and I wanted was to do less work . . . we ended up putting in a concerted, laborious, and organized effort to advance the principle that we should all be doing less work, and that may be the greatest irony of all.
Surreal Kitchen Accessory in the Guise of a Band Cheers Up a Soggy Version of Dave
I was sitting outside at Pino's-- beer-soaked and annoyed, because I put my pint of Guiness down on a very tilted, rather slick table and it slid off and when I tried to catch it, the glass shattered on the ground and the beer flew all over my pants-- but when I went inside to go to the bathroom, the band was just finishing their set and the lead singer said, "We are Psychedelic Oven Mitt . . . thank you for listening to the noise we make!" and that made me very happy, despite my sogginess, and the next morning I looked the band up on the internet and that made me even happier because they spell "psychedelic" in their own particular style: PSYKIDELEC.
The Continuing Saga of the Anti-Homework Crusade
I've now written several thousand words to administrators and my son's 9th Grade Honors English teacher about the district homework policy-- and despite the fact that I'm a veteran teacher, I'm starting to feel like a crank-- but let me lay out the assignment and the situation so you know what I'm dealing with; my son is reading Catcher in the Rye and he generally has to read a reasonable amount, three chapters a night or so . . . but along with the reading he needs to complete two literary analysis journals per chapter . . . each journal must be at least 150 words and must analyze language, rhetoric, style, metaphors, similes, imagery etcetera-- these aren't free response journals-- and so if he's got three chapters of reading then he also needs to complete 900 words of literary analysis, and there are 26 chapters in the book so this adds up to 52 literary analysis journals . . . or 7800 words of literary analysis . . . 26 pages; in a few weeks, he's doing more analytical writing than we draft in the entire Rutgers Expos course . . . Zman recognized the fact that the assignment is more than ten percent of the length of The Catcher in the Rye . . . and the journals are due at the end of the book and she doesn't give feedback along the way or use them in class, the kids just grind them out (or copy stuff from the internet or steal their older sister's journals or write dream diaries, it doesn't matter because she can't humanly grade them all) and once I really understood the length and insanity of this assignment and how cavalierly disrespectful of time and intellectual energy it is, my only recourse was to find the district homework policy and see if I had a leg to stand on, and it turned out I had three legs to stand on . . . as the assignment is in flagrant violation of three parts of the policy:
4. The number, frequency, and degree of difficulty of homework assignments should be based on the ability and needs of the pupil and take into account other activities that make a legitimate claim on the pupil's time;
5. As a valid educational tool, homework should be clearly assigned and its product carefully evaluated and that evaluation should be reported to the pupil;
7. Homework should always serve a valid learning purpose; it should never be used as a punitive measure;
4. The number, frequency, and degree of difficulty of homework assignments should be based on the ability and needs of the pupil and take into account other activities that make a legitimate claim on the pupil's time;
5. As a valid educational tool, homework should be clearly assigned and its product carefully evaluated and that evaluation should be reported to the pupil;
7. Homework should always serve a valid learning purpose; it should never be used as a punitive measure;
and so I wrote several emails arguing that this assignment was incredibly time-consuming and onerous in nature-- kids were spending all weekend on it, staying up until 2 AM, etc, etc-- and that the teacher was not "carefully evaluating" the product, nor could she ever carefully evaluate the product . . . she was going to receive well over 1000 journal entries from her students, so she might spot check a few or grade a few at random-- and neither option is acceptable-- and the assignment was obviously punitive because she kept telling kids "if you don't like it, drop Honors and go to College Prep," making this some sort of hazing/initiation/badge-of-honor ritual to whip kids into shape and break them . . . so I met with the principal Friday and it was a positive meeting in regards to the fact that they were hearing my concerns and the superintendent and the principal and the head of humanities met today and agreed to discuss this assignment and expectations in general with the English department, but that could be everyone just humoring me and hoping this will blow over, so I told the principal and superintendent that they need to enforce the district policy and my son brought a petition to school today with the district homework policy on it and got a bunch of signatures-- he is going to meet with his teacher tomorrow and discuss the assignment . . . the teacher keeps asking me if Alex needs help on the assignment and I've told her he doesn't . . . he's actually done a great job and he's caught up-- he's done 32 journals, without feedback, which is shameful-- and I've advised him not to do any more writing until he gets feedback on every journal he's written . . . what a shitshow and what a sad way to read Catcher in the Rye (I wonder if Mark David Chapman Had to complete an assignment like this when he read Catcher and it sent him over the edge) and I'm sure this isn't over and I'm going to end up angrily reciting a lot of numbers at a Board of Ed meeting.
The Internet Has Already Thought of Everything You Think
After a fun night out in New Brunswick (and an ill-advised late night snack stop at Giovanelli's-- Whitney declared that would be the last fat sandwich he ever orders . . . we shall see) Mose, Whitney and I tried to catch an Uber, but we had some trouble finding the car, and as we searched Easton Avenue, we boozily riffed about taking a Druber-- a cheaper alternative that had no surge pricing but featured inebriated drivers-- and we all thought this would be a great comedy sketch, but -- the internet being the internet-- some dude (Steve Barone) already thought of this and made a video of the Druber conceit (with surprisingly decent production values) and while the footage definitely needs to be edited, Barone explains in the comments that he is "too busy partying to mix it and do color," which is pretty damn perfect for a Druber video: nice work, Steve Barone!
What Do Squirrels, Candy, and Acorns Have in Common? They're All Delicious!
Today was the first crisp fall day of the season and the squirrels were just brazen-- the acorns have fallen from the oak trees on our street and the squirrels are snacking on them (and socking them away for winter) and my dog desperately wants to snack on the squirrels-- which exhibit no chariness in the least and will barely deign to move from the sidewalk as we pass . . . and it seems unfair, kind of like the fact that we've repeatedly told my son Ian to stop buying candy at Rite-Aid before he goes to school, even though he passes right by the store on his bike and they're always having crazy deals and sales on candy . . . lawyers call this "an attractive nuisance."
Welcome to the (five day workweek) Jungle
I just completed the first five day week of the school year . . . brutal, just brutal, but listening to the smooth sounds of Jungle's new album "Forever" definitely takes the edge off . . . master commenter zman eloquently describes this album as "Zaratsu polished to impossible smoothness."
