After filling out all those quizzes on Quizilla, I finally gave in to my urge to make one myself.
I discovered quickly that this is a great way to waste enormous amounts of time. My defense is that, since this is a quiz based on Animal Farm, originally inspired by my students and their reactions to the book, I can actually make students go take it and report their findings.
So here you are: What Animal Farm Character Are You?
Feel free to post your reactions here, and let me know what you think. It's a bit messy, as the quiz editor is kind of clunky, but hopefully it'll be an entertaining few moments of your life. You'll also help me test it out and see if it's in any way accurate. Sadly, the results have no fun pictures or fancy fonts; it's pretty basic.
To show willing, here was my result:
You are Snowball.
"Snowball was a more vivacious pig than
Napoleon, quicker in speech and more inventive,
but was not considered to have the same depth
of character."
You may have some elitist tendencies, but at heart
you really do want to see the world become a
better place. You have many ideas about how to
improve life and are willing to take risks to
bring those changes about. You may be naive
about political maneuvering, assuming everyone
must see the world as you do, and you feel that
you do deserve some praise and
compensation for your efforts, but your
greatest reward would be to see positive change
in society.
What Animal Farm Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Two words: En-joy.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Massive Malapropism Madness, Vol. II
It's that time again. It's the end of the semester and I'm combing through dozens of essays. Whether it's lack of sleep or just the brain-melting effects of reading so much student writing, a few strange turns of phrase have caught my attention the last day or two, and I knew you'd want to hear about them. Mind you, if I had been paying better attention in the grading session on Wednesday, I'd have a few dozen more to add here, but as it is I'll just entertain you with a few examples.
My 101 class has produced a couple of interesting statements. One student was writing about the spread of Christianity during the late Renaissance and bemoaned the cruel treatment of "the ingenuous peoples of South America." No matter what your opinion of the inhabitants of the southern-western hemisphere, to call them liars is just not okay. Once again, spell checking on the computer does not pick up all errors...
The same happened to another student writing about public transportation, only this time in such a way that I wasn't at all certain it was a mistake to begin with. The student was pleading for better public transport in Southern California, because such measures would help "to move the asses of young and old to their destinations in comfort." I had to read the sentence a few times, and I had nearly concluded that the student actually meant that, either in a fit of colloquial language or as a transcription from a less-formal draft into the final. Finally it occurred to me that she probably meant masses of people. That made me feel better, though it was hard to apologize to the person at the next table whom I had sprayed coffee all over upon first reading the passage.
Then came my 914 class finals, in which they had to write an essay on Orwell's Animal Farm. Now, if you know anything about Orwell at all, you can probably guess that his writing is going to be political in nature. No matter how much we discussed this in class, the students were bound and determined to read what they wanted into the text. The final question asked them to write on one of the lessons that Orwell might have been trying to convey in the novel. It's a low-level class and I'm pretty generous on such matters, but you wouldn't believe how many people wrote to me that Orwell's main point was to get people to be nicer to animals. No, really. The treatise on the animal revolution at Manor Farm, the power struggles between the elitist pigs Napoleon and Snowball, the parallels with communism, the eventual transformation of the pigs into creatures so closely resembling their former human masters that the animals can no longer tell them apart--all this to get us to be a little less mean to cows and chickens.
Most of the responses were also hopelessly muddled and convoluted. Take, for example, this sentence that is meant to discuss the relation between two characters:
Um... okay. If you say so.
Some of them became disturbingly bizarre and made me uncomfortable:
I read that over and over, and I still cannot figure out what it was supposed to say. I'm open to ideas, 'cause what's there now disturbs me deeply.
On the other hand, this contained a timely warning:
Aaaaahhh! They have mines! Yes, I suppose we definitely should be nice to them. Imagine:
Farmer Bob: (walking to the pasture with a bucket in his hand) Hey, you rotton cows! Stupid filthy bastards! Here's your--"
KA-BOOM!
(A huge explosion rocks the meadow. As the smoke clears, we see, Monty Python-style, Farmer Bob's smoking boots. After a few seconds, the twisted and charred bucket drops to the ground from the sky.)
Cow: (smugly) Moo.
Remember: be kind to the species below us. They're armed, and they demand respect.
My 101 class has produced a couple of interesting statements. One student was writing about the spread of Christianity during the late Renaissance and bemoaned the cruel treatment of "the ingenuous peoples of South America." No matter what your opinion of the inhabitants of the southern-western hemisphere, to call them liars is just not okay. Once again, spell checking on the computer does not pick up all errors...
The same happened to another student writing about public transportation, only this time in such a way that I wasn't at all certain it was a mistake to begin with. The student was pleading for better public transport in Southern California, because such measures would help "to move the asses of young and old to their destinations in comfort." I had to read the sentence a few times, and I had nearly concluded that the student actually meant that, either in a fit of colloquial language or as a transcription from a less-formal draft into the final. Finally it occurred to me that she probably meant masses of people. That made me feel better, though it was hard to apologize to the person at the next table whom I had sprayed coffee all over upon first reading the passage.
Then came my 914 class finals, in which they had to write an essay on Orwell's Animal Farm. Now, if you know anything about Orwell at all, you can probably guess that his writing is going to be political in nature. No matter how much we discussed this in class, the students were bound and determined to read what they wanted into the text. The final question asked them to write on one of the lessons that Orwell might have been trying to convey in the novel. It's a low-level class and I'm pretty generous on such matters, but you wouldn't believe how many people wrote to me that Orwell's main point was to get people to be nicer to animals. No, really. The treatise on the animal revolution at Manor Farm, the power struggles between the elitist pigs Napoleon and Snowball, the parallels with communism, the eventual transformation of the pigs into creatures so closely resembling their former human masters that the animals can no longer tell them apart--all this to get us to be a little less mean to cows and chickens.
Most of the responses were also hopelessly muddled and convoluted. Take, for example, this sentence that is meant to discuss the relation between two characters:
I also think that out of all the characters that they had the most comparing and contracting, but more then less comparing."
Um... okay. If you say so.
Some of them became disturbingly bizarre and made me uncomfortable:
Napoleon sensually sanded another pig to say or simplify his long speeches.
I read that over and over, and I still cannot figure out what it was supposed to say. I'm open to ideas, 'cause what's there now disturbs me deeply.
On the other hand, this contained a timely warning:
What the book was trying to tell us was not to be mean to animals, that they have mines and they want to live.
Aaaaahhh! They have mines! Yes, I suppose we definitely should be nice to them. Imagine:
Farmer Bob: (walking to the pasture with a bucket in his hand) Hey, you rotton cows! Stupid filthy bastards! Here's your--"
KA-BOOM!
(A huge explosion rocks the meadow. As the smoke clears, we see, Monty Python-style, Farmer Bob's smoking boots. After a few seconds, the twisted and charred bucket drops to the ground from the sky.)
Cow: (smugly) Moo.
Remember: be kind to the species below us. They're armed, and they demand respect.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Whither Goest the Blog?
Well.
Been a bit, hasn't it? It's been a strange time, but that's nothing new. In fact, there's not much new I could put down here by way of explanation. I tried warning you people that at some point these things would get unendingly repetitive and self-pitying, yet you encouraged me anyway. What were you thinking?
So, interesting things, interesting things...
I'm still working on the secret project mentioned earlier. It's a little more tricky than I expected, of course, as all things are in life. I still have some hopes, but time is running short. It has to do with Christmas, and it may involve blood, devestation, death, war, and horror. Or not.
I'm in the final stretch of grading (seems like I'm always saying that... it's a long stretch), with our large "holistic" grading session for English 015 tomorrow. English 015 is Preparation for College Writing, and all the classes take the same final exam. It's a short essay in response to a reading presented at the time of the final, and all of the instructors in the department participate in an all-day grading session. The exams are done by student number rather than by name and most essays are graded by two instructors who did not have the student in question in their classes. The resulting grade--pass or fail--is the departmental recommendation of whether the student should continue on to English 101 or not. It's not the only factor in the final grade (that would be illegal, actually), but it is a strong indicator of offical approval or disapproval. You can always argue against the recommendation of the department, but it's time consuming and considered bad form without very good evidence of student ability.
It's a great point of debate in the department. Many argue that such an exam does not show all the skills a student has learned during the semester, that it puts too much emphasis on a single test, and that it is generally icky. The counter argument is usually that it is a test of many useful skills, it is a fair indicator of future success, and that ickiness is better than lack of preparation. I fall, as always, somewhere in the middle. It certainly doesn't require students to use every skill they've developed--the only way to really do that would be to have a departmental review of portfolios of student work, which would take years off our lives--and it carries more weight than would be completely useful. However, if you've got basic writing skills, it's something you ought to be able to do reasonably well, and having other instructors review the student's work is no bad thing. I get too many students as it is who clearly just showed up every day and were relatively nice and so were allowed to pass 015 when they were not ready. Without the "gatekeeping" function of the final, I suspect even more unprepared students would find their way into Freshman Composition, and my life would be that much more annoying.
I had best get to bed so I can get up and stay awake through 80-100 short essays, each one saying very much the same thing as the last, just with different vague rationalizations and varying degrees of awful grammar (you can tell I'm excited, can't you?). There is a sick little part of me that enjoys the session--being with other instructors as we work through the texts, discussions of what we're looking for in a good paper (I'm always there to argue that we ought to be meaner rather than nicer, just like in all other aspects of my life), drinking too much coffee and getting a big chunk of final grading out of the way in one sitting...
There's something deeply wrong with me, I know. Now if I could just fix it, that would be sweet. Your suggestions are welcome.
postscript--In other news, I was endlessly pleased today to open a fortune cookie and find an actual fortune within. Apparently, I will "enjoy good health" and "be surrounded by wealth and luxury." Heck, that even has the delightful mystical lack of clarity I so enjoy--will I actually be healthy, or will I just delight in my positive health for the short time I possess it? Will I be wealthy, or just a bum who dies on the street corner in a posh neighborhood? Well done, China--well done.
Been a bit, hasn't it? It's been a strange time, but that's nothing new. In fact, there's not much new I could put down here by way of explanation. I tried warning you people that at some point these things would get unendingly repetitive and self-pitying, yet you encouraged me anyway. What were you thinking?
So, interesting things, interesting things...
I'm still working on the secret project mentioned earlier. It's a little more tricky than I expected, of course, as all things are in life. I still have some hopes, but time is running short. It has to do with Christmas, and it may involve blood, devestation, death, war, and horror. Or not.
I'm in the final stretch of grading (seems like I'm always saying that... it's a long stretch), with our large "holistic" grading session for English 015 tomorrow. English 015 is Preparation for College Writing, and all the classes take the same final exam. It's a short essay in response to a reading presented at the time of the final, and all of the instructors in the department participate in an all-day grading session. The exams are done by student number rather than by name and most essays are graded by two instructors who did not have the student in question in their classes. The resulting grade--pass or fail--is the departmental recommendation of whether the student should continue on to English 101 or not. It's not the only factor in the final grade (that would be illegal, actually), but it is a strong indicator of offical approval or disapproval. You can always argue against the recommendation of the department, but it's time consuming and considered bad form without very good evidence of student ability.
It's a great point of debate in the department. Many argue that such an exam does not show all the skills a student has learned during the semester, that it puts too much emphasis on a single test, and that it is generally icky. The counter argument is usually that it is a test of many useful skills, it is a fair indicator of future success, and that ickiness is better than lack of preparation. I fall, as always, somewhere in the middle. It certainly doesn't require students to use every skill they've developed--the only way to really do that would be to have a departmental review of portfolios of student work, which would take years off our lives--and it carries more weight than would be completely useful. However, if you've got basic writing skills, it's something you ought to be able to do reasonably well, and having other instructors review the student's work is no bad thing. I get too many students as it is who clearly just showed up every day and were relatively nice and so were allowed to pass 015 when they were not ready. Without the "gatekeeping" function of the final, I suspect even more unprepared students would find their way into Freshman Composition, and my life would be that much more annoying.
I had best get to bed so I can get up and stay awake through 80-100 short essays, each one saying very much the same thing as the last, just with different vague rationalizations and varying degrees of awful grammar (you can tell I'm excited, can't you?). There is a sick little part of me that enjoys the session--being with other instructors as we work through the texts, discussions of what we're looking for in a good paper (I'm always there to argue that we ought to be meaner rather than nicer, just like in all other aspects of my life), drinking too much coffee and getting a big chunk of final grading out of the way in one sitting...
There's something deeply wrong with me, I know. Now if I could just fix it, that would be sweet. Your suggestions are welcome.
postscript--In other news, I was endlessly pleased today to open a fortune cookie and find an actual fortune within. Apparently, I will "enjoy good health" and "be surrounded by wealth and luxury." Heck, that even has the delightful mystical lack of clarity I so enjoy--will I actually be healthy, or will I just delight in my positive health for the short time I possess it? Will I be wealthy, or just a bum who dies on the street corner in a posh neighborhood? Well done, China--well done.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Unfortunate
I decry a great public evil that has reared its ugly head these last few years. An insidious plague that threatens to rob us of our hopes and dreams has made its way unremarked upon by the general populace and now it is so widespread that our means of fighting it have almost been robbed from us before we realized we needed them.
I speak, of course, of the awful decline in the quality of fortunes found in fortune cookies.
I had occasion to eat Chinese food the other day, which always makes me happy. And, as always, I approached my crisp dessert delicacy at the end of the meal with anticipation and delight. But what I found within was not delightful but insipid and uninspired.
You hardly ever get an actual fortune in your fortune cookies anymore. I mean a solid, straightforward, honest-to-goodness prediction of a future event. I like my cookies to perform as advertised, so that little slip of paper should read something like, "You will die in 17 minutes," or, "Something slightly unpleasant is about to happen to you, like having an onion drop on your head."