Dave Goes on an Anti-Homework Crusade
I'm exhausted from writing various emails about violations of my school district's homework policy, in the hopes of getting an extremely imperious and inflexible honors teacher to stop assigning so much needless busy work to accompany Catcher in the Rye . . . I closed out my rather vitriolic and litigious email to the teacher with this closer:
I'm sure the irony that you're taking a book about an anxious and overwhelmed teenager that is disillusioned with the adult institutions around him, and you are using it to make teenagers anxious, overwhelmed and disillusioned is not lost on you.
I'm sure the irony that you're taking a book about an anxious and overwhelmed teenager that is disillusioned with the adult institutions around him, and you are using it to make teenagers anxious, overwhelmed and disillusioned is not lost on you.
Dave Throws This Sentence into the Volcano
I hereby vow to sacrifice these very words and this very sentence to the irate, pus-filled, and vengeful Goddess of Canker Sore, in the hopes that mine will be gone tomorrow.
To Coddle or Not To Coddle
My take on Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt's new book The Coddling of the American Mind: How Good Intentions and Bad Ideas Are Setting Up a Generation for Failure is that it's based on a fairly reasonable premise:
prepare the child for the road, not the road for the child
and I think the authors do a great job extending the ideas from the viral Atlantic essay they wrote a few years ago . . . since then, there have been even more issues of "safety-ism" and the abrogation of free speech on college campuses and the book details these, including the shrieking girl at Yale, the assault at Middlebury, and the riots at Evergreen College; the authors worry that this new generation of students, labeled iGen, have been taught three great untruths:
1. what doesn't kill you makes you weaker
2. always trust your feelings
3. life is a battle between good people and evil people
and this has led to all sorts of logical problems, such as catastrophizing, call out culture, overgeneralizing, emotional reasoning, etc and that the fact that college campuses have become more and more liberal, with less and less representation by conservative professors, has led to a very sheltered and polarized, almost religiously fanatical us-against-them atmosphere on certain progressive campuses (I just read that more people identify themselves as LGBTQ than conservative at Harvard and Yale) and while this may have some very just causes-- the President Trump/Alex Jones nut job fringe right wing contingent-- there is still a serious problem with the lack of perspectives and the inability of many young people to deal with a diversity of thought, and this ability to debate and discuss ideas that might be slightly repulsive is an important part of a democratic nation; the first amendment is an extraordinarily powerful right, to not only believe and speak, but to amplify with the press, assemble other like-minded people and then petition the government . . . and the authors see some of the behavior on college campuses as a strike to dismantle this right . . . especially because administration rarely support the "offending" professors, who often meant well-- but intentions don't matter, only feelings-- and because college is so expensive, it's less a place of intellectual discourse and more of a luxury item, where "the customer is always right," but the book does offer hope and sees a way forward, away from "micro-agressions" and victimhood and blame, and towards CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) and debate and dialogue . . . and this all sounds excellent to me-- I teach logic and rationality in my Philosophy and Comp classes, and regularly try to expose my students to controversial texts and topics (right now I'm presenting my sophomores with Bundyville, a different take on the American Dream than they are used to) and I teach them to have reasonable and intellectual discourse on ideas that may be foreign to them . . . but apparently not everyone agrees with me about this book-- there's been some blowback-- and some view the book as a betrayal and a turn rightward by "elite liberals" in America . . . this Guardian review says it all, the advice is fine and good if your middle class and the book (horror!) was written by a couple of white guys, so it's easy for them to be reasonable-- and it might even have good advice if you're a minority attending one of these elite institutions, to help you navigate the waters, but if you're really progressive, then it's not enough to prepare the child for the road . . . you need to imagine how the new generation can change the road . . . but that's a little scary to me, to narrow and pave the road means serious revision to our first amendment rights, and in a society that's moving towards total surveillance, that may be all we have left . . . people -- especially kids-- are not that fragile, and the dangers that plagued humanity for most of our existence-- disease, constant warfare, threats of violence and crime, inequality and slavery-- there have been great inroads made in all these areas and so instead of seeking more and more safe havens, isolated from those that are different, we need to find common ground with the people that we don't necessarily share values with and understand that our children are going to come in contact with texts, words, people and ideas that they disagree with (and perhaps even disgust them) and that sunlight is the best antiseptic . . . anyway, read the book, see what you think, and perhaps even put some of the ideas into action, while raising your own kids or thinking your own thoughts.
prepare the child for the road, not the road for the child
and I think the authors do a great job extending the ideas from the viral Atlantic essay they wrote a few years ago . . . since then, there have been even more issues of "safety-ism" and the abrogation of free speech on college campuses and the book details these, including the shrieking girl at Yale, the assault at Middlebury, and the riots at Evergreen College; the authors worry that this new generation of students, labeled iGen, have been taught three great untruths:
1. what doesn't kill you makes you weaker
2. always trust your feelings
3. life is a battle between good people and evil people
and this has led to all sorts of logical problems, such as catastrophizing, call out culture, overgeneralizing, emotional reasoning, etc and that the fact that college campuses have become more and more liberal, with less and less representation by conservative professors, has led to a very sheltered and polarized, almost religiously fanatical us-against-them atmosphere on certain progressive campuses (I just read that more people identify themselves as LGBTQ than conservative at Harvard and Yale) and while this may have some very just causes-- the President Trump/Alex Jones nut job fringe right wing contingent-- there is still a serious problem with the lack of perspectives and the inability of many young people to deal with a diversity of thought, and this ability to debate and discuss ideas that might be slightly repulsive is an important part of a democratic nation; the first amendment is an extraordinarily powerful right, to not only believe and speak, but to amplify with the press, assemble other like-minded people and then petition the government . . . and the authors see some of the behavior on college campuses as a strike to dismantle this right . . . especially because administration rarely support the "offending" professors, who often meant well-- but intentions don't matter, only feelings-- and because college is so expensive, it's less a place of intellectual discourse and more of a luxury item, where "the customer is always right," but the book does offer hope and sees a way forward, away from "micro-agressions" and victimhood and blame, and towards CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) and debate and dialogue . . . and this all sounds excellent to me-- I teach logic and rationality in my Philosophy and Comp classes, and regularly try to expose my students to controversial texts and topics (right now I'm presenting my sophomores with Bundyville, a different take on the American Dream than they are used to) and I teach them to have reasonable and intellectual discourse on ideas that may be foreign to them . . . but apparently not everyone agrees with me about this book-- there's been some blowback-- and some view the book as a betrayal and a turn rightward by "elite liberals" in America . . . this Guardian review says it all, the advice is fine and good if your middle class and the book (horror!) was written by a couple of white guys, so it's easy for them to be reasonable-- and it might even have good advice if you're a minority attending one of these elite institutions, to help you navigate the waters, but if you're really progressive, then it's not enough to prepare the child for the road . . . you need to imagine how the new generation can change the road . . . but that's a little scary to me, to narrow and pave the road means serious revision to our first amendment rights, and in a society that's moving towards total surveillance, that may be all we have left . . . people -- especially kids-- are not that fragile, and the dangers that plagued humanity for most of our existence-- disease, constant warfare, threats of violence and crime, inequality and slavery-- there have been great inroads made in all these areas and so instead of seeking more and more safe havens, isolated from those that are different, we need to find common ground with the people that we don't necessarily share values with and understand that our children are going to come in contact with texts, words, people and ideas that they disagree with (and perhaps even disgust them) and that sunlight is the best antiseptic . . . anyway, read the book, see what you think, and perhaps even put some of the ideas into action, while raising your own kids or thinking your own thoughts.
Am I THAT Parent?
I'm out of words . . . yesterday I wrote a six paragraph email to my son's Honors English teacher about the amount of homework he has been receiving along with the reading assignments for The Catcher in the Rye, and my screed contained references to Alfie Kohn's book The Homework Myth, a link to a newspaper article about how many districts are easing up on the amount of homework given to honors students, my teaching credentials, the fact that I'm the Middle School soccer coach, some ideas on how to mix up the homework assignments and this insane gem of a sentence:
The “default setting” of always assigning homework is a vestige of the Puritanical and industrialized origins of our education system.
which was also Stacey's favorite sentence in the letter . . . I did exactly what you're not supposed to do-- I wrote something and sent it in the same day (although I did get it approved by my wife) and, of course, after I pressed "send," I thought of a few other ideas that I should have added-- such as the fact that I understand that the assessments and rigor of an honors course should be more intense than a regular class, but just because it's an honors class doesn't mean that you need to do a ton of grunt work . . . anyway, the teacher responded promptly and with a clear explanation of how things would work in the future, and her explanation was reasonable enough to mollify me (for now) but it looks like I have the potential to be that parent.
The “default setting” of always assigning homework is a vestige of the Puritanical and industrialized origins of our education system.
which was also Stacey's favorite sentence in the letter . . . I did exactly what you're not supposed to do-- I wrote something and sent it in the same day (although I did get it approved by my wife) and, of course, after I pressed "send," I thought of a few other ideas that I should have added-- such as the fact that I understand that the assessments and rigor of an honors course should be more intense than a regular class, but just because it's an honors class doesn't mean that you need to do a ton of grunt work . . . anyway, the teacher responded promptly and with a clear explanation of how things would work in the future, and her explanation was reasonable enough to mollify me (for now) but it looks like I have the potential to be that parent.
Bedeviled by the Beverage
A weird Sunday . . . my mind felt foggy and possessed all day, perhaps because I was in the thrall of that dirty old Jersey devil . . . or perhaps because last night I over-served myself Cypress Brewery's new Pale Ale, Dirty Jersey Devil; this aptly named concoction got me into several vociferous gender debates-- my wife had to warn me that I was getting obnoxious-- but I blame the beer for my devilish behavior, and then today, both Ian's team and my travel team lost (1-0 and 2-0 respectively . . . and it's always weird and dreamlike when you play an entire game and it's close and you don't score) and then we went to lunch in the oddly named New Jersey Food Court, which has an unassuming entrance in an Old Post Road strip mall, but once you enter, you're in a dreamy and colorful Asian food wonderland, with fifteen food stalls (and more to come) but while I found some delicious ramen and dumpling soup, Ian and my wife struck out with their food-- they had to wait forever, all the stuff they wanted was sold out, and they didn't like the sticky rice shumai-- so they went next door and got pizza and then we watched a special episode of Sherlock called "The Abominable Bride" and Catherine and I fell asleep in turns, which was perfect for this dreamy time-traveling Inception-esque mindfuck of a story, which ricocheted back and forth between the drugged mind of current Sherlock and a possibly fictitious narrative set in the Conan Doyle era . . . it raises the question of which Sherlock is "real," and the answer, of course, is neither.
Hey Jack Kemp . . . The NFL is the European Socialist Sport!
The new episode of Freakonomics (How to Stop Being a Loser) is another reminder that the NFL-- the world's most lucrative sports league and the symbol of everything right and good about America and capitalism-- is more akin to a socialist monopoly . . . an exclusive cartel featuring profit sharing, aid for failing members (draft picks), subsidized stadiums, and-- thanks to our fearless leader-- a lack of competition . . . meanwhile, soccer at the highest level consists of relegation, competition among multiple leagues (Premier League, Bundesliga, La Liga, etc.), the fear of bankruptcy if you are relegated (although the Premier league offers a capitalist style "parachute" payment which acts as severance pay, but the team will still have to sell off all it's great players) and the general feeling that you are playing in an enormous market place, where Ronaldo goes to Italy in search of tax relief . . . and you can push the metaphor to the sports themselves; a football team is run by a central authority, and everyone contributes their bit for the good of the whole--individuality is swallowed up by the organization and it is far from a democracy-- most of the players are disposable and replaceable and only as good as how precisely they obey orders; soccer is played by small committees, who do what they want and vote with passes and touches, the coach has little control once he puts the players on the field, everyone thinks their own thoughts, engages in creative destruction, and makes their own autonomous contribution to the victory . . . and so when Republican Jack Kemp called soccer a "European socialist sport" he was wrong on all accounts and it is in fact far more capitalist than it's American homograph.
To Veal or Not to Veal?
During a recording session, Cunningham, Stacey and I all proudly virtue signaled the fact that we don't eat veal . . . but perhaps this isn't as benevolent as it seems; in fact, we might be all the more monstrous because while we don't eat baby cows, we're not vegetarians-- all three of us eat beef-- before we eat a cow, it lives for a longer period of time-- probably suffering in terrible conditions-- and also, due to the longer life and larger size, this cow has time to release many more clouds of methane-laced flatulence into the atmosphere . . . so maybe if we're going to eat cows, we should eat veal and kill them while they are young, small, and haven't farted all that much.