But nowadays cookies at your better Asian restaurants come in three varieties: Compliment Cookies, Advice Cookies, and Aphorism Cookies.
Compliment Cookies are the cheap substitute for fortunes. They say something nice about you, as if that was what you turned to baked goods for. "Your kindness is evident to all," or, "Your hard work makes you stand out," are not predictions of the future. I don't know if a compliment from a cookie is meant to make me feel better, but it doesn't usually work. How does it know? I bet total jerks get cookies that say, "You are warm-hearted and well loved." Where's the mystery in that?
Now, if there were insult cookies, that would be worth the price of admission. "What are you looking at, asshat?" or, "You've put on a few pounds--maybe drop the rest of this cookie, eh, Chunk-style?" I'd pay extra for those.
Advice Cookies just seem pushy and unhelpful, like an elderly uncle who always thinks he has the answers to all the problems in your life even though he last knew what was going on during the Cleveland administration and has never had successful human contact. "Always do your best," "Do the work you love," and, "Save a little every day," are not any more useful than the morals of after-school specials and motivational posters. They're also kind of insulting in that they suggest you are slacking before you even start. I usually hold the cookie in my fist and shake it, yelling, "I'm already doing my best, evil pastry!" before hurling the sharp fragments across the restaurant.
Aphorism Cookies, though, are the worst. At least Compliment and Advice Cookies show some slight interest in you as a person; Aphorism cookies just have bland admonishments about general topics. "A clean workplace is a good workplace," "Chopsticks don't kill people; people kill people--with chopsticks," "British television is often more pretentious than witty," or, "Licking toads is a cheap and effective high," don't even speak to me where I live. There's no mystical insight into my soul, no numinous foretelling of my fate, just some tired quote from Benjamin Franklin wrestled into no more than nine words for space considerations. I could get that from opening the almanac randomly, or by reading matchbooks in cheap midwestern diners. My oracular cookies are supposed to do more than the placemats at Cracker Barrel, you know?
I'm about to give up my stereotype of the Orient as mysterious and mystical if this keeps up.
It's late--can you tell?
I speak, of course, of the awful decline in the quality of fortunes found in fortune cookies.
I had occasion to eat Chinese food the other day, which always makes me happy. And, as always, I approached my crisp dessert delicacy at the end of the meal with anticipation and delight. But what I found within was not delightful but insipid and uninspired.
You hardly ever get an actual fortune in your fortune cookies anymore. I mean a solid, straightforward, honest-to-goodness prediction of a future event. I like my cookies to perform as advertised, so that little slip of paper should read something like, "You will die in 17 minutes," or, "Something slightly unpleasant is about to happen to you, like having an onion drop on your head."
But nowadays cookies at your better Asian restaurants come in three varieties: Compliment Cookies, Advice Cookies, and Aphorism Cookies.
Compliment Cookies are the cheap substitute for fortunes. They say something nice about you, as if that was what you turned to baked goods for. "Your kindness is evident to all," or, "Your hard work makes you stand out," are not predictions of the future. I don't know if a compliment from a cookie is meant to make me feel better, but it doesn't usually work. How does it know? I bet total jerks get cookies that say, "You are warm-hearted and well loved." Where's the mystery in that?
Now, if there were insult cookies, that would be worth the price of admission. "What are you looking at, asshat?" or, "You've put on a few pounds--maybe drop the rest of this cookie, eh, Chunk-style?" I'd pay extra for those.
Advice Cookies just seem pushy and unhelpful, like an elderly uncle who always thinks he has the answers to all the problems in your life even though he last knew what was going on during the Cleveland administration and has never had successful human contact. "Always do your best," "Do the work you love," and, "Save a little every day," are not any more useful than the morals of after-school specials and motivational posters. They're also kind of insulting in that they suggest you are slacking before you even start. I usually hold the cookie in my fist and shake it, yelling, "I'm already doing my best, evil pastry!" before hurling the sharp fragments across the restaurant.
Aphorism Cookies, though, are the worst. At least Compliment and Advice Cookies show some slight interest in you as a person; Aphorism cookies just have bland admonishments about general topics. "A clean workplace is a good workplace," "Chopsticks don't kill people; people kill people--with chopsticks," "British television is often more pretentious than witty," or, "Licking toads is a cheap and effective high," don't even speak to me where I live. There's no mystical insight into my soul, no numinous foretelling of my fate, just some tired quote from Benjamin Franklin wrestled into no more than nine words for space considerations. I could get that from opening the almanac randomly, or by reading matchbooks in cheap midwestern diners. My oracular cookies are supposed to do more than the placemats at Cracker Barrel, you know?
I'm about to give up my stereotype of the Orient as mysterious and mystical if this keeps up.
It's late--can you tell?
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Life? Don't Talk to Me About Life
I apologize for my lack of postage recently. I had thought to get by without comment, but some parties have made it known that I am a bad person for not posting, and with that I cannot argue. I sort of let myself fall out of the habit--I was without access to a computer on Saturday night down at my in-laws', and Sunday night was simply busy and I am a bad person. Last night was yet another "fell-asleep-on-the-couch-when-I-needed-to-grade" evenings; this night is not so different, only I woke up when I was supposed to so now I can grade.
Nothing looks quite as bleak as a stack of essays that must be marked at 3:32am.
Class this weekend was a mixed bag. Saturday morning we had a booth director out from ICM, which is the talent agency that represents Samantha (you can take a listen to her demo, along with many another famous client (like Mark Hamill, Jim Belushi, and Kathy Najimy), here; check out Jim Cummings and Maurice LaMarche for familiar voices you may not have put a name to before), which was fun; I didn't stand out particularly, and the director was generally nice to everyone, so no breakout hit there. In the afternoon we had Ned Lott (he of Disney vocal casting) again, and we got to read from the script to the new Narnia movie, which was very cool (we had to promise not to show anyone the script until next week). Again, an entertaining time, but while I may be able to imitate Mr. Beaver's accent, I'm just not a voice match for him, so it won't be my voice you hear from the plush doll or the video game. The clips of the film he brought in, while rough, looked very cool.
Then I stayed on to engineer the evening class, a Scene Study acting course taught by Susan Blu (also previously mentioned; she was the Pillsbury Dough Girl [for those old enough to remember that--I'm not one of them] and the mother in Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood; she's also over at ICM). It was very small--out of eight registered students, only five showed up. Though I was only really opening the door and making the coffee, it felt strange and powerful to be the only one in the studio for a while there, and because the numbers were low I was allowed to participate in the class.
I am the first to admit I could be a better actor, and (believe it or not) since the heart of doing well in this business is being believable no matter what kind of kooky role you're asked to play, an acting class is definitely in line with what I need. I had to pray to make myself take it seriously, though, because I'm simply no good at acting exercises. I've got a built-in smirk that pops up when people are "playing" at acting, and something about most theater games makes them seem goofy and pretentious. It's also hard to imagine DeNiro pretending to be a rabbit or Judy Dench trying to really be a telephone (not that I'm on that level or anything). I did take it more seriously than usual, and the exercises Susan had us do were not of the silly variety, but a great deal of self-consciousness that I've not experienced at Voicetrax before did creep in. I think there's some real value in bringing your "real" self to the work, and I know I need that more in most of the creative areas of my life, so it was good; still, I was not overly sad when, because of the low numbers, the class was ended early on Sunday and I was able to head home.
Onward and upward. This grading should (should, mind you) be my last late-night session this semester, as this is the last week of the semester. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the break, busy as it will be. As always, I'm disappointed with my performance this semester and look forward to a chance to start fresh next time around. I do start my CCC class this Wednesday evening (tonight, actually), but that tends to be fairly small with somewhat more motivated students, so it's not as bad.
There--you asked for more posts, and you get this kind of drivel in response. I hope you're happy.
Nothing looks quite as bleak as a stack of essays that must be marked at 3:32am.
Class this weekend was a mixed bag. Saturday morning we had a booth director out from ICM, which is the talent agency that represents Samantha (you can take a listen to her demo, along with many another famous client (like Mark Hamill, Jim Belushi, and Kathy Najimy), here; check out Jim Cummings and Maurice LaMarche for familiar voices you may not have put a name to before), which was fun; I didn't stand out particularly, and the director was generally nice to everyone, so no breakout hit there. In the afternoon we had Ned Lott (he of Disney vocal casting) again, and we got to read from the script to the new Narnia movie, which was very cool (we had to promise not to show anyone the script until next week). Again, an entertaining time, but while I may be able to imitate Mr. Beaver's accent, I'm just not a voice match for him, so it won't be my voice you hear from the plush doll or the video game. The clips of the film he brought in, while rough, looked very cool.
Then I stayed on to engineer the evening class, a Scene Study acting course taught by Susan Blu (also previously mentioned; she was the Pillsbury Dough Girl [for those old enough to remember that--I'm not one of them] and the mother in Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood; she's also over at ICM). It was very small--out of eight registered students, only five showed up. Though I was only really opening the door and making the coffee, it felt strange and powerful to be the only one in the studio for a while there, and because the numbers were low I was allowed to participate in the class.
I am the first to admit I could be a better actor, and (believe it or not) since the heart of doing well in this business is being believable no matter what kind of kooky role you're asked to play, an acting class is definitely in line with what I need. I had to pray to make myself take it seriously, though, because I'm simply no good at acting exercises. I've got a built-in smirk that pops up when people are "playing" at acting, and something about most theater games makes them seem goofy and pretentious. It's also hard to imagine DeNiro pretending to be a rabbit or Judy Dench trying to really be a telephone (not that I'm on that level or anything). I did take it more seriously than usual, and the exercises Susan had us do were not of the silly variety, but a great deal of self-consciousness that I've not experienced at Voicetrax before did creep in. I think there's some real value in bringing your "real" self to the work, and I know I need that more in most of the creative areas of my life, so it was good; still, I was not overly sad when, because of the low numbers, the class was ended early on Sunday and I was able to head home.
Onward and upward. This grading should (should, mind you) be my last late-night session this semester, as this is the last week of the semester. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the break, busy as it will be. As always, I'm disappointed with my performance this semester and look forward to a chance to start fresh next time around. I do start my CCC class this Wednesday evening (tonight, actually), but that tends to be fairly small with somewhat more motivated students, so it's not as bad.
There--you asked for more posts, and you get this kind of drivel in response. I hope you're happy.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity-Jig
I made it through the wind and the rain to my home once more. I am beyond pleased that the foul weather has put in an appearance again--now if only it would snow, and it would stay this way for a few months...
Class tonight went well enough, though not spectacularly. Our LA agent was a very nice fellow--he'd do perfectly as Christopher Guest's younger brother, and he was friendly and supportive. I did okay. It's hard because sometimes I do fantastically well, which means that when I'm just competent or close to, it feels like I've failed.
The tricky bit is, I'm never positive about what it is that makes the difference. In some ways I feel like I've plateaued in the voice work; I can do well with coaching and my instructors have been encouraging, but I can't seem to make the leap to doing a great job the first time out of the gate. And that is what the industry demands, because you usually only get a few minutes to look over the script, then have to jump into a booth and do the thing spot-on the first time before they usher you back out. Time is money in this industry, and a producer might read two dozen people for the same spot--and that just from your agency. The real professional is able to look at a script, figure out all its "beats" and turns, latch on to what the producer/writer/director/whatever is looking for, and is able to interpret the part terrifically, giving the creators more than they were hoping for and imparting a bit of the performer that is unique at the same time.
It's a tall order. At this point I can read a script and get a feel for it rather quickly, but it's figuring out what I bring to it that no one else can that's difficult, as well as making my performance match what I mean to convey. Samantha or other directors can coax it out after a few tries, but I have to learn to self-direct and get this on my own if I want to succeed. I don't seem to be getting noticably better at it. As always, I have to keep my eyes on God so that I don't become too attached to any particular outcome of any particular class.
On a closing note, I have discovered that the future Douglas Adams predicted has come one step closer to reality: tonight, I ran into a gas station pump with a Genuine People Personality.
No, really. Anyone who's read The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, or even saw the movie, may recall that Marvin the paranoid android was a prototype GPP robot who was terminally depressed. If you recall, as he took Ford and Arthur through the Heart of Gold, he complained about the cheery personalities of the doors, which would thank the passer-by for allowing them to open and would hum with satisfaction for a job well done when they closed. Arthur reacted with horror to the idea of robots with personalities, and I could never quite figure out what bugged him so deeply about happy robots. Until tonight.
I had to fill the truck in Palm Springs, so stopped at Mobil station by the freeway. I was slightly annoyed at the canned Christmas music they were playing, which was bland and generic and was interrupted every 25.6 seconds for some smarmy announcement of snack items available in the Snak Stop. Then suddenly the recording started playing something along the lines of, "Hi! I'm your automated gas pump, and I'd just like to say it's been great to be of service this evening."
I almost screamed. It was terribly off-putting. I didn't know how to respond. Should I accept the gas pump's thanks? Should I ignore it? What part of it is the hose and nozzle, after all? And above all else, why in the world would we need a gas pump that was grateful for being used? Let's let inanimate objects remain inanimate, shall we? That way I don't risk offending my trash can for putting my garbage in it, or have to counsel my toaster about the sheer monotony of doing nothing but making toast. In the Hitchiker's Guide series, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has to devote entire operations to the psychological counseling of neurotic machinery; let's not see that played out here.
Class tonight went well enough, though not spectacularly. Our LA agent was a very nice fellow--he'd do perfectly as Christopher Guest's younger brother, and he was friendly and supportive. I did okay. It's hard because sometimes I do fantastically well, which means that when I'm just competent or close to, it feels like I've failed.