Dear People Who Still Read Books
Dear Readers,
I'd like to give my highest recommendation for Julie Schumacher's novel Dear Committee Members (and while I know that's not saying much, as I realize that I spit out "must see" and "must read" endorsements like a demented Pez dispenser . . . has anyone watched Detectorists yet?) and I'm not espousing this novel simply because it's written from the point-of-view of an irate Creative Writing and English professor who might have a heart of gold (or maybe silver or brass . . . but a good heart nonetheless) who resides in a building that is decrepit in a department that is undermanned and underfunded (while the sciences and economics departments are showered with praise, money, and facilities) nor am I enamored-- as a Creative Writing teacher might be-- by Schumacher's use of the epistolary form: the novel is written entirely through Professor Jay Fitger's rambling, candid, sincere and sometimes confessional letters of recommendation-- and he is called on to write many many letters, for a variety of students, colleagues, graduates, etc. and he uses them to try to have some control over a future which dismays him more and more . . . anyway, the main reason I am recommending this book is it is very very funny . . . I've been doing a lot of heavy reading and listening lately, and this book was a breath of fresh air, a gem and a prize-- it took me two days to read . . . if you remember Richard Russo's Straight Man fondly, you will love this novel even more, and Schumacher has just published a sequel, which has good reviews, so I'm sure I'll read that as well-- anyway, I'll end this LOR with some random lines from Fitger's letters so you can peruse the tone and decide if you want to take a break from partisan politics, Supreme Court hearings, immigration snafus, and heinous weather events . . .
Bombastically Yours,
Dave
The reading and writing of fiction both requires and instills empathy—the insertion of oneself into the life of another.
Be reassured: the literature student has learned to inquire, to question, to interpret, to critique, to compare, to research, to argue, to sift, to analyze, to shape, to express. His intellect can be put to broad use. The computer major, by contrast, is a technician—a plumber clutching a single, albeit shining, box of tools.
Literature has served me faithfully (no pun intended) as an ersatz religion, and I would wager that the pursuit of the ineffable via aesthetics in various forms has saved
(Ms. Frame faithfully taking minutes) during which a senior colleague, out of his mind over the issue of punctuation in the department’s mission statement, threatened to “take a dump” (there was a pun on the word “colon” which I won’t belabor here)
My own writing interests me less than it used to; and while I know that to teach and to mentor is truly a calling, on a day-to-day basis I often find myself overwhelmed by the needs of my students—who seem to trust in an influence I no longer have, and in a knowledge of which, increasingly, I am uncertain—and by the university’s mindless adherence to bureaucratic demands.
you should choose from the smaller and more disadvantaged units—Indigenous Studies or Hindi/Urdu, or some similarly besieged program, one of whose members, like a teenage virgin leaping into the bubbling mouth of a volcano, will sacrifice him- or herself in exchange for a chance that the larger community be allowed to survive.
I'd like to give my highest recommendation for Julie Schumacher's novel Dear Committee Members (and while I know that's not saying much, as I realize that I spit out "must see" and "must read" endorsements like a demented Pez dispenser . . . has anyone watched Detectorists yet?) and I'm not espousing this novel simply because it's written from the point-of-view of an irate Creative Writing and English professor who might have a heart of gold (or maybe silver or brass . . . but a good heart nonetheless) who resides in a building that is decrepit in a department that is undermanned and underfunded (while the sciences and economics departments are showered with praise, money, and facilities) nor am I enamored-- as a Creative Writing teacher might be-- by Schumacher's use of the epistolary form: the novel is written entirely through Professor Jay Fitger's rambling, candid, sincere and sometimes confessional letters of recommendation-- and he is called on to write many many letters, for a variety of students, colleagues, graduates, etc. and he uses them to try to have some control over a future which dismays him more and more . . . anyway, the main reason I am recommending this book is it is very very funny . . . I've been doing a lot of heavy reading and listening lately, and this book was a breath of fresh air, a gem and a prize-- it took me two days to read . . . if you remember Richard Russo's Straight Man fondly, you will love this novel even more, and Schumacher has just published a sequel, which has good reviews, so I'm sure I'll read that as well-- anyway, I'll end this LOR with some random lines from Fitger's letters so you can peruse the tone and decide if you want to take a break from partisan politics, Supreme Court hearings, immigration snafus, and heinous weather events . . .
Bombastically Yours,
Dave
The reading and writing of fiction both requires and instills empathy—the insertion of oneself into the life of another.
Be reassured: the literature student has learned to inquire, to question, to interpret, to critique, to compare, to research, to argue, to sift, to analyze, to shape, to express. His intellect can be put to broad use. The computer major, by contrast, is a technician—a plumber clutching a single, albeit shining, box of tools.
Literature has served me faithfully (no pun intended) as an ersatz religion, and I would wager that the pursuit of the ineffable via aesthetics in various forms has saved
(Ms. Frame faithfully taking minutes) during which a senior colleague, out of his mind over the issue of punctuation in the department’s mission statement, threatened to “take a dump” (there was a pun on the word “colon” which I won’t belabor here)
My own writing interests me less than it used to; and while I know that to teach and to mentor is truly a calling, on a day-to-day basis I often find myself overwhelmed by the needs of my students—who seem to trust in an influence I no longer have, and in a knowledge of which, increasingly, I am uncertain—and by the university’s mindless adherence to bureaucratic demands.
you should choose from the smaller and more disadvantaged units—Indigenous Studies or Hindi/Urdu, or some similarly besieged program, one of whose members, like a teenage virgin leaping into the bubbling mouth of a volcano, will sacrifice him- or herself in exchange for a chance that the larger community be allowed to survive.
A Poetic Celebration of Yom Kippur (and the fact that most New Jersey public schools have off today)
While the Jewish folks in Jersey atone for a year's worth of sin
the rest of us Gentiles enjoy sleeping in . . .
except for me, I just can't seem to sleep late,
I woke up this morning at 5:08.
the rest of us Gentiles enjoy sleeping in . . .
except for me, I just can't seem to sleep late,
I woke up this morning at 5:08.
Life is Disgusting: Dawn to Dark Edition
We were practicing showing and not telling in Creative Writing this morning, and I like to practice what I preach, so here goes: we've been mired in humidity here in central New Jersey for the past few weeks; giant fungus is sprouting in weird formations (see the above photo I took at 5:45 AM this morning) and my classroom-- which does not have air-conditioning or a cross breeze and only has windows adjacent to a stagnant courtyard-- just might be the most humid place in this swamp-ass state . . . the desks are slick with a weird viscous scum, the carpet is moist, the laptops are slimy, and soon after entry, the teenagers are coated with glistening teen spirit; at 7:30 AM this morning my knees were already stuck to my pants and my boxer briefs were soaked through . . . you can imagine the rest of the day; it's also been raining every afternoon, so soccer practice has been a muddy mess and all my equipment smells of damp and mold; in the evenings, I've been trying to fix two dodgy toilets in the upstairs of my house, and while I finally conquered the commode just off our bedroom, I couldn't fix the American Standard in the hall (despite a stream of constant profanity) and ended up having to order a different part on Amazon-- my hands were inside the tank so long, as I tried to rebuild the flush valve apparatus, that they pruned-- and were also caked with the black rubber sediment from the flapper-- and then this afternoon, the finale, I tried to cure our dog's proclivity for carsickness by taking her on a couple of short car rides, but when I ran into the beer store to get a six pack, she threw up all over the soccer corner flags . . . the smell was particularly vibrant because of the barometric pressure and the already pungent smell of all the wet fabric in my van, so I unloaded everything, tried to get all the chunks out of the car, washed off the corner flags and then loaded the equipment-- aside from the vomit stained corner flags and poles-- back into the car beofre everything got even yuckier from the impending rain.
Soccer Triathlon
I completed my first soccer-triathlon of the fall season yesterday: I played soccer, watched soccer, and coached soccer . . . I played pick-up with the usual suspects for 90 minutes in the morning, then watched my son Ian play for his club team from in the early afternoon, and finally coached the town travel team-- Ian's old team-- in the evening . . . I could have hit for the soccer-cycle if I did color commentary for a game (or filmed a game? or refereed a game?) so that's something to shoot for, and while it was fun and entertaining, my legs were sore this morning.
R.I.P. JJ McClure (and his Masterful Mustache)
Sadly, Burt Reynolds has taken his last wild ambulance ride and finally joined his buddy Dom DeLuise at the Great Cannonball Run in the Sky . . . and while the Smokey and the Bandit and Cannonball Run movie franchises make me nostalgic for my youth and simpler times, I just learned that Reynolds turned down the role of Han Solo in Star Wars . . . I can't imagine how much better that movie would have been if it contained a shirtless Reynolds ambling around the Millenium Falcon, his chest hair rivaling that of his sidekick Chewbacca . . . anyway, in honor of the man, the mustache, and the legend, I'm revisiting OBFT XVI-- the year of our mustache contest and my award winning 'stache-- and posting a photo of me at my most Burt.
Primer for the Clueless
Charlie Sykes tweeted this image with the caption:
Kind of amazed this pr campaign wasn’t enough to save Alex Jones on Twitter
and the podcast Reply All #126: Alex Jones Dramageddon does a fantastic job explaining what it all means . . . to get the joke in all of it's glory you need to know about: Alex and Jones and Marco Rubio nearly got into a fistfight; the irony that alt-right-trollster Laura Loomer got drowned by an auctioneering Republican congressman in a hearing about letting idiots like her have freedom of speech on social media; Colin Kaepernick is the face and voice of a new Nike ad campaign; our government briefly entertained the idea of making a "gay bomb" . . . but only in the sense that the idea came up in a brainstorming session for theoretical speculative weapons; Alex Jones believes that the government is drugging us with chem-trails and hormones in the water and that the proof of this is that there are pesticides that can turn male frogs into female frogs . . . he links all this together in a wild and entraining conspiratorial rant . . . before this podcast, I had heard of Alex Jones and knew he was some kind of alt-right figure, but had no idea of how he operated; this episode is an excellent primer into that strange and wild world of right-wing-conspiracy nuts.
Maturity is Admitting You're Stupid
This is hot off the press: so fifty-four minutes ago . . . at the end of middle school soccer practice, my son Ian and some of his friends decided to bike up to the Okie Pokii Cafe and get some bubble tea-- they took off while I was packing the soccer equipment into the minivan, but when I drove the 200 yards up the hill from the park to my house and turned onto Valentine Street (our road) I saw Ian biking the wrong direction, back to the park . . . so I rolled down the window and asked him what was going on and he said he thought he left his phone down at the field and was going to find it; then I drove up the road and crossed paths with his friends, and I told them to wait a moment at Ben's house because Ian had to retrieve his phone and I went home and pulled a cold mug out of the freezer-- Friday!-- but before I could fill it with beer, Ian came storming back in the house, looking for his phone-- he had really lost it-- and this totally pissed me off because it was finally Friday and time for a celebratory beer and now I was on this (mock) epic quest with my son, using Find My Android, calling his phone, searching the house and the soccer equipment bag in the van-- all fruitless-- and then he decided his phone was at the park so we drove back down, and he had to suffer through several tirades and some profanity on the ride but instead of his usual routine-- denial and argument-- he finally realized how to soothe the savage dad, and he acknowledged that his behavior was stupid and insane and the work of a lunatic, and then we found his phone, in the grass behind the goal, and he willingly admitted that he was disorganized and wanton and profligate and he needed to take the time to pack a bag and he couldn't rush to practice and he would accept any consequence and it made me think of how I left my car door open for 90 minutes two days previous (with my wallet on the console) and I told him that I was also insane and constantly losing things and an absolute idiot and then I grew very calm and told him we just had to think of a method to prevent this from happening again (especially on a Friday when dad wanted to kick back and have a beer) and I told him he was lucky to have good friends that would wait for him when he did something stupid like this and then he rode off on his bike to go get bubble tea and all-in-all, it was a pretty decent parent/son interaction and I'm proud of both of us for working through it.
Bunnies on the Border
In Jeff Vandermeer's second book in the Southern Reach Trilogy, Authority, it feels as if the British version of The Office has moved from Slough to the edge of a wilderness contaminated by an alien civilization, and while in the first book (Annihilation) there was no escaping the menace of Area X, in the second novel there is no escaping the byzantine bureaucratic labyrinth of the Southern Reach-- until the two settings begin to merge . . . and then there are all those border-bunnies; I'm sure I'll be just as confused when I finish the third book, but then I'll read the internet theories and watch the movie and perhaps that will clarify things.
Brain Melt
School has truly begun and my brain is taxed . . . I'm teaching four different classes this year (or preps, as we teachers like to call them: Creative Writing, Philosophy, College Writing and English 10) and our family is juggling four different soccer schedules (Alex is playing for the high school, Ian is playing for the middle school team-- which I coach-- and a higher level club team, and I am also coaching the town travel team) and this is probably why I left my driver side door open for the duration of soccer practice, despite the fact that it was raining and my wallet was in the glove compartment; though the rain soaked my seat and the door, it deterred any thievery and my wallet was where I left it.