The tricky bit is, I'm never positive about what it is that makes the difference. In some ways I feel like I've plateaued in the voice work; I can do well with coaching and my instructors have been encouraging, but I can't seem to make the leap to doing a great job the first time out of the gate. And that is what the industry demands, because you usually only get a few minutes to look over the script, then have to jump into a booth and do the thing spot-on the first time before they usher you back out. Time is money in this industry, and a producer might read two dozen people for the same spot--and that just from your agency. The real professional is able to look at a script, figure out all its "beats" and turns, latch on to what the producer/writer/director/whatever is looking for, and is able to interpret the part terrifically, giving the creators more than they were hoping for and imparting a bit of the performer that is unique at the same time.
It's a tall order. At this point I can read a script and get a feel for it rather quickly, but it's figuring out what I bring to it that no one else can that's difficult, as well as making my performance match what I mean to convey. Samantha or other directors can coax it out after a few tries, but I have to learn to self-direct and get this on my own if I want to succeed. I don't seem to be getting noticably better at it. As always, I have to keep my eyes on God so that I don't become too attached to any particular outcome of any particular class.
On a closing note, I have discovered that the future Douglas Adams predicted has come one step closer to reality: tonight, I ran into a gas station pump with a Genuine People Personality.
No, really. Anyone who's read The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, or even saw the movie, may recall that Marvin the paranoid android was a prototype GPP robot who was terminally depressed. If you recall, as he took Ford and Arthur through the Heart of Gold, he complained about the cheery personalities of the doors, which would thank the passer-by for allowing them to open and would hum with satisfaction for a job well done when they closed. Arthur reacted with horror to the idea of robots with personalities, and I could never quite figure out what bugged him so deeply about happy robots. Until tonight.
I had to fill the truck in Palm Springs, so stopped at Mobil station by the freeway. I was slightly annoyed at the canned Christmas music they were playing, which was bland and generic and was interrupted every 25.6 seconds for some smarmy announcement of snack items available in the Snak Stop. Then suddenly the recording started playing something along the lines of, "Hi! I'm your automated gas pump, and I'd just like to say it's been great to be of service this evening."
I almost screamed. It was terribly off-putting. I didn't know how to respond. Should I accept the gas pump's thanks? Should I ignore it? What part of it is the hose and nozzle, after all? And above all else, why in the world would we need a gas pump that was grateful for being used? Let's let inanimate objects remain inanimate, shall we? That way I don't risk offending my trash can for putting my garbage in it, or have to counsel my toaster about the sheer monotony of doing nothing but making toast. In the Hitchiker's Guide series, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has to devote entire operations to the psychological counseling of neurotic machinery; let's not see that played out here.
Friday, December 02, 2005
My Mind as a Blank
I sat here last night trying to think of something to write, and I failed.
And tonight, other than that issue, I'm blank again.
A lot of grading, a lot of outside issues, a lot of craziness seem to be taking over my brain. Yet none of it is particularly noteworthy: it's all very dull, mundane stuff.
I am looking forward to this weekend. I have a class titled "LA Connection" out at Voicetrax, at which several agents from LA agencies will be in attendance. It's not one of those classes at the end of which a student gets to audition at an agency, but it's always good to be up in front of real agents who can give you honest opinions about your actual standing. Just after that, I'm engineering for a second class, a scene study with Susan Blu, mentioned here before for the vast number of shows she provided a voice for and the yet vaster number she now produces. She's a terrifically nice lady and just cute as a bug--she's cemented in my mind the idea that to succeed in this business, you have to be a tiny blonde woman (like she and Samantha both, as well as a few other instructors).
And on Sunday, we celebrate St. Nicholas Day (a couple of days early). Maybe I'll explain that for the newcomers next time around. It's really a preview of Christmas, to make sure you're on the right path before the big day arrives; thanks primarily to my mother, it's really a kind of mini-Christmas itself. But I'm not one to complain about two Christmases.
Okay--this has taken a couple of hours to put up, thanks to the baby being unconscionably awake. I must stumble to bed. Until tomorrow, friends.
And tonight, other than that issue, I'm blank again.
A lot of grading, a lot of outside issues, a lot of craziness seem to be taking over my brain. Yet none of it is particularly noteworthy: it's all very dull, mundane stuff.
I am looking forward to this weekend. I have a class titled "LA Connection" out at Voicetrax, at which several agents from LA agencies will be in attendance. It's not one of those classes at the end of which a student gets to audition at an agency, but it's always good to be up in front of real agents who can give you honest opinions about your actual standing. Just after that, I'm engineering for a second class, a scene study with Susan Blu, mentioned here before for the vast number of shows she provided a voice for and the yet vaster number she now produces. She's a terrifically nice lady and just cute as a bug--she's cemented in my mind the idea that to succeed in this business, you have to be a tiny blonde woman (like she and Samantha both, as well as a few other instructors).
And on Sunday, we celebrate St. Nicholas Day (a couple of days early). Maybe I'll explain that for the newcomers next time around. It's really a preview of Christmas, to make sure you're on the right path before the big day arrives; thanks primarily to my mother, it's really a kind of mini-Christmas itself. But I'm not one to complain about two Christmases.
Okay--this has taken a couple of hours to put up, thanks to the baby being unconscionably awake. I must stumble to bed. Until tomorrow, friends.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Logic and Advancement
Kathie and I were having a conversation the other day when I think she stumbled onto an important truth. We were discussing my students and their inability in most cases to connect their actions to any consequences. No matter what grades they've been earning or how many warnings/threats/promises/what-have-you I give, they always seem totally surprised at their grade by the end. Even if I tell them they're going to fail and should drop the class, they will continue showing up, somehow hoping that by dint of sheer presence to pass; the odd part is that they will rarely make any change to their work or habits which lead them to fail in the first place. It's frustrating to seem to have no impact on their consciousness one way or another--it makes all that time spent giving feedback and answering questions seem useless.
Kathie then pointed out that it's a lack of logic--an inability to tie a cause to a result. We decided that perhaps an early education in basic logic could make a difference for a lot of folks from difficult backgrounds or at least with little other education. It makes sense, in a way. Many of these folks live in worlds where effects really don't seem to have identifiable causes. The government agencies that are so prevalent treat people like cattle, little caring about their personal stories. I remember vividly when we returned from Canada and were on MediCal for a short time when I didn't have a job: it didn't matter how we acted, what we did or said--our processing was long and confusing, and the resultant aid that was given out didn't seem dependent on anything but the whim of our case worker. Our treatment at the clinics we had to go to had nothing to do with how much aid we needed or the nature of our need, but on the scheduling and budgeting of bureaucrats far removed from our movements. As well, low-wage jobs rarely reward workers for hard work: if you're at McDonald's and you knock yourself out to do a great job, you still get the same pay as the guy who sits in back smoking all day, and any other rewards are mostly non-existant (promotion in fast food is usually very limited, with most management brought in from outside rather than raised from the ranks of floor workers). You get recognized by any such organization simply by being around for longer than anyone else--senority is one of the only measures of achievement available to them, and the only way to crack government services is to wait long enough for them to do something.
My students have a terrible sense of disenfranchisement, regarding voting or participation in anything beyond their own lives pointless because they can't really change their lot. For them, everything seems to be based on favoritism, who you know and who can give you an "in" to a better situation. In many cases, they are probably right, but that leads them to surrender in all areas, even those where their effort can make a difference, like school. It may be frustrating, but it does explain, in some ways, their unspoken, almost certainly unarticulated sense that just showing up for long enough in one spot is their best chance to get something, and why admonitions, either good or bad, have little effect. We might do more good at a stroke with mandatory logic and reasoning classes in grade schools than with any disciplinary or civic program. Yet another reason why a good education is vital to success: learning dates, formulas, and vocabulary may not immediately be useful, but a system that shows you your effort can lead to accomplishment (where work is graded thoughtfully and students are neither failed in a way that seems arbitrary nor passed on without regard to their work standards due to social promotion) is exactly what many of my students could have used.
Or so it seems to me.
Kathie then pointed out that it's a lack of logic--an inability to tie a cause to a result. We decided that perhaps an early education in basic logic could make a difference for a lot of folks from difficult backgrounds or at least with little other education. It makes sense, in a way. Many of these folks live in worlds where effects really don't seem to have identifiable causes. The government agencies that are so prevalent treat people like cattle, little caring about their personal stories. I remember vividly when we returned from Canada and were on MediCal for a short time when I didn't have a job: it didn't matter how we acted, what we did or said--our processing was long and confusing, and the resultant aid that was given out didn't seem dependent on anything but the whim of our case worker. Our treatment at the clinics we had to go to had nothing to do with how much aid we needed or the nature of our need, but on the scheduling and budgeting of bureaucrats far removed from our movements. As well, low-wage jobs rarely reward workers for hard work: if you're at McDonald's and you knock yourself out to do a great job, you still get the same pay as the guy who sits in back smoking all day, and any other rewards are mostly non-existant (promotion in fast food is usually very limited, with most management brought in from outside rather than raised from the ranks of floor workers). You get recognized by any such organization simply by being around for longer than anyone else--senority is one of the only measures of achievement available to them, and the only way to crack government services is to wait long enough for them to do something.
My students have a terrible sense of disenfranchisement, regarding voting or participation in anything beyond their own lives pointless because they can't really change their lot. For them, everything seems to be based on favoritism, who you know and who can give you an "in" to a better situation. In many cases, they are probably right, but that leads them to surrender in all areas, even those where their effort can make a difference, like school. It may be frustrating, but it does explain, in some ways, their unspoken, almost certainly unarticulated sense that just showing up for long enough in one spot is their best chance to get something, and why admonitions, either good or bad, have little effect. We might do more good at a stroke with mandatory logic and reasoning classes in grade schools than with any disciplinary or civic program. Yet another reason why a good education is vital to success: learning dates, formulas, and vocabulary may not immediately be useful, but a system that shows you your effort can lead to accomplishment (where work is graded thoughtfully and students are neither failed in a way that seems arbitrary nor passed on without regard to their work standards due to social promotion) is exactly what many of my students could have used.
Or so it seems to me.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Read All About It
Just a short entry tonight; it's late and I'm tired.
I expect that every reader who finds his or her way here is well familiar with 1987's The Princess Bride; in fact, I suspect that a fair proportion of you could recite much of the movie from memory, as can I. It's a terrific little film that doesn't fail to turn up on everyone's short list of favorite movies.
However, I was in the camp among those who had never read the book. I noticed a new edition sitting on the Barnes & Noble shelves a few weeks ago and leafed through it--it appeared to be as charming as its cinematic offspring. Then I contemplated the fact that for work, I have to put in a certain number of "development" hours each year (which are supposed, legally, to be furthering my understanding of my field; in practice, it's another tangle of bureaucratic red tape to wade through), and that these can be (and have been by me) gotten by participating in or leading a book discussion. Suddenly fate and divine will collided, and I went and ate some lunch.
But shortly thereafter, I returned and purchased the book.
I can't recommend the book highly enough. It contains all the lyrical charm of the movie, though at much more depth, and is full of enough characters and incidents not covered in the movie that the reading, while delightfully familiar, also has some surprises and shocks, especially when it comes to the framing device.
Not to do disservice to Fred Ward and Peter Falk, but Goldman goes crazy with the "real world" aspects of producing the novel. The conceit is that, in fact, Florin and Guilder are real places in Europe; Goldman's father, who read him the story, is a Florinese emmigrant, and the whole book is actually supposed to be Goldman's translation and abridgement of a work of the same name by S. Morgenstern. It's all very convoluted and fascinating, as Goldman drags in such real-world presences as the Simon and Schuster publishing house, Arnold Scwarzeneggar, Andre the Giant (and the entire film crew, as well as the filming process), and Stephen King.
I can't tell you how excited I am to bring up the subject of metafiction in my book discussion. Not sure where it will go, but just being able to have such a conversation is fabulous. Trying to untangle the web of layers Goldman weaves is an engaging process and dizzyingly delightful. If you've not read it, do so at once! The next time we discuss The Princess Bride, if you can't tell me about the Zoo of Death, or the Green Recluse, or king bats, or Buttercup's baby, or the Scottish master Inigo trained with, then our conversation is over, friend.
I expect that every reader who finds his or her way here is well familiar with 1987's The Princess Bride; in fact, I suspect that a fair proportion of you could recite much of the movie from memory, as can I. It's a terrific little film that doesn't fail to turn up on everyone's short list of favorite movies.
However, I was in the camp among those who had never read the book. I noticed a new edition sitting on the Barnes & Noble shelves a few weeks ago and leafed through it--it appeared to be as charming as its cinematic offspring. Then I contemplated the fact that for work, I have to put in a certain number of "development" hours each year (which are supposed, legally, to be furthering my understanding of my field; in practice, it's another tangle of bureaucratic red tape to wade through), and that these can be (and have been by me) gotten by participating in or leading a book discussion. Suddenly fate and divine will collided, and I went and ate some lunch.
But shortly thereafter, I returned and purchased the book.
I can't recommend the book highly enough. It contains all the lyrical charm of the movie, though at much more depth, and is full of enough characters and incidents not covered in the movie that the reading, while delightfully familiar, also has some surprises and shocks, especially when it comes to the framing device.
Not to do disservice to Fred Ward and Peter Falk, but Goldman goes crazy with the "real world" aspects of producing the novel. The conceit is that, in fact, Florin and Guilder are real places in Europe; Goldman's father, who read him the story, is a Florinese emmigrant, and the whole book is actually supposed to be Goldman's translation and abridgement of a work of the same name by S. Morgenstern. It's all very convoluted and fascinating, as Goldman drags in such real-world presences as the Simon and Schuster publishing house, Arnold Scwarzeneggar, Andre the Giant (and the entire film crew, as well as the filming process), and Stephen King.