The Test 115: Good Fences Make Good Podcasts
This week on our podcast The Test, Stacey quizzes us on various and significant walls and we perform admirably (aside from when Cunningham accuses me of stealing her thoughts . . . also the voice of God returns to correct some stupidity).
Two Lightbulbs in a Week
While I still can't peel a hard-boiled egg (even with this "genius" spoon method . . . check out the photos) I did stumble on two life hacks recently, and, both times, I did it the old-fashioned way-- without the internet-- so if you were viewing the animated version of my life (which you should) then you would have seen a lightbulb appear over the top of my head, twice this week:
1) I was blowing the yew branches and berries off my sidewalk after my massive trimming project and I decided to stick the leaf-blower into the gutter-spout spout and-- up at roof level!-- a bunch of leaves and sticks and junk flew out of the gutter drain and into the air, unclogging the gutter with minimal effort;
2) I always have trouble with spillage when I'm pouring the water from the coffee decanter into the coffee-maker but I realized that if I put the filter and the ground coffee into the top of the machine before I poured the water into that weird little oblong hole, then I could be sloppier and hold the decanter directly over the coffee-maker and the grounds and filter would absorb any water that doesn't go into that small and awkwardly placed hole that is the ostensible target of the pour (and a difficult bulls-eye for such an early morning activity).
Hey NFL! Dave is Taking the Proverbial Knee
This season (and perhaps for the rest of my days) I am taking the proverbial Colin Kaepernick knee in regards to the NFL: I'm not watching any games, I'm not playing fantasy football, I'm not reading about the Giants on ESPN.com, I'm not buying any merchandise, and I'm going to try my best not to consume any advertisements associated with the NFL . . . in this polarized political environment, I'm choosing Colin Kaepernick over Donald Trump, clarity over CTE, brisk fall afternoons over television, and leisure time over the monetized soulless drudgery of "managing" a fantasy football team.
Cute Cuter Cuterest
I used to think our dog Lola was cute, but not anymore: we met a nine week old black lab puppy today that was so adorable it made me want to vomit (a situation reminiscent of the classic Simpson's bit from "Lisa the Vegetarian" that some jerk absolutely ruined on YouTube).
Another Italian Economist?
I'm not sure if I'm biased because of my heritage or if Italian economists actually have got it going on, but I loved what conservative economist Luigi Zingales had to say about free markets, capitalism and corruption in America, and I just listened to the new episode of Freakonomics (Is the Government More Entrepreneurial Than You Think?) and I found Mariana Mazzucato's reimagining of the American free market venture capitalist narrative totally fascinating . . . indicative of her revision to the idea that the government is a bumbling, wasteful organization that can never the fact that we pay double for drugs in America, as we subsidize a great deal of the research for the drugs (through the NIH) and then we pay the drug companies through the nose-- despite the fact that the high prices are to fund marketing and share buybacks and dividend payments, and not research and development (as the story goes) and to explain this, drug companies say their premium pricing indicates the value of the drugs . . . which were often funded by taxpayers; Mazzucato touches a number of examples in the podcast and it's worth a listen, but I'm going to read her books and then I'll write a much longer sentence about her.
Some (Especially Trump) Like It Hot
Schools in my area without A/C sent the kids home early today because of excessive heat, and if you think that this global warming thing is purely anecdotal, and it wasn't any cooler when you were a kid, if you're prone to agree with our fearless leader and think human-induced climate change is a Chinese hoax, and our best bet is to drop out of the Paris Agreement, burn more coal, and rollback auto emissions standards, then this tool might open your eyes . . . it doesn't take into account humidity or temperature averages or anything fancy, it just shows you how many days per year were over 90 degrees, on a year-by-year basis, for any town you like-- and, no surprise, the number has been growing-- and the chart the tool provides also gives a glimpse into the future, which you will be spending indoors, watching Netflix, in your air-conditioned filtered bubble.
I Can Get You a Toe by 3 O'Clock This Afternoon
After a long day of meetings on Tuesday, I was pleasantly surprised by how well the rest of the day went: my kids were home alone all day and they did all their chores, supervised the dog, played together without argument, and willingly did some reading; Ian had a good soccer practice-- he distributed the ball to one-and-all, hustled, and set a good example in the drills for the younger players-- and then we watched the absolutely perfect finale to Detectorists and decided it was a fantastic and fulfilling ending to a rare and brilliant series, noted that there is a metal detecting club in New Jersey (Deep Search Metal Detecting Club . . . The Deep Searchers would certainly get along with the Dirt Sharks) and we all started making our way up to bed . . . moments, while I was turning the lights off downstairs, I heard a pained screaming not in all in character of the previous events, ran up the stairs and discovered that Ian had jumped off Alex's bed and gotten his ring toe caught in the hole of the laundry basket, which resulted in his nail being ripped from the bed, a wicked cut along the rest of the toe, and a lot of crying . . . I thought I had previously enacted the rule: no one is allowed to get injured right before bed-time, but obviously I hadn't reinforced it enough (like the one about hanging your wet towel up after showering) and this infraction-- which was particularly close to bed-time on the night before the first day of school for Cat and I-- needed a lot of tending and care, including a soak in the tub, some minor surgery on the nail, and some staunching and bandaging . . . so I'm going to really reiterate the rule tonight and remind everyone that the curfew on injuries that need first-aid is 7:45 PM.
The Art of Article Humor
When my kids are playing Magic: The Gathering with their friends and I (invariably and inveterately) ask them, "Is this Magic . . . the Gathering . . . or just a gathering of people playing Magic?" they get the joke but don't find it funny.
Summer of Tomatillos
The one benefit of this unseasonably hot, humid, and wet summer is that my wife's garden produced obscene amounts of peppers and tomatillos . . . in fact, I ate so many tomatillos this summer-- every morning with my eggs and every afternoon in green salsa form-- that I googled if it was okay to eat a shitload of tomatillos . . . apparently, it's fine.
Dave Belabors Labor Day
I have concluded my Labor Day labor: I worked from 8 AM to 1 PM trimming trees in our backyard; I started the morning using my circular saw-- which was dangerous and not particularly effective-- then I borrowed my friend Alec's electric chainsaw, which-- as promised-- had an extremely dull chain-- and I finally walked over to my buddy Ashley's house and got his industrial strength Sawzall, which was the best tool for the job; I had to do a lot of sawing and trimming while standing on a ladder, I had to thoroughly clean the debris because yew berries and needles are poisonous to dogs, and I had to drive three loads of yew tree branches to the dumpster in the park, so I'm (pun intended) bushed but unfortunately, I'm not done expending energy today, and so I have begun drinking beer in the hopes that it will assuage my sore muscles and imbue me with berserker strength for our annual aquatic greased-watermelon rugby match.
Sentence of Dave: Two Paragraph Edition
Franklin Foer begins his essay collection of selections from the New Republic (Insurrections of the Mind: 100 Years of Politics and Culture in America) with a piece from 1914-- World War I had just begun-- by Rebecca West (who wrote the massive Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, a travelogue and history of the Balkans) and while she's ostensibly speaking about literary criticism, there's a lot more going on and I certainly agree that "the mind must lead a more athletic life than it has ever done before" to grapple with what's happening in our country and our planet . . . I feel like I have been stumbling across bad news everywhere I turn-- I don't really follow the news day-to-day, but when I catch up, it's all bad-- I hadn't heard about Trump's stubborn refusal to lower the flag to half mast for John McCain until after it happened and it just mad me embarrassed and sad, and then I listened to "The Measure of a Tragedy" about Venezuela's economic implosion-- inflation has been so rampant that working a day at minimum wage (which is the median salary for the country) can buy you 900 calories (in the US, working a day at minimum wage can buy you over 100,000 calories) and so Venezuelans have lost, on average, 24 pounds and there is a mass migration of Syrian proportions out of the country, and then I listened to the new episode of The Weeds, about how we've lowered all our immigration numbers-- despite what's happening (and I'm still angry and sad about what happened to my cleaning lady and her husband, who are being sent back to Nicaragua despite the fact that they've had work-permits since 2006 and have kids in the school system and parents and sisters who are citizens-- they are a hard-working couple and a boon to the economy, but the government is over a decade behind on dealing with citizenship applications) and then there's all the environmental stuff-- permanent ice in Greenland is gone, Trump is pushing coal despite carbon emissions and particulate matter pollution, we could have curbed global warming back when George H.W. Bush was president-- he was a proponent and wanted the world to cooperate-- but then things got political and the lobbyists won out (listen to this episode of The Daily to learn about this lost moment in time) and --like with smoking-- we plunged into a corporate fueled era of darkness and denial . . . but like with smoking, there is hope that the science will eventually prevail, just not any time soon . . . anyway, here are the first two paragraphs of "The Duty of Harsh Criticism," her words are far more powerful than mine:
And so we might go on very placidly, just as we were doing three months ago, until the undrained marshes of human thought stirred again and emitted some other monstrous beast, ugly with primal slime and belligerent with obscene greeds. Decidedly we shall not be safe if we forget the things of the mind. Indeed, if we want to save our souls, the mind must lead a more athletic life than it has ever done before, and must more passionately than ever practise and rejoice in art. For only through art can we cultivate annoyance with inessentials, powerful and exasperated reactions against ugliness, a ravenous appetite for beauty; and these are the true guardians of the soul.
Encroachment, Both Avian and Feminine
Tuesday morning, I got to the East Brunswick Library at 9:40 AM and it wasn't open yet, though the website claimed they opened at 9 AM, but the sign on the door said 10 AM -- summer hours?-- and so I grabbed my book and walked across the parking lot to a bench by the little pond and sat down and started reading; two minutes later a heavyset woman with crazy hair pushing a stroller with a toddler in it sat down on the same bench as me . . . there were other benches available but this was the closest one to the library and, I quickly surmised that she too thought the library opened at 9 AM and I surmised this not because I possess a highly attuned sixth sense that enables me to read people's thoughts-- in fact, I was trying my best to ignore this woman (and her thoughts) but not only was she encroaching on my physical space, she was also encroaching on my auditory space: divulging all her innermost thoughts via a running monologue . . . or I suppose it was a one-sided dialogue with the non-verbal toddler, an apostrophic vomit of words: we thought the library was open, but it wasn't open was it? so we just have to wait here a few minutes . . . maybe awe can have a snack? okay but we're going to stay in the stroller, we'll stay put and eat a snack . . . not that, here you go, and look . . . there are the ducks, those are ducks, and those are the geese, no we're not going to go by the geese, we're going to stay in the stroller and have a snack while we wait for the library to open, we thought it was open but it's not open yet . . . and this prompted me to get up and move, but then I decided that not only would that look rude, but this was my bench and I was obviously trying to quietly read and I was in the right-- she should have taken a look at the context and found another bench-- so I wasn't going to move and i wasn't going to chat with her about how the website claimed the library opened at 9 AM but it actually didn't open until 10 AM, so I buried my head into my book, which was not easy reading (Authority by Jeff VanderMeer, book two in the Southern Reach trilogy) and tried my best to concentrate and then a dozen geese starting walking out of the pond, up the bank towards our bench, and she said, "We're out of here" and got up and pushed the stroller away and I celebrated (internally) because I wasn't afraid of a bunch of geese, in fact, these geese were my saviors . . . and so I settled back into my reading, certain that I would be able to focus now that the woman and the toddler were gone, but the geese kept coming, closer and closer, and eventually the geese got so close to me-- people must feed them-- that I couldn't concentrate on my book and so I had to get up and let the universe have it's way . . . because (ironically) the universe obviously didn't want me to kill the time waiting for the library to open reading a book, though that would have made perfect sense . . . and the universe told me this with three uniquely annoying and encroaching entities-- harbingers always come in sets of three: a rambling mom, a hungry toddler, and a rather aggressive flock of geese.
They Maced Me! I Cried! And You'd Cry Too!
Someday, I will tell the story of Pip and the Mace (it's set in Daytona, circa 1991 . . . a classic) but while today's post is about tears, it's not about Pip's tears in a portable cell at the tail end of a wild night in a sleazy spring break beach town, it's about my tears and how I had to stop reading a book at the dentist to avoid looking like a fool; the book is W. Bruce Cameron's A Dog's Purpose, which my son Ian chose for our family-book-club, and he finished it weeks ago . . . on the beach . . . this is the only book my son has ever read while at the beach, my wife said it was bizarre-- he actually couldn't put it down (my wife loved it as well) but when I started reading, it seemed to me like a creative writing assignment gone bad: it's the story of a unique canine consciousness searching for its purpose-- but the dog lives through multiple lives, reincarnating after each death . . . the synopsis is utterly ridiculous and childish and silly, and the book feels that way for the first five pages but then -- especially if you're a dog owner-- the story becomes riveting and also makes you contemplate the philosophy of the whole animal consciousness thing (which apparently is far more sophisticated than people once believed, read this book for the latest research) and then there's the crying . . . I cried multiple times while powering through the book yesterday, our new dog Lola napping at my feet, the ghost of my old dog Sirius roaming through my house and my memory and I only had twenty pages left when I took my son to the dentist today, and so I brought the book-- but I also brought a back-up book, something dry (Mark Kurlanky's Salt: A World History . . . pun intended) in case I started blubbering in the waiting room . . . and when I started reading, I could feel the tears coming (my son Ian, a tough kid, said, "If you don't cry at the end of this book, you have no soul") and so I switched over to Kurlansky's take on the divinity and wonder and significance of sodium chloride, and avoided clouding up my own eyes with brine and finished the book in the privacy of my home, my trusty dog nearby.