I can't tell you how excited I am to bring up the subject of metafiction in my book discussion. Not sure where it will go, but just being able to have such a conversation is fabulous. Trying to untangle the web of layers Goldman weaves is an engaging process and dizzyingly delightful. If you've not read it, do so at once! The next time we discuss The Princess Bride, if you can't tell me about the Zoo of Death, or the Green Recluse, or king bats, or Buttercup's baby, or the Scottish master Inigo trained with, then our conversation is over, friend.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Thrown to the Wolves
Okay, so I didn't post yesterday after promising to do so.
However, for once, I have a good reason. Two actually: Denver and Poncho.
Last night was a neverending revolving door of boys out of bed. I thought of giving a play-by-play of the night here, but realized that that would not be as interesting to you as it was mind-boggling to me. Suffice it to say that from about midnight until nearly 5am, one of the other of the boys or some combination thereof was up and about, complaining about being frightened of their room, or about mysterious ailments, or just chatting about life. Every time one of them was down, the other would pop up, and every time I thought I'd have a few moments to do something, it was stripped away. I ended up laying down (but not sleeping, mind you) in our bed, on both couches, and on the large chair in the boys' room at various points. Joanna, angel that she is, let me catch some sleep this morning before church. It was a long, long night that I'd not like to repeat any time soon, the kind of night that makes you long for a stasis chamber in which to stash the little darlings, or at least kindles the desire to give them just a little bit of scotch so they'll sleep. I don't have the former and couldn't bring myself to the latter, so it was lots of talking quietly and commands to lie down with eyes closed for me.
I've got to get to my grading (only two weeks to the end, so not too much of that left for the moment). However, I did want to clairfy a few things from my last post, specifically the portion related to boldly going forth in faith.
First, an apology for the mixed metaphor: it should have been something about throwing myself on God's grace, or putting myself in God's hands. The way it was phrased sounded a bit like I would be making myself a football on a long Hail Mary pass (there's an allusion for you) and hoping He wouldn't punt me.
But moreso than that literary faux pas, I wanted to address the idea contained therein. Many of you know I've been whining for ages about wanting to move the northwest (among the many things I whine about with some consistency), and it's been suggested by those already there (Beth just the latest among them) that I should just move the family up there, damn the torpedoes, and see what turns up. After all, it worked for the Foxes and has lead to great growth for others. The comments are always made in the tone of those who think that I'm just scared to trust God that much.
I can't deny there's always some fear in putting oneself out for God's use and fully trusting Him to provide in a real, moment-by-moment sense. Well, there is some fear for me, anyway, and I suspect for the majority of folks. But fear is no reason not to do something. Honestly, that's not the major component of my not already having packed up and made the journey. Rather, it's that I don't feel like He's called me to do so yet. I'm in a strange transisitional place at the moment, and I'm not certain where He's going to end up putting me or allowing me to go. I still very much see myself ending up in the northwest, but the path there is not necessarily straightforward. I've got irons in the fire here, irons He Himself seemed to have moved me to put in that fire, and I'd like to see how they pan out.
And to those who are concerned that I might be stalling, I appreciate that concern and encourage you to keep poking me about it, because I am prone to inertia. But I will point out that I already have struck out in faith with no other support: that was what Toronto was all about. After being accepted to the University of Toronto, my incredibly supportive wife and I sold most of our things, packed a moving van with what was left, and headed for Canada. We had no place to live, no jobs, and knew no one there. We lived in cheap motels for a week, then rented a basement apartment with 5 foot ceilings from a drunken former ambassador from Barbados. We scraped by on student loans, gifts from my parents, and Joanna's grueling job in an underground mall. It was an incredible year, full of joys and difficulties (especially for a couple who hadn't been married even a year yet), and we had to literally rely on God to provide every day. Many a night was spent in tearful prayer, and many a day was begun with tremendous blessing.
But I knew I felt called to that. Though it was, I am convinced, a portion of the path we were meant to walk, we're also still paying it off: the credit counseling we've been in the past few years is an effort to eradicate the debt we built up during that time. We learned a lot and grew a lot and I'm more than willing to put myself on the line again (as Joanna is also, though more hesitantly, and I've got kiddos to think about these days as well), but not until I feel that it's time. My little wish is to move right now, to start a new life right this minute, but that's always my little wish for everything, and I think I've got some more work to do here at the moment. Maybe even within six months or a year that will change, but I'm going to concentrate on the lessons I have to learn in this place.
Now, that said, if you hear about some wonderful job opportunity up north, don't hesitate to share it--you may be the engine that gets this ship moving. I'm all for God flinging open the doors and shining the light on the path. And if I feel that it's time to head out, we'll do so even if no opportunity is immediately evident. I trust He will let me know when the time is right. I dream of my little community every day, and I trust that if it is His will, it will happen.
I guess this post, as most of them are, was much more for my own understanding than it was useful for any of you. One of my textbooks contains the quote, "How can I know what I think until I write it down?" As a bad teacher, I can't remember who said it, but it's certainly true for me. But I'm more than open to comments from the usual crew or any newcomers who may be lurking out there, and I'd love to hear stories of times when you have put your faith on the line and really put yourself out there in total reliance on God to provide. Such stories are always welcome.
However, for once, I have a good reason. Two actually: Denver and Poncho.
Last night was a neverending revolving door of boys out of bed. I thought of giving a play-by-play of the night here, but realized that that would not be as interesting to you as it was mind-boggling to me. Suffice it to say that from about midnight until nearly 5am, one of the other of the boys or some combination thereof was up and about, complaining about being frightened of their room, or about mysterious ailments, or just chatting about life. Every time one of them was down, the other would pop up, and every time I thought I'd have a few moments to do something, it was stripped away. I ended up laying down (but not sleeping, mind you) in our bed, on both couches, and on the large chair in the boys' room at various points. Joanna, angel that she is, let me catch some sleep this morning before church. It was a long, long night that I'd not like to repeat any time soon, the kind of night that makes you long for a stasis chamber in which to stash the little darlings, or at least kindles the desire to give them just a little bit of scotch so they'll sleep. I don't have the former and couldn't bring myself to the latter, so it was lots of talking quietly and commands to lie down with eyes closed for me.
I've got to get to my grading (only two weeks to the end, so not too much of that left for the moment). However, I did want to clairfy a few things from my last post, specifically the portion related to boldly going forth in faith.
First, an apology for the mixed metaphor: it should have been something about throwing myself on God's grace, or putting myself in God's hands. The way it was phrased sounded a bit like I would be making myself a football on a long Hail Mary pass (there's an allusion for you) and hoping He wouldn't punt me.
But moreso than that literary faux pas, I wanted to address the idea contained therein. Many of you know I've been whining for ages about wanting to move the northwest (among the many things I whine about with some consistency), and it's been suggested by those already there (Beth just the latest among them) that I should just move the family up there, damn the torpedoes, and see what turns up. After all, it worked for the Foxes and has lead to great growth for others. The comments are always made in the tone of those who think that I'm just scared to trust God that much.
I can't deny there's always some fear in putting oneself out for God's use and fully trusting Him to provide in a real, moment-by-moment sense. Well, there is some fear for me, anyway, and I suspect for the majority of folks. But fear is no reason not to do something. Honestly, that's not the major component of my not already having packed up and made the journey. Rather, it's that I don't feel like He's called me to do so yet. I'm in a strange transisitional place at the moment, and I'm not certain where He's going to end up putting me or allowing me to go. I still very much see myself ending up in the northwest, but the path there is not necessarily straightforward. I've got irons in the fire here, irons He Himself seemed to have moved me to put in that fire, and I'd like to see how they pan out.
And to those who are concerned that I might be stalling, I appreciate that concern and encourage you to keep poking me about it, because I am prone to inertia. But I will point out that I already have struck out in faith with no other support: that was what Toronto was all about. After being accepted to the University of Toronto, my incredibly supportive wife and I sold most of our things, packed a moving van with what was left, and headed for Canada. We had no place to live, no jobs, and knew no one there. We lived in cheap motels for a week, then rented a basement apartment with 5 foot ceilings from a drunken former ambassador from Barbados. We scraped by on student loans, gifts from my parents, and Joanna's grueling job in an underground mall. It was an incredible year, full of joys and difficulties (especially for a couple who hadn't been married even a year yet), and we had to literally rely on God to provide every day. Many a night was spent in tearful prayer, and many a day was begun with tremendous blessing.
But I knew I felt called to that. Though it was, I am convinced, a portion of the path we were meant to walk, we're also still paying it off: the credit counseling we've been in the past few years is an effort to eradicate the debt we built up during that time. We learned a lot and grew a lot and I'm more than willing to put myself on the line again (as Joanna is also, though more hesitantly, and I've got kiddos to think about these days as well), but not until I feel that it's time. My little wish is to move right now, to start a new life right this minute, but that's always my little wish for everything, and I think I've got some more work to do here at the moment. Maybe even within six months or a year that will change, but I'm going to concentrate on the lessons I have to learn in this place.
Now, that said, if you hear about some wonderful job opportunity up north, don't hesitate to share it--you may be the engine that gets this ship moving. I'm all for God flinging open the doors and shining the light on the path. And if I feel that it's time to head out, we'll do so even if no opportunity is immediately evident. I trust He will let me know when the time is right. I dream of my little community every day, and I trust that if it is His will, it will happen.
I guess this post, as most of them are, was much more for my own understanding than it was useful for any of you. One of my textbooks contains the quote, "How can I know what I think until I write it down?" As a bad teacher, I can't remember who said it, but it's certainly true for me. But I'm more than open to comments from the usual crew or any newcomers who may be lurking out there, and I'd love to hear stories of times when you have put your faith on the line and really put yourself out there in total reliance on God to provide. Such stories are always welcome.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
How Did We Get Here?
Or, more precisely, how did I get here?
I was doing so well, you know? Posts every day, witty banter filling up my blog. Then I took a little break for one day. And another. Then some two- and three-day breaks.
Now it seems I'm posting a couple of times a week when the urge strikes me.
Pleh.
Not that this is the Bad Old Days when I posted once every three months, but I've still fallen down on the job. Not good.
So I'm going to get back on track here. A post a day, even if it's short and pointless, or just shorter and more pointless than usual. Like this entry, for instance.
We had a fine Thanksgiving over at my parents'; a very small affair it was, too, with just us, my folks, and my sister. Then today it was down to the other folks' place for a "leftover" Thanksgiving, which turned out to be larger than the original item. There were some 13 people over there and six of them children.
It's been busy but fun; today was our fourth visit to another house in three days, though, and it's beginning to wear on the boys. They're crying more easily, getting out of sorts, and generally seem tired. So tomorrow we're staying here, and the main job shall be catching up on the housework that hasn't gotten done for the past three days. You'd be amazed how much that can be with three kids (if you don't have at least that many, that is).
If I survive, I'll be back in here tomorrow--or, hopefully, later today.
ps--If you know Chris Skaggs, you can check out his Thanksgiving thoughts over at his blog, The M. I've got to say that his description of his little "family" up there appeals so strongly to me that my head almost came off in reading that. Who wants to sign up to throw ourselves into God's hands in the northwest with me? Eh? What do you say?
I was doing so well, you know? Posts every day, witty banter filling up my blog. Then I took a little break for one day. And another. Then some two- and three-day breaks.
Now it seems I'm posting a couple of times a week when the urge strikes me.
Pleh.
Not that this is the Bad Old Days when I posted once every three months, but I've still fallen down on the job. Not good.
So I'm going to get back on track here. A post a day, even if it's short and pointless, or just shorter and more pointless than usual. Like this entry, for instance.
We had a fine Thanksgiving over at my parents'; a very small affair it was, too, with just us, my folks, and my sister. Then today it was down to the other folks' place for a "leftover" Thanksgiving, which turned out to be larger than the original item. There were some 13 people over there and six of them children.
It's been busy but fun; today was our fourth visit to another house in three days, though, and it's beginning to wear on the boys. They're crying more easily, getting out of sorts, and generally seem tired. So tomorrow we're staying here, and the main job shall be catching up on the housework that hasn't gotten done for the past three days. You'd be amazed how much that can be with three kids (if you don't have at least that many, that is).
If I survive, I'll be back in here tomorrow--or, hopefully, later today.
ps--If you know Chris Skaggs, you can check out his Thanksgiving thoughts over at his blog, The M. I've got to say that his description of his little "family" up there appeals so strongly to me that my head almost came off in reading that. Who wants to sign up to throw ourselves into God's hands in the northwest with me? Eh? What do you say?
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
My One-Hundred-and-Oneth Post
Huh. Who'd have thunk it? I hadn't realized I'd been approaching this number until Marilyn pointed out her 101st entry over at Well-Driven Nails. It's a nice number, but a bit humbling to think that all this frenzy of posting the last few months has only just brought me in line with everyone else; I thought I'd be leading the pack by now. Had I been posting every day, I would be.
There's a slap upside the head.
Wouldn't be the first one today, either. A student's brazen dumbness caused me actual injury today.
It's a scene oft-repeated in my classroom. I was discussing the schedule for the last few weeks of the semester, including all the due dates of major assignments. I do this to reinforce just how soon some of those are coming due. I also repeated, as I have for the past couple of weeks, that our final in the course takes place on December 12. I make a point of repeating this because the final is at a different time than the normal class meeting. This is printed in the schedule, but we can't expect something as wild as a student actually reading the schedule; it's not an assigned exercise, and it's not tested.
At any rate, knowing that they may need to arrange transportation, babysitting, getting time off from work, etc. to come in earlier than usual, I reiterate pretty regularly the time and date of the final. It was written on the board in large letters, and I talked about it for a good seven minutes. I used hand puppets to pantomime a student coming in early. Okay, that's not true, but I did everything short of this.
You can see where this is going, can't you?
About ten minutes after I had discussed this and had moved on to our latest essay, a student at the back raised her hand. When called upon, she asked, "So, is, like, our final on that day in the morning?"
To make the point that she had caused me great misery and despair, I turned around and rammed my head against the whiteboard. Normally this is a great trick. I have a very hard head to start with (I used to scare my mother by banging my forehead against metal railings. This explains a lot, doesn't it?), and it makes a terrific noise, especially when the whiteboard is not securely fastened to the wall, as most of them are not. It has tremendous shock value and makes everyone laugh.
I had forgotten, however, that these rooms had recently been renovated and refitted to make them earthquake-proof. This whiteboard, backed by a solid cement wall, did not budge.
Thunk. Ouch.
It still worked--my exasperation was sufficiently conveyed and the class laughed (rightly) at the very absurdity of asking the question. But it was a bit of a shock for me.
Lest you think this is an isolated incident, I assure you it is not (the lack of basic comprehension and retention, not my injuring myself--though this is common enough). When I mentioned that the students' response journals to Animal Farm were due next week, I could see a look of blank confusion pass across several faces, and when given the opportunity to get a copy of the prompt for the assignment, several students came up to take one. Mind you, this is an assignment we've been working on for at least two weeks, which I have mentioned at every class meeting during those two weeks. I still have students who, when I mention the Assessment Standards (the set of criteria by which I grade their essays, for which I have a handout and about which I speak several times for every single essay) have no idea what I'm talking about.
It's a strange world students live in, one in which their mere presence in the classroom and consumption of oxygen that could be more productively used elsewhere is somehow sufficient to get them a passing grade. What are they doing for those four hours a week when they're not listening to me? Most of them are looking at me for the duration, not scribbling away on their magnum opi; I foolishly tend to assume they're engaged in listening during that time. Maybe they're creating worlds within worlds inside their minds, or playing out the important political discussions of the day in intricate detail--though I tend to lean toward the explanation that they are part of a growing cult of Active Non-Listeners, a mental discipline devoted to protesting the status quo by refusing to engage the brain and purposefully barring any new information from penetrating the gray matter, probably spawned by one of my former students after I forced him to confront the idea of crimestop from 1984 in my 101 course. Now he's training legions to enter my classes and put up psychic barriers to being educated.
I like that explanation because it keeps things centered on me, right where they should be.
There's a slap upside the head.
Wouldn't be the first one today, either. A student's brazen dumbness caused me actual injury today.
It's a scene oft-repeated in my classroom. I was discussing the schedule for the last few weeks of the semester, including all the due dates of major assignments. I do this to reinforce just how soon some of those are coming due. I also repeated, as I have for the past couple of weeks, that our final in the course takes place on December 12. I make a point of repeating this because the final is at a different time than the normal class meeting. This is printed in the schedule, but we can't expect something as wild as a student actually reading the schedule; it's not an assigned exercise, and it's not tested.
At any rate, knowing that they may need to arrange transportation, babysitting, getting time off from work, etc. to come in earlier than usual, I reiterate pretty regularly the time and date of the final. It was written on the board in large letters, and I talked about it for a good seven minutes. I used hand puppets to pantomime a student coming in early. Okay, that's not true, but I did everything short of this.
You can see where this is going, can't you?
About ten minutes after I had discussed this and had moved on to our latest essay, a student at the back raised her hand. When called upon, she asked, "So, is, like, our final on that day in the morning?"
To make the point that she had caused me great misery and despair, I turned around and rammed my head against the whiteboard. Normally this is a great trick. I have a very hard head to start with (I used to scare my mother by banging my forehead against metal railings. This explains a lot, doesn't it?), and it makes a terrific noise, especially when the whiteboard is not securely fastened to the wall, as most of them are not. It has tremendous shock value and makes everyone laugh.
I had forgotten, however, that these rooms had recently been renovated and refitted to make them earthquake-proof. This whiteboard, backed by a solid cement wall, did not budge.
Thunk. Ouch.
It still worked--my exasperation was sufficiently conveyed and the class laughed (rightly) at the very absurdity of asking the question. But it was a bit of a shock for me.
Lest you think this is an isolated incident, I assure you it is not (the lack of basic comprehension and retention, not my injuring myself--though this is common enough). When I mentioned that the students' response journals to Animal Farm were due next week, I could see a look of blank confusion pass across several faces, and when given the opportunity to get a copy of the prompt for the assignment, several students came up to take one. Mind you, this is an assignment we've been working on for at least two weeks, which I have mentioned at every class meeting during those two weeks. I still have students who, when I mention the Assessment Standards (the set of criteria by which I grade their essays, for which I have a handout and about which I speak several times for every single essay) have no idea what I'm talking about.
It's a strange world students live in, one in which their mere presence in the classroom and consumption of oxygen that could be more productively used elsewhere is somehow sufficient to get them a passing grade. What are they doing for those four hours a week when they're not listening to me? Most of them are looking at me for the duration, not scribbling away on their magnum opi; I foolishly tend to assume they're engaged in listening during that time. Maybe they're creating worlds within worlds inside their minds, or playing out the important political discussions of the day in intricate detail--though I tend to lean toward the explanation that they are part of a growing cult of Active Non-Listeners, a mental discipline devoted to protesting the status quo by refusing to engage the brain and purposefully barring any new information from penetrating the gray matter, probably spawned by one of my former students after I forced him to confront the idea of crimestop from 1984 in my 101 course. Now he's training legions to enter my classes and put up psychic barriers to being educated.
I like that explanation because it keeps things centered on me, right where they should be.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Speaking of Lies...
I have tried fairly consistently to always tell the boys the truth in their short lives. It just seems like good policy. Sure, sometimes I don't elaborate on the truth, or give them a simplified version of a complex answer that wouldn't interest them at this point anyway, but I make a conscious effort (as does Joanna) not to fabricate answers simply to placate them. Sure, it would be easier to say, "Wolves outside will devour you if you go out without permission," rather than, "Going outside is fine with Mommy and Daddy, but if you go out by yourself you might get hurt or lost, so you always need to make sure that we are with you," and perhaps for the moment it might even prove more effective to warn of dire vengenace to be wreaked by the beasts that lurk in the darkness between the trees, but in the end I think it's good practice to keep things on the level.
This despite how darn fun it is to lie to kids. I can hardly say why this is so--why is it so much more amusing to lie to someone who has no real chance of disbelieving? It's not like you have to be some master storyteller to get a kid to believe just about anything. I will always remember fondly Devin convincing my cousin that pirates used to ply the waters of our tiny mountain lake, stealing vast treasures of gold and diamonds from a handful of fishermen in rowboats. Not that it's malicious, but there is a definite tug-of-war in me between my delight in a child's acceptance and the certain knowledge that purposefully attempting to make a child believe something that isn't true is A Bad Thing.
I occasionally make my students read an essay on this phenomenon. It points out that when kids catch adults in a lie, it changes their fundamental belief in things. If Mommy can tell them that she can't afford to buy them a toy, then turns around and buys something for herself an hour later, the poor kid's left with little to work with except that Mommy is hurtful and a big fibber. It also suggests to the child that lying is acceptable when it gets you out of difficulty--something I manifestly do not need the boys picking up any sooner than they already are (Nathaniel already tells us routinely now that either he is "too scared" to do his chores or that his stomach hurts the second we ask him to do something).
[Whoops--between that paragraph and the next, I had to run out and drive away some raccoons from the trash. Of course, they tipped over the can that had the boxload of packing peanuts in it...]
Why bring this up? Because Christmas is coming. And this entails telling the boys what may involve the largest lie ever shared among humans outside certain cults: Santa Claus. Telling stories about and seeing the boys excited about Santa is terrific. Such stories were a large part of my childhood, and so much a part of shared cultural experience, that it would seem nearly abusive to try to excise the old fellow from the holiday. Surely, we don't put the emphasis on him when it comes to the meaning of the day (at this tender age, the boys are only aware that Christmas is "Jesus' birthday"), but he's pervasive in the decorations, in the talk of the time, in the programs and commercials they're exposed to. Heck, in my family I still get gifts from Santa every year. This year, one of my goals is to write letters to the boys from Santa, as I occasionally got as a child (much of my inspiration also comes from those letters written by J.R.R. Tolkien to his children, published these days as Letters from Father Christmas--why doesn't our New World version of St. Nick get a dignified moniker like "Father Christmas," anyway?).
I certainly don't hold with the KJV Onlyists who would insist that any reference to Santa is the work of the devil; I've even heard it suggested that when children learn that Santa is not real, they then might question whether God is as well, since He's another person we talk about a lot but never see. I don't intend to insist to the boys that Santa is a real person; we already talk about him as a "fun story," and hopefully they'll see through our actions, words, and prayers that our belief in Christ is genuine while our discussion of Santa is amusing entertainment. But still, a guy kind of wonders.
It was Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, of course, who put this into perspective for me--and a great deal else having to do with fiction, actually. It occurred to me that this bears much relevance to my desire to write fantasy fiction as a Christian, as well as the occasional Christian flap over Harry Potter and the like. As ever, my two literary heros have also not failed me on the field of literary criticism. Tolkien's excellent essay "On Fairy-Stories" has much to say on the matter; in discussing our fears that children will really "believe" in fantasy, he says of his own childhood, "Fairy-stories were not primarily concerned with possibility, but with desirability," and later, "I never imagined that the dragon was of the same order as the horse."
Lewis, in his An Experiment in Criticism, sums it up very neatly:
[Dang--between that paragraph and this next one, I've spent some half an hour getting the boys back to bed; Nathaniel was roused by a bad dream and Caleb followed, out of curiosity, I suppose. One day I'll have to relate to you the fantastic tales they can come up with in the middle of the night...]
I suppose there would be real trouble if we constantly insisted that Santa was a real, living, breathing being--but we no more do that than we admonish them to believe in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, or Frosty the Snowman, or Bob the Builder and Dora the Explorer for that matter. (We may be drawing a fine line by taking the boys out to see the "real" Thomas the Tank Engine, but even at this point they seem to make a distinction between the Thomas they see on television who talks and gets in quarrels and has occasional facial expressions, and the train they rode on last week.)
We already play games that are clearly consensual fantasy. When you steal one of my son's noses, they immediately demand that you put it back. If you claim to be putting it on your own face, they will come and snatch it away from you again and put it in its proper place on their own head. If you pretend to eat their fingers, they will insist you "spit my pieces back out." And they constantly ask questions of inanimate objects, pets, and other unspeaking subjects (like their sister), which I always answer in the voice of the object. We've had long conversations in such a fashion (the most tedious being the three-hour dialogue with "Mammoth Mountain" as we drove there for our vacation this summer; you try talking like a mountain for that long...). Yet in all of this, though they boys may be serious, there's never a moment when it wasn't clear they were playing at it as well. They never scream at the thought of having no nose, or cry out in pain for a bitten-off finger--and they never question for a moment why I am doing all the talking for the passing firetruck, or their baby sister, or the moon...
This has been a long and rambling post (blame the interruptions, the hour, and my confused thoughts); I'll leave off with another Tolkien quote:
This despite how darn fun it is to lie to kids. I can hardly say why this is so--why is it so much more amusing to lie to someone who has no real chance of disbelieving? It's not like you have to be some master storyteller to get a kid to believe just about anything. I will always remember fondly Devin convincing my cousin that pirates used to ply the waters of our tiny mountain lake, stealing vast treasures of gold and diamonds from a handful of fishermen in rowboats. Not that it's malicious, but there is a definite tug-of-war in me between my delight in a child's acceptance and the certain knowledge that purposefully attempting to make a child believe something that isn't true is A Bad Thing.
I occasionally make my students read an essay on this phenomenon. It points out that when kids catch adults in a lie, it changes their fundamental belief in things. If Mommy can tell them that she can't afford to buy them a toy, then turns around and buys something for herself an hour later, the poor kid's left with little to work with except that Mommy is hurtful and a big fibber. It also suggests to the child that lying is acceptable when it gets you out of difficulty--something I manifestly do not need the boys picking up any sooner than they already are (Nathaniel already tells us routinely now that either he is "too scared" to do his chores or that his stomach hurts the second we ask him to do something).
[Whoops--between that paragraph and the next, I had to run out and drive away some raccoons from the trash. Of course, they tipped over the can that had the boxload of packing peanuts in it...]
Why bring this up? Because Christmas is coming. And this entails telling the boys what may involve the largest lie ever shared among humans outside certain cults: Santa Claus. Telling stories about and seeing the boys excited about Santa is terrific. Such stories were a large part of my childhood, and so much a part of shared cultural experience, that it would seem nearly abusive to try to excise the old fellow from the holiday. Surely, we don't put the emphasis on him when it comes to the meaning of the day (at this tender age, the boys are only aware that Christmas is "Jesus' birthday"), but he's pervasive in the decorations, in the talk of the time, in the programs and commercials they're exposed to. Heck, in my family I still get gifts from Santa every year. This year, one of my goals is to write letters to the boys from Santa, as I occasionally got as a child (much of my inspiration also comes from those letters written by J.R.R. Tolkien to his children, published these days as Letters from Father Christmas--why doesn't our New World version of St. Nick get a dignified moniker like "Father Christmas," anyway?).
I certainly don't hold with the KJV Onlyists who would insist that any reference to Santa is the work of the devil; I've even heard it suggested that when children learn that Santa is not real, they then might question whether God is as well, since He's another person we talk about a lot but never see. I don't intend to insist to the boys that Santa is a real person; we already talk about him as a "fun story," and hopefully they'll see through our actions, words, and prayers that our belief in Christ is genuine while our discussion of Santa is amusing entertainment. But still, a guy kind of wonders.
It was Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, of course, who put this into perspective for me--and a great deal else having to do with fiction, actually. It occurred to me that this bears much relevance to my desire to write fantasy fiction as a Christian, as well as the occasional Christian flap over Harry Potter and the like. As ever, my two literary heros have also not failed me on the field of literary criticism. Tolkien's excellent essay "On Fairy-Stories" has much to say on the matter; in discussing our fears that children will really "believe" in fantasy, he says of his own childhood, "Fairy-stories were not primarily concerned with possibility, but with desirability," and later, "I never imagined that the dragon was of the same order as the horse."