The Test 114: You Need This For That
This week on our podcast The Test, Cunningham forces Stacey and me to ponder how this leads to that . . . or how some things (or people) are instrumental to other things . . . like eggs are instrumental to baking a cake (or maybe not) and as a bonus, Stacey makes a pun.
Land Ho! Two Five Star Recommendations!
Summer is waning fast, but if you still have time left to binge some quality stuff, I have two superlative recommendations for you; both are concerned with man's relationship to the land, but one is British and the other as American-as-fuck-all so they have very, very different takes . . . one piece is an incredible piece of deep dive journalism that-- if you're a liberal-- will make you scared and angry and freaked out and contemplative, and if you're a moderate conservative, will make you wonder where the hell the fringe of your party wants to go (and if Donald Trump actually wants to lead them there) and if you are willing to follow; and if you're a right-wing-gun-nut-ultra-patriotic-endangered-species-hating-militia-member-antifederalist then you'll be pleased that your story is getting some press (even if there's a liberal media bias to the reporting)
and the other piece is a droll, charming comedy that will make you forget all the troubles I formerly mentioned . . . without further ado:
1) Bundyville . . . a journalistic tour-de-force consists of seven podcasts and four articles on Longreads that details how Cliven Bundy and his family and allies have fought the federal government about grazing rights on federal land, starting with the Bundy Ranch Standoff in 2014, which attracted anti-federalist right wing militants from around the country, and leading to the forty day occupation of the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge in Oregon . . . along the way, Leah Sottile touches on religious fundamentalism--God speaks to Bundy-- and the environmental movement (which the Bundy's believe should be labeled as a cult-like religion), radical interpretations of the constitution, the rights of states versus the rights of the federal government, David Koresh and Timothy McVeigh, race (if people of color tried to do the stuff the these white nationalists do, they'd be shot and killed) and government overreach, and-- in the end-- what it means to be an American and the relationship Americans should have with our land and our government . . . compelling and essential, so good I'm going to teach it this year;
2) Detectorists . . . a fantastically weird show about friendship . . . and metal detectors; Mackenzie Crook (best known for playing Gareth in The Office) and Toby Jones roam the British countryside looking for bits of ancient history (in a nation where you have the right to roam on private land . . . while you may have to ask permission to look for treasure, if you are British, there is a much more communal feeling about "private" property, and you're not going to get to keep the Saxon hoard you turned up anyway, you have to report it to the "coroner" and it is regarded as national treasure) but meanwhile, in the present, the two buddies aren't exactly killing it . . . so is the metal-detecting a healthy escape from the mundane or a barmy obsession that's going to destroy their relationships and life-goals; I thought this would be it, but the show introduces some rival detectorists (that look like Simon and Garfunkel) and an attractive female and you've got way more plot then I anticipated, plus extremely well-written dialogue, understated and pitch-perfect acting, and lots and lots of laughs . . . I convinced my wife and kids to watch and despite the utterly weird and slow start-- two dudes roaming a field with contraptions-- they fell in love with the show and we're racing through (I know some of you only take my reviews seriously if my wife is onboard) and I will also admit that as we slog through these final hot, humid, mosquito-and-tick-ridden days of central Jersey summer, I am longing for a cool place where you can hike wherever you wish, without the fear of getting gunned down by a semi-automatic-weapon-wielding-anti-federalist landowner.
and the other piece is a droll, charming comedy that will make you forget all the troubles I formerly mentioned . . . without further ado:
1) Bundyville . . . a journalistic tour-de-force consists of seven podcasts and four articles on Longreads that details how Cliven Bundy and his family and allies have fought the federal government about grazing rights on federal land, starting with the Bundy Ranch Standoff in 2014, which attracted anti-federalist right wing militants from around the country, and leading to the forty day occupation of the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge in Oregon . . . along the way, Leah Sottile touches on religious fundamentalism--God speaks to Bundy-- and the environmental movement (which the Bundy's believe should be labeled as a cult-like religion), radical interpretations of the constitution, the rights of states versus the rights of the federal government, David Koresh and Timothy McVeigh, race (if people of color tried to do the stuff the these white nationalists do, they'd be shot and killed) and government overreach, and-- in the end-- what it means to be an American and the relationship Americans should have with our land and our government . . . compelling and essential, so good I'm going to teach it this year;
2) Detectorists . . . a fantastically weird show about friendship . . . and metal detectors; Mackenzie Crook (best known for playing Gareth in The Office) and Toby Jones roam the British countryside looking for bits of ancient history (in a nation where you have the right to roam on private land . . . while you may have to ask permission to look for treasure, if you are British, there is a much more communal feeling about "private" property, and you're not going to get to keep the Saxon hoard you turned up anyway, you have to report it to the "coroner" and it is regarded as national treasure) but meanwhile, in the present, the two buddies aren't exactly killing it . . . so is the metal-detecting a healthy escape from the mundane or a barmy obsession that's going to destroy their relationships and life-goals; I thought this would be it, but the show introduces some rival detectorists (that look like Simon and Garfunkel) and an attractive female and you've got way more plot then I anticipated, plus extremely well-written dialogue, understated and pitch-perfect acting, and lots and lots of laughs . . . I convinced my wife and kids to watch and despite the utterly weird and slow start-- two dudes roaming a field with contraptions-- they fell in love with the show and we're racing through (I know some of you only take my reviews seriously if my wife is onboard) and I will also admit that as we slog through these final hot, humid, mosquito-and-tick-ridden days of central Jersey summer, I am longing for a cool place where you can hike wherever you wish, without the fear of getting gunned down by a semi-automatic-weapon-wielding-anti-federalist landowner.
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