Lewis, in his An Experiment in Criticism, sums it up very neatly:
"Admitted fantasy is precisely the kind of literature which never deceives at all. Children are not deceived by fairy-tales; they are often and gravely deceived by school stories. Adults are not deceived by science-fiction; they can be deceived by the stories in women's magazines."
[Dang--between that paragraph and this next one, I've spent some half an hour getting the boys back to bed; Nathaniel was roused by a bad dream and Caleb followed, out of curiosity, I suppose. One day I'll have to relate to you the fantastic tales they can come up with in the middle of the night...]
I suppose there would be real trouble if we constantly insisted that Santa was a real, living, breathing being--but we no more do that than we admonish them to believe in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, or Frosty the Snowman, or Bob the Builder and Dora the Explorer for that matter. (We may be drawing a fine line by taking the boys out to see the "real" Thomas the Tank Engine, but even at this point they seem to make a distinction between the Thomas they see on television who talks and gets in quarrels and has occasional facial expressions, and the train they rode on last week.)
We already play games that are clearly consensual fantasy. When you steal one of my son's noses, they immediately demand that you put it back. If you claim to be putting it on your own face, they will come and snatch it away from you again and put it in its proper place on their own head. If you pretend to eat their fingers, they will insist you "spit my pieces back out." And they constantly ask questions of inanimate objects, pets, and other unspeaking subjects (like their sister), which I always answer in the voice of the object. We've had long conversations in such a fashion (the most tedious being the three-hour dialogue with "Mammoth Mountain" as we drove there for our vacation this summer; you try talking like a mountain for that long...). Yet in all of this, though they boys may be serious, there's never a moment when it wasn't clear they were playing at it as well. They never scream at the thought of having no nose, or cry out in pain for a bitten-off finger--and they never question for a moment why I am doing all the talking for the passing firetruck, or their baby sister, or the moon...
This has been a long and rambling post (blame the interruptions, the hour, and my confused thoughts); I'll leave off with another Tolkien quote:
"'"Is it true?" is the great question children ask,' [Andrew] Lang [compiler of fairy tales] said. They do ask that question, I know; and it is not one to be rashly or idly answered. But that question is hardly ever evidence of 'unblunted belief,' or even of the desire for it. Most often it proceeds from the child's desire to know which kind of literature he is faced with. Children's knowledge of the world is often so small that they cannot judge, off-hand and without help, between the fantastic, the strange (that is rare or remote facts), the nonsensical, and the merely "grown-up" (that is ordinary things of their parents' world, much of which still remains unexplored). But they recognize the different classes, and may like all of them at times. Of course the borders between them are often fluctuating or confused; but that is not only true for children."
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Secrets and Lies
I was about to shut down the computer when I remembered I hadn't posted here yet.
I've been busy working on yet another secret project. I'm excited about this one and I only hope I can do it justice before it's seen by the world. It's not a commercial venture and it's not a surprise murder party, but that's all I'll say. You'll just have to wait to find out what it is--it'll be revealed before the end of the year. Most of the readers here will probably end up seeing it in some form, but for now you'll simply have to wonder. Is it a miraculous steam-powered device that could save the average housewife hours of housework every day? Is it a revolutionary formula that can transform ennui into bitter hatred? Is it a mathematical equation that proves that squirrels are descended from tractor belts? Is it a dreadful engine that can subvert the emotions of my enemies?
Probably not. But you never know.
In other news, tomorrow we take both boys to the dentist, a prospect I do not relish. Nathaniel will get checked out for the first time; Caleb will have to get two cavities filled. I don't know how they handle that with kids, but if it's anything like the way they handle it with adults, I'm terrified of what's going to happen. I'm rather hoping there's some simpler way to deal with such things in baby teeth; after all, the things only have to last another year or two anyway. We'll also have to see if he keeps the front tooth that started this whole chain of events--it's still loose and slightly discolored, but we have our hopes it's just bruised. (Yes, I know the idea of a "bruised tooth" sounds insane, but something similar happened to the child of some friends, and that's what the dentist told them. The discoloration cleared up on its own and the tooth re-rooted, essentially. It's a crazy world.)
If we survive that, it looks like relatively smooth sailing until Thanksgiving. Watch this space for further fascinating maxillofacial updates.
I've been busy working on yet another secret project. I'm excited about this one and I only hope I can do it justice before it's seen by the world. It's not a commercial venture and it's not a surprise murder party, but that's all I'll say. You'll just have to wait to find out what it is--it'll be revealed before the end of the year. Most of the readers here will probably end up seeing it in some form, but for now you'll simply have to wonder. Is it a miraculous steam-powered device that could save the average housewife hours of housework every day? Is it a revolutionary formula that can transform ennui into bitter hatred? Is it a mathematical equation that proves that squirrels are descended from tractor belts? Is it a dreadful engine that can subvert the emotions of my enemies?
Probably not. But you never know.
In other news, tomorrow we take both boys to the dentist, a prospect I do not relish. Nathaniel will get checked out for the first time; Caleb will have to get two cavities filled. I don't know how they handle that with kids, but if it's anything like the way they handle it with adults, I'm terrified of what's going to happen. I'm rather hoping there's some simpler way to deal with such things in baby teeth; after all, the things only have to last another year or two anyway. We'll also have to see if he keeps the front tooth that started this whole chain of events--it's still loose and slightly discolored, but we have our hopes it's just bruised. (Yes, I know the idea of a "bruised tooth" sounds insane, but something similar happened to the child of some friends, and that's what the dentist told them. The discoloration cleared up on its own and the tooth re-rooted, essentially. It's a crazy world.)
If we survive that, it looks like relatively smooth sailing until Thanksgiving. Watch this space for further fascinating maxillofacial updates.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Because Slater Put It Up on His Site...
Here's the latest amusing quiz to come my way. What Middle Earth race would I belong to?
To which race of Middle Earth do you belong?
brought to you by Quizilla
I don't know how accurate this is, but I love being called both "dignified" and "tragic." This was a hard quiz--I mean, I had to put down that "nature" was the greatest art, because human art is an attempt to capture the beauty of nature in many ways--God's art would seem to win the prize in any contest I can think of. But if we're just talking human arts, then "poetry" would have won out.
Darn innacurate quizzes. But if I had to plant myself among any Middle Earth peoples, these would probably be they. I'm naturally pretty Hobbit-y, and if I were born that way I'm sure I'd get along, but I'd feel like Bilbo, always wanting more than my little hick lager-swillling neighbors were interested in. If I had the choice, I'd go live in Rivendell with a bunch of poncy immortal elves to look down on me forever, but I would probably just ruin things there. At least in Minas Tirith most things are already ruined.
To which race of Middle Earth do you belong?
brought to you by Quizilla
I don't know how accurate this is, but I love being called both "dignified" and "tragic." This was a hard quiz--I mean, I had to put down that "nature" was the greatest art, because human art is an attempt to capture the beauty of nature in many ways--God's art would seem to win the prize in any contest I can think of. But if we're just talking human arts, then "poetry" would have won out.
Darn innacurate quizzes. But if I had to plant myself among any Middle Earth peoples, these would probably be they. I'm naturally pretty Hobbit-y, and if I were born that way I'm sure I'd get along, but I'd feel like Bilbo, always wanting more than my little hick lager-swillling neighbors were interested in. If I had the choice, I'd go live in Rivendell with a bunch of poncy immortal elves to look down on me forever, but I would probably just ruin things there. At least in Minas Tirith most things are already ruined.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
The Real Train Story
So of course, none of the awful things outlined in my last post actually happened.
I was gone for three days due to baby illness. Joanna was feeling poorly and the baby was developing the sniffles herself, which kept her up all night. Friday and Saturday nights were not fun, believe me, with little snatches of sleep every hour or so. Sunday was spent recuperating.
But Friday on the Day Out with Thomas proved to be quite fun for the most part. It took place down in Perris, at the Orange Empire Railway Museum, which is quite cool. I have always been a train fan anyway. The museum, as outlined on that site, is home to a number of old trains, including an extensive collection of old Los Angeles streetcars and a host of other engines and cars. The place is manned by friendly old folks (some of whom seem to have ridden on the old cars while in service) and has a kind of rustic charm.
We arrived in time to get inside and get in line for Thomas (they actually ship a full-size Thomas locomotive to various sites around the country for this--I'm not sure if it's simply a molding that goes over an existing train or [as seemed to be the case] an engine actually built as Thomas; you can get details about his travels here). Thomas actually broke down just before we boarded, causing much consternation among the waiting crowds; thankfully, we were just next to Thomas himself and got to spend the time chatting with him. Eventually he was repaired and we took a short ride out into the surrounding land--enough to see the new massive housing developments so popular out this way these days.
Afterwards we rode the "caboose train," made up entirely of... well, cabooses. They're vintage cars from the '30s and '40s and very nifty indeed. None of the tracks goes very far, but it was great to poke around in old cupboards and desks. I had no idea that the caboose was the "home away from home" for the railroad employees--it served as an observation post to keep an eye on the rest of the train (hence the little cupola on top) and contained a bed, a desk for paperwork, a wood stove, and other amenities. Really, if I could get my hands on one, it would make an absolutely perfect writing cabin...
We spent most of the rest of the day at the "Imagination Station," the most brilliant marketing invention known to man. It was a large tent full of Thomas toys that kids could play with--and they did, in hordes. It was a sprawling chaos of 10,000 children, approximately 20% of which were crying at any one time and 116% of which were making other sorts of loud noises. If one were so inclined, they could walk over to the gift shop, which was lined endlessly with Thomas-related items (the Thomas lantern, Thomas bed set, Thomas medical bag, Thomas electron microscope, Thomas treppanning kit, etc.) and then attempt to purchase something. Can you recall the lines for Star Tours at Disneyland when it first opened? That's what the line for the cash registers was like. It was phenomenal.
So despite some fierce tears at being torn away from the Imagination Station, the boys had a fine time (they've asked to ride Thomas again every day since) and it was a good day all around. Aunt Kathie scored some big points with this particular birthday present (it was her treat, you see).
I was gone for three days due to baby illness. Joanna was feeling poorly and the baby was developing the sniffles herself, which kept her up all night. Friday and Saturday nights were not fun, believe me, with little snatches of sleep every hour or so. Sunday was spent recuperating.
But Friday on the Day Out with Thomas proved to be quite fun for the most part. It took place down in Perris, at the Orange Empire Railway Museum, which is quite cool. I have always been a train fan anyway. The museum, as outlined on that site, is home to a number of old trains, including an extensive collection of old Los Angeles streetcars and a host of other engines and cars. The place is manned by friendly old folks (some of whom seem to have ridden on the old cars while in service) and has a kind of rustic charm.
We arrived in time to get inside and get in line for Thomas (they actually ship a full-size Thomas locomotive to various sites around the country for this--I'm not sure if it's simply a molding that goes over an existing train or [as seemed to be the case] an engine actually built as Thomas; you can get details about his travels here). Thomas actually broke down just before we boarded, causing much consternation among the waiting crowds; thankfully, we were just next to Thomas himself and got to spend the time chatting with him. Eventually he was repaired and we took a short ride out into the surrounding land--enough to see the new massive housing developments so popular out this way these days.
Afterwards we rode the "caboose train," made up entirely of... well, cabooses. They're vintage cars from the '30s and '40s and very nifty indeed. None of the tracks goes very far, but it was great to poke around in old cupboards and desks. I had no idea that the caboose was the "home away from home" for the railroad employees--it served as an observation post to keep an eye on the rest of the train (hence the little cupola on top) and contained a bed, a desk for paperwork, a wood stove, and other amenities. Really, if I could get my hands on one, it would make an absolutely perfect writing cabin...
We spent most of the rest of the day at the "Imagination Station," the most brilliant marketing invention known to man. It was a large tent full of Thomas toys that kids could play with--and they did, in hordes. It was a sprawling chaos of 10,000 children, approximately 20% of which were crying at any one time and 116% of which were making other sorts of loud noises. If one were so inclined, they could walk over to the gift shop, which was lined endlessly with Thomas-related items (the Thomas lantern, Thomas bed set, Thomas medical bag, Thomas electron microscope, Thomas treppanning kit, etc.) and then attempt to purchase something. Can you recall the lines for Star Tours at Disneyland when it first opened? That's what the line for the cash registers was like. It was phenomenal.
So despite some fierce tears at being torn away from the Imagination Station, the boys had a fine time (they've asked to ride Thomas again every day since) and it was a good day all around. Aunt Kathie scored some big points with this particular birthday present (it was her treat, you see).
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
News Item
3 Dead, 11 Injured in Railway Accident at Cookie Factory
Faulty Safety Equipment, Naughty Diesel Engine to Blame
"I am very disappointed in those silly engines," says head of railroad
ISLAND OF SODOR -- Three people were killed and another 11 injured when a blue steam engine owned by the Sodor Railway Company crashed into the Sunny Times Cookie Factory Friday afternoon.
"It was horrible," lamented factory owner Nigel Trumpington. "Everything was running smoothly, and suddenly a great bloody train came crashing through the south wall. The structural supports gave way and the ceiling collapsed, sending burning cookie oil splashing down on the workers... Oh, God, it was horrible."
The trouble apparently began that afternoon, when the blue steam engine, whom authorities have tentatively identified as "Thomas," began arguing with a diesel engine about which type of train was superior.
"Diesel is always being very bossy," Thomas reportedly complained just after the accident. "He thinks he's the best engine ever. I told him we steam engines could beat him any day!"
Apparently, a race between the two engines ensued. Though Thomas reportedly had the lead, as he came around the curve at the head of the so-called "Gordon's Hill," he was accidentally shunted onto the siding leading to the cookie factory loading dock.
"Those engines simply must learn not to be so quarrelsome," stated Sir Topham Hatt, director of the Sodor Railway Company as he picked his way through the smoking rubble. "I will certainly speak sternly to them again back at the yard."
"Tut tut," he added.
Observers report that the collision between train and factory was spectacular. "There was a sound like a bomb going off," said Farmer McCole, a local farmer who witnessed the accident. "Men were stumbling through the wreckage, screaming, or rolling on the ground trying to put out the grease fires. I heard someone shrieking, 'I can't feel my legs! I can't feel my legs!' and another crying out to a god who did not answer to put him out of his misery."
All the injured were transported by railcar (a small wooden tram called Toby) to the Sodor Community Hospital. Most were treated for severe burns and internal injuries. Six of the injured remain in critical condition. Later, the tram engine broke down and had to be pushed to its destination.
The steam engine reportedly suffered a dinged buffer and a comical coating of cookie flour, making him feel extremely embarrassed.
"We'll have to go back to the roundhouse and get you cleaned up," said his conductor. Thomas then was sheepishly towed from the ruins by a large green engine wearing a smug expression.
National Transportation Safety Board spokesman James Worth said that investigation is ongoing. "Normally, we'd shut down the railroad immediately and demand a full investigation," Worth said. "With this many accidents on his company's record, Hatt would be put away for a long time. However, as the only other trasportation options on the island are Sir Hatt's private helicopter and a small red bus called Bertie who is prone to breaking down, we have little choice but to allow operations to continue."
The NTSB will most likely issue another warning to the Sodor Railway Company, the forty-third such warning this year.
Harry Ironbottom, a factory worker, had tears running down his soot-blackened face as he sat next to the accident site. "It was 'orrible," he moaned as paramedics splinted a compound fracture of his leg. "My mate Bert was screaming, 'I'm burning alive!' but I couldn't get to him through all the smoke and bricks..." Ironbottom broke into sobbing and could not continue.
"That diesel engine will be reprimanded," said Sir Hatt in response. "And we will certainly need to discuss the importance of getting along. I'm quite cross."
Officials report that this is the worst accident to befall the Sodor Railway since last Thursday's dual incidents in which a red engine, believing himself incapable of being damaged, drove along a crumbling trestle and toppled into an open mine shaft, killing two. A few hours later, two engines having a quarrel rammed into a string of cars filled with tar, putting a halt to rail traffic for several hours and causing the suffocation death of a bystander.
Faulty Safety Equipment, Naughty Diesel Engine to Blame
"I am very disappointed in those silly engines," says head of railroad
ISLAND OF SODOR -- Three people were killed and another 11 injured when a blue steam engine owned by the Sodor Railway Company crashed into the Sunny Times Cookie Factory Friday afternoon.
"It was horrible," lamented factory owner Nigel Trumpington. "Everything was running smoothly, and suddenly a great bloody train came crashing through the south wall. The structural supports gave way and the ceiling collapsed, sending burning cookie oil splashing down on the workers... Oh, God, it was horrible."
The trouble apparently began that afternoon, when the blue steam engine, whom authorities have tentatively identified as "Thomas," began arguing with a diesel engine about which type of train was superior.
"Diesel is always being very bossy," Thomas reportedly complained just after the accident. "He thinks he's the best engine ever. I told him we steam engines could beat him any day!"
Apparently, a race between the two engines ensued. Though Thomas reportedly had the lead, as he came around the curve at the head of the so-called "Gordon's Hill," he was accidentally shunted onto the siding leading to the cookie factory loading dock.
"Those engines simply must learn not to be so quarrelsome," stated Sir Topham Hatt, director of the Sodor Railway Company as he picked his way through the smoking rubble. "I will certainly speak sternly to them again back at the yard."
"Tut tut," he added.
Observers report that the collision between train and factory was spectacular. "There was a sound like a bomb going off," said Farmer McCole, a local farmer who witnessed the accident. "Men were stumbling through the wreckage, screaming, or rolling on the ground trying to put out the grease fires. I heard someone shrieking, 'I can't feel my legs! I can't feel my legs!' and another crying out to a god who did not answer to put him out of his misery."
All the injured were transported by railcar (a small wooden tram called Toby) to the Sodor Community Hospital. Most were treated for severe burns and internal injuries. Six of the injured remain in critical condition. Later, the tram engine broke down and had to be pushed to its destination.
The steam engine reportedly suffered a dinged buffer and a comical coating of cookie flour, making him feel extremely embarrassed.
"We'll have to go back to the roundhouse and get you cleaned up," said his conductor. Thomas then was sheepishly towed from the ruins by a large green engine wearing a smug expression.
National Transportation Safety Board spokesman James Worth said that investigation is ongoing. "Normally, we'd shut down the railroad immediately and demand a full investigation," Worth said. "With this many accidents on his company's record, Hatt would be put away for a long time. However, as the only other trasportation options on the island are Sir Hatt's private helicopter and a small red bus called Bertie who is prone to breaking down, we have little choice but to allow operations to continue."
The NTSB will most likely issue another warning to the Sodor Railway Company, the forty-third such warning this year.
Harry Ironbottom, a factory worker, had tears running down his soot-blackened face as he sat next to the accident site. "It was 'orrible," he moaned as paramedics splinted a compound fracture of his leg. "My mate Bert was screaming, 'I'm burning alive!' but I couldn't get to him through all the smoke and bricks..." Ironbottom broke into sobbing and could not continue.
"That diesel engine will be reprimanded," said Sir Hatt in response. "And we will certainly need to discuss the importance of getting along. I'm quite cross."
Officials report that this is the worst accident to befall the Sodor Railway since last Thursday's dual incidents in which a red engine, believing himself incapable of being damaged, drove along a crumbling trestle and toppled into an open mine shaft, killing two. A few hours later, two engines having a quarrel rammed into a string of cars filled with tar, putting a halt to rail traffic for several hours and causing the suffocation death of a bystander.
Friday, November 11, 2005
I'll Feel Bad if I Don't Put This Up
But I will feel bad if I repeat the same kind of whining that's been appearing the last few days.
I'm not nearly as sick today. That's new.
I'm nearly caught up on my grading. I'm afraid to admit that, in case it reverses itself immediately or I jinx my lead on the work, but that's the way it looks at the moment.
I finished my last Sun Valley class tonight. I'll have to give a final next week, but that will be my last trip out there. While I will miss the drive out and the time in the bookstore out there, I will not miss the drive home. I'm just too worn out after teaching for four hours to really enjoy it. Otherwise I'd love the drive back home in the dark. I must admit that teaching this class has disabused me of the notion that I could work in LA and live in the mountains. I love the long drive; I would take a road trip twice a month if you let me, and I always considered the life of the truck driver as one I could be down with. But to drive in heavy traffic, work a long day (or even a short one, like me), and then have to drive home is soul-sucking.
At any rate, I'm off to bed because tomorrow is the Big Day: it's time to go with Grandma, Grandpa, and Aunt Kathie to A Day Out with Thomas. I'll report on this tomorrow, but there will be a real, honest-to-goodness full-size working Thomas the Tank Engine that the boys and the rest of us will ride on down at Lake Perris.
Here's hoping the Sodor Railway safety record has improved significantly since I last reported on it... If you hear about some kind of train-related mishap involving fussy engines getting into a spat and one of them barrelling off into a cookie factory, say a prayer for us.
I'm not nearly as sick today. That's new.
I'm nearly caught up on my grading. I'm afraid to admit that, in case it reverses itself immediately or I jinx my lead on the work, but that's the way it looks at the moment.
I finished my last Sun Valley class tonight. I'll have to give a final next week, but that will be my last trip out there. While I will miss the drive out and the time in the bookstore out there, I will not miss the drive home. I'm just too worn out after teaching for four hours to really enjoy it. Otherwise I'd love the drive back home in the dark. I must admit that teaching this class has disabused me of the notion that I could work in LA and live in the mountains. I love the long drive; I would take a road trip twice a month if you let me, and I always considered the life of the truck driver as one I could be down with. But to drive in heavy traffic, work a long day (or even a short one, like me), and then have to drive home is soul-sucking.
At any rate, I'm off to bed because tomorrow is the Big Day: it's time to go with Grandma, Grandpa, and Aunt Kathie to A Day Out with Thomas. I'll report on this tomorrow, but there will be a real, honest-to-goodness full-size working Thomas the Tank Engine that the boys and the rest of us will ride on down at Lake Perris.
Here's hoping the Sodor Railway safety record has improved significantly since I last reported on it... If you hear about some kind of train-related mishap involving fussy engines getting into a spat and one of them barrelling off into a cookie factory, say a prayer for us.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Empty Space
This is what my brain is currently full of. The sickness lingers, mutates, attacks various bits of me at random intervals. It burns when I talk. My spine hurts. My jaw won't unlock for several seconds after I yawn. It's odd.
But I'm sure it's nothing. Most likely, as usual, I'm reacting to the medication much more than the illness. I'm sure that Joanna would be up and about, bathing the children, repainting the bathroom again, and sewing Renaissance costumes in my condition.
I have other thoughts but they are inaccessible at the moment. So I'm going to leave off. Perhaps tomorrow I'll be lucid. Sorry about the string of dull posts--well, duller than usual, anyway. Go over and read more interesting thoughts at the Christian Arts blog and join in the fun. I know I will.
But I'm sure it's nothing. Most likely, as usual, I'm reacting to the medication much more than the illness. I'm sure that Joanna would be up and about, bathing the children, repainting the bathroom again, and sewing Renaissance costumes in my condition.
I have other thoughts but they are inaccessible at the moment. So I'm going to leave off. Perhaps tomorrow I'll be lucid. Sorry about the string of dull posts--well, duller than usual, anyway. Go over and read more interesting thoughts at the Christian Arts blog and join in the fun. I know I will.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Meh
That's about my mental state at the moment. I was doing fine today, bar being behind in grading. (But when is that new?) Then just about 3 in the afternoon, I suddenly started sweating for no reason and the room was spinning. I had that burning sensation in my sinuses that screams the warning that illness is coming on.
And here I am, and it has come on. My eyes are burning now, and only a constant drip of honey-laced tea is keeping my throat in check. I'm about to go to bed.
I'm afraid to, actually. I was discussing with Chris the other day that I feel caught in an endless cycle of failure. I attempt to get up early; I fail. Even when I go to bed early, somehow my previous sins come back and keep me from rising on time. I'll have one glorious day of not feeling rushed followed by two weeks of jumping out of bed, leaping through the shower, and trying not to kill myself in getting to class on time, usually arriving unprepared and confused. So then I try to stay up late for the time I missed in the morning, only that doesn't work because, much as I want to deny it, I do not do good work at night (the excellent quality of this blog excepted, of course). And that means--as any reasonably sane person can see immediately--to further difficulties in the morning.
There's a psalm to the effect that it will profit you not to wake early or stay up late, but my disease-addled brain is unable to help me find it, and my spleen is pretty rotten at looking up bible verses, so I'm not trying any further.
Oh, wait--I found it at Bible Gateway.com. Here you go:
Psalm 127:2--"In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat-for He grants sleep to those He loves." (NIV)
Not sure what to do then. Go to bed early and sleep in? And yes, even my sickness-ridden mind knows there's more depth and complexity in that statement than I'm mentioning here--I just can't quite think it through clearly at this point. It'll come to me.
Goodnight, all.
And here I am, and it has come on. My eyes are burning now, and only a constant drip of honey-laced tea is keeping my throat in check. I'm about to go to bed.
I'm afraid to, actually. I was discussing with Chris the other day that I feel caught in an endless cycle of failure. I attempt to get up early; I fail. Even when I go to bed early, somehow my previous sins come back and keep me from rising on time. I'll have one glorious day of not feeling rushed followed by two weeks of jumping out of bed, leaping through the shower, and trying not to kill myself in getting to class on time, usually arriving unprepared and confused. So then I try to stay up late for the time I missed in the morning, only that doesn't work because, much as I want to deny it, I do not do good work at night (the excellent quality of this blog excepted, of course). And that means--as any reasonably sane person can see immediately--to further difficulties in the morning.
There's a psalm to the effect that it will profit you not to wake early or stay up late, but my disease-addled brain is unable to help me find it, and my spleen is pretty rotten at looking up bible verses, so I'm not trying any further.
Oh, wait--I found it at Bible Gateway.com. Here you go:
Psalm 127:2--"In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat-for He grants sleep to those He loves." (NIV)
Not sure what to do then. Go to bed early and sleep in? And yes, even my sickness-ridden mind knows there's more depth and complexity in that statement than I'm mentioning here--I just can't quite think it through clearly at this point. It'll come to me.
Goodnight, all.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Bloggering, Bloggering, Bloggering
That sounds a bit like a curse from an old Scottish witch, doesn' it?
I missed yesterday's post because life is too hard. It was kind of a long weekend anyway, and between the boys' bizarre rebellions, Madeline's general unhappiness, and my lack of sleep last night, I just didn't have the heart to get to this. I need to be more disciplined, I know. I'm working on it.
Because there's not enough to do around here, Chris Slater and I have been cobbling together a web site devoted to Christian arts. That is, we wanted a space to discuss an issue near to my heart, art and the place it has in the Christian worldview. How, as Christians, should we approach art? What is its function? How do we judge works of art? Is there such a thing as "Christian art" at all, and how does it differ from its secular counterparts? All those little details I've been obsessing about for a few years now are fair game. There are also plans for reviews of music, movies, books and all sorts of exciting bells and whistles to appear in the near future.
So in a step toward the Christian arts community I dream about, I hereby open the gateway to the Christian Arts blog. It's open to several contributors (and you are welcome to join if you have something you want to say--the means by which to attain "poster" status are laid out on the blog) and we're really hoping to generate a lot of discussion and comment. This is an open forum, no matter what your perspective on art, faith, or what have you, come in and join us. Devin and Matt Bontrager (for those who know him) have already put up thought-provoking posts--come rake them over the coals! Challenge their authority! Or at least see what they have to say and maybe chime in yourself.
Chris is really the engine to this endeavor; he's got the practical mind that gets things moving. I'm the floating editor/janitor/whiner/occasional contributor person, though I hope to be more active as this gets rolling. The more word spreads about this deal, the happier we'll be, so pass it on to all your friends and family. Any and all links are appreciated and will be rewarded by a big, friendly nod in your direction provided by a person we will employ especially for that task. And you can tell your friends that you were in on the ground floor of a cultural phenomenon. Your life will no longer be a shameful waste. Wouldn't that be nice? I'd enjoy being able to say that, certainly.
I missed yesterday's post because life is too hard. It was kind of a long weekend anyway, and between the boys' bizarre rebellions, Madeline's general unhappiness, and my lack of sleep last night, I just didn't have the heart to get to this. I need to be more disciplined, I know. I'm working on it.
Because there's not enough to do around here, Chris Slater and I have been cobbling together a web site devoted to Christian arts. That is, we wanted a space to discuss an issue near to my heart, art and the place it has in the Christian worldview. How, as Christians, should we approach art? What is its function? How do we judge works of art? Is there such a thing as "Christian art" at all, and how does it differ from its secular counterparts? All those little details I've been obsessing about for a few years now are fair game. There are also plans for reviews of music, movies, books and all sorts of exciting bells and whistles to appear in the near future.
So in a step toward the Christian arts community I dream about, I hereby open the gateway to the Christian Arts blog. It's open to several contributors (and you are welcome to join if you have something you want to say--the means by which to attain "poster" status are laid out on the blog) and we're really hoping to generate a lot of discussion and comment. This is an open forum, no matter what your perspective on art, faith, or what have you, come in and join us. Devin and Matt Bontrager (for those who know him) have already put up thought-provoking posts--come rake them over the coals! Challenge their authority! Or at least see what they have to say and maybe chime in yourself.
Chris is really the engine to this endeavor; he's got the practical mind that gets things moving. I'm the floating editor/janitor/whiner/occasional contributor person, though I hope to be more active as this gets rolling. The more word spreads about this deal, the happier we'll be, so pass it on to all your friends and family. Any and all links are appreciated and will be rewarded by a big, friendly nod in your direction provided by a person we will employ especially for that task. And you can tell your friends that you were in on the ground floor of a cultural phenomenon. Your life will no longer be a shameful waste. Wouldn't that be nice? I'd enjoy being able to say that, certainly.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Whither Saturday?
I'm never quite sure what to put in a Saturday post, especially because the vast majority of people generally don't seem to read it until Monday. (Get me--I'm using phrases like "vast majority" in reference to the audience for this blog. That's amusing, since it amounts to like 3 people.)
So I end up just nattering on about what I did during the day. Which is what I plan to do here.
It started off with a trip to the dentist, as all good things do. Caleb, rambunctious simian that he is, whacked his tooth on the coffee table a week ago. It was wobbly but wasn't causing him pain, so we decided just to keep an eye on it. Last night, though, while he and Joanna were wrestling about, it got knocked again, only this time it didn't settle back into place. Therefore, this morning we went down to a family dentist in Highland. Caleb was a trooper--other than being unable to hold the x-ray films in his mouth (which I can barely do), he was remarkably composed. His only complaint was that the dentist's chair didn't go high enough--he had a hankering to touch the ceiling, apparently. The folk in the office were nice, too, so we may be going there from now on. And without even having to call that girl at 1-800-DENTIST.
Then Joanna went off with Madeline to go see her grandfather. It's not been a good week for grandfathers--Joanna's sister's father-in-law passed away this week. Now her grandfather's health is deteriorating. Beyond the basics, their cases are very dissimilar. The death was sudden and unexpected; Joanna's grandfather has been ailing for several years. At this point, it's a matter of trying to make things as comfortable as possible before the end.
It's a difficult thing, and one that I have been spared from directly my whole life. My grandfather who passed on did so in another state when I was unable to see him--it all passed like a strange story that was happening to someone else. I think of him often, but his passing isn't something I had to endure firsthand.
In many ways, I wish I had known Mr. Mars earlier than I did. He was a lucid and warm man when we met, but he was already ailing, moving slowly with a walker or in a wheelchair. His den is filled with memorabilia from his service with the Rotary, with the Girl Scouts, and other charity organizations. For those in the know who read this, he ran an antique store in Idyllwild for years called The Way It Was; oddly, I'm pretty sure I wandered through there more than once years ago when I was counseling at Camp Maranatha. From the stories I've heard, he was a giving and charnming man well beloved by his many friends and family members.
In the past few years his condition has been worsening. He stopped using the walker, and then was reluctant to get in the wheelchair. For several months now he hasn't left his bed. In the meantime, Joanna's grandmother has had to take care of him on her own for the most part (with the help of family and some of their associates in the community, but that only goes so far). He rarely speaks and when he does it's quite limited.
I can only say that it makes me think seriously about the future. I don't know what will happen, of course, but I can't imagine how much harder such a trial would be without the support of friends and family. I know we don't get down there enough, though I'm very glad Joanna got down there today in case there aren't any further chances. It's so easy to get caught up in life and day-to-day concerns, but trying to imagine how it would feel to lie in pain, in discomfort, in the seemingly endless hours as each day passes... it makes my heart falter. Of course we don't always have the opportunity or means to visit often with those we love, but for me, this week, give your family a call, huh?
Your mother and I will be very proud of you.
So I end up just nattering on about what I did during the day. Which is what I plan to do here.
It started off with a trip to the dentist, as all good things do. Caleb, rambunctious simian that he is, whacked his tooth on the coffee table a week ago. It was wobbly but wasn't causing him pain, so we decided just to keep an eye on it. Last night, though, while he and Joanna were wrestling about, it got knocked again, only this time it didn't settle back into place. Therefore, this morning we went down to a family dentist in Highland. Caleb was a trooper--other than being unable to hold the x-ray films in his mouth (which I can barely do), he was remarkably composed. His only complaint was that the dentist's chair didn't go high enough--he had a hankering to touch the ceiling, apparently. The folk in the office were nice, too, so we may be going there from now on. And without even having to call that girl at 1-800-DENTIST.
Then Joanna went off with Madeline to go see her grandfather. It's not been a good week for grandfathers--Joanna's sister's father-in-law passed away this week. Now her grandfather's health is deteriorating. Beyond the basics, their cases are very dissimilar. The death was sudden and unexpected; Joanna's grandfather has been ailing for several years. At this point, it's a matter of trying to make things as comfortable as possible before the end.
It's a difficult thing, and one that I have been spared from directly my whole life. My grandfather who passed on did so in another state when I was unable to see him--it all passed like a strange story that was happening to someone else. I think of him often, but his passing isn't something I had to endure firsthand.
In many ways, I wish I had known Mr. Mars earlier than I did. He was a lucid and warm man when we met, but he was already ailing, moving slowly with a walker or in a wheelchair. His den is filled with memorabilia from his service with the Rotary, with the Girl Scouts, and other charity organizations. For those in the know who read this, he ran an antique store in Idyllwild for years called The Way It Was; oddly, I'm pretty sure I wandered through there more than once years ago when I was counseling at Camp Maranatha. From the stories I've heard, he was a giving and charnming man well beloved by his many friends and family members.
In the past few years his condition has been worsening. He stopped using the walker, and then was reluctant to get in the wheelchair. For several months now he hasn't left his bed. In the meantime, Joanna's grandmother has had to take care of him on her own for the most part (with the help of family and some of their associates in the community, but that only goes so far). He rarely speaks and when he does it's quite limited.
I can only say that it makes me think seriously about the future. I don't know what will happen, of course, but I can't imagine how much harder such a trial would be without the support of friends and family. I know we don't get down there enough, though I'm very glad Joanna got down there today in case there aren't any further chances. It's so easy to get caught up in life and day-to-day concerns, but trying to imagine how it would feel to lie in pain, in discomfort, in the seemingly endless hours as each day passes... it makes my heart falter. Of course we don't always have the opportunity or means to visit often with those we love, but for me, this week, give your family a call, huh?
Your mother and I will be very proud of you.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Thieves!
I had some other post ideas, but those all changed when I walked out to my truck this morning to find it had been ransacked. Ransacked!
By way of background, I drive my dad's old 1991 Toyota pickup. My sweet, tricked-out red Toyota was sold before we left for Toronto; when we returned and needed a second car because of the boys, my parents gave us the truck, which was terrific. That was four years ago.
The Toyota still runs very well for a truck its age. Bits are falling apart, though. The windshield has a maze-like crack that's been expanding for the past few years--it staggers all across the glass and branches in several directions. The emergency brake handle came off years ago, so now I just pull on the metal cylinder (the mechanic put a long screw in it to serve as a handle last year). The rear bumper is pulled into a V-shape and the headlights often switch over to high beams and can't be switched off without manually holding the control in place. Last week the seatbelt started to act up, so you have to pry the buckle apart with a knife blade. The seats are wearing through, the dashboard is eroding in certain places, and the latch that holds the back window closed is broken.
As you might guess, it's this last fact that lead to the trouble.
I'm guessing it was kids who broke in, as the place was messed up but not much was taken. Not that there was much of value. They emptied the glove compartment and any other nooks and crannies and dumped everything onto the seats and the floor. The only items that disappeared were my center console with the large bucket of change and my pipe and tobacco from the glove compartment. I do find it odd that they emptied the center console of the tapes and other ephemera, but took the console itself. They were probably vastly disappointed in the few tapes I keep in the truck-a bit of They Might Be Giants, a This Train cassette, and to get in the mood, some Christmas tapes. They didn't take the old Labyrinth or Robin Hood soundtracks I stole from Devin's trash pile--I have no idea why.
It's odd because it makes so little impact. I didn't really lose much--the pipe and tobacco, and maybe $5 in change. I almost feel responsible for it because I left it unprotected. But it occurs to me that it's a sad state of affairs when we assume it's our fault our property was stolen because we didn't defend it zealously enough. Garrett used to grouse about this idea. If someone leaves his car in the driveway with the door unlocked and motor running, and someone else comes and steals it, we act as though the owner deserved to have it stolen. Of course, no one deserves to have their property taken for no reason. It's as if we expect people ought to steal things if they have the chance, or that that is the default response to the opportunity for theft.
My students have the attitude that makes this assumption reasonable. When we discuss morality, it seems to be not based on what one should do, but on what one can get away with. When confronted with the hypothetical situation of finding $100 in a wallet with no ID on the sidewalk, their response is generally, "Well, I couldn't figure out who owned it, so I'd keep it." They very clearly blame the person who lost it for being careless. I kind of have the sense that's what the blackguards who took my stuff would say--it's my fault for leaving the vehicle unlocked and my goods unattended.
So it's no large loss, but it's just one more thing today. Man. Stay alert out there.
By way of background, I drive my dad's old 1991 Toyota pickup. My sweet, tricked-out red Toyota was sold before we left for Toronto; when we returned and needed a second car because of the boys, my parents gave us the truck, which was terrific. That was four years ago.
The Toyota still runs very well for a truck its age. Bits are falling apart, though. The windshield has a maze-like crack that's been expanding for the past few years--it staggers all across the glass and branches in several directions. The emergency brake handle came off years ago, so now I just pull on the metal cylinder (the mechanic put a long screw in it to serve as a handle last year). The rear bumper is pulled into a V-shape and the headlights often switch over to high beams and can't be switched off without manually holding the control in place. Last week the seatbelt started to act up, so you have to pry the buckle apart with a knife blade. The seats are wearing through, the dashboard is eroding in certain places, and the latch that holds the back window closed is broken.
As you might guess, it's this last fact that lead to the trouble.
I'm guessing it was kids who broke in, as the place was messed up but not much was taken. Not that there was much of value. They emptied the glove compartment and any other nooks and crannies and dumped everything onto the seats and the floor. The only items that disappeared were my center console with the large bucket of change and my pipe and tobacco from the glove compartment. I do find it odd that they emptied the center console of the tapes and other ephemera, but took the console itself. They were probably vastly disappointed in the few tapes I keep in the truck-a bit of They Might Be Giants, a This Train cassette, and to get in the mood, some Christmas tapes. They didn't take the old Labyrinth or Robin Hood soundtracks I stole from Devin's trash pile--I have no idea why.
It's odd because it makes so little impact. I didn't really lose much--the pipe and tobacco, and maybe $5 in change. I almost feel responsible for it because I left it unprotected. But it occurs to me that it's a sad state of affairs when we assume it's our fault our property was stolen because we didn't defend it zealously enough. Garrett used to grouse about this idea. If someone leaves his car in the driveway with the door unlocked and motor running, and someone else comes and steals it, we act as though the owner deserved to have it stolen. Of course, no one deserves to have their property taken for no reason. It's as if we expect people ought to steal things if they have the chance, or that that is the default response to the opportunity for theft.
My students have the attitude that makes this assumption reasonable. When we discuss morality, it seems to be not based on what one should do, but on what one can get away with. When confronted with the hypothetical situation of finding $100 in a wallet with no ID on the sidewalk, their response is generally, "Well, I couldn't figure out who owned it, so I'd keep it." They very clearly blame the person who lost it for being careless. I kind of have the sense that's what the blackguards who took my stuff would say--it's my fault for leaving the vehicle unlocked and my goods unattended.
So it's no large loss, but it's just one more thing today. Man. Stay alert out there.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Joanna's Birthday Photo Redux
These may be a bit late in coming, but for those of you interested, here are some of the photos from Joanna's surprise 30th birthday Victorian murder party (now there's a title for you).
This is one of the gorgeous table settings put up by my crack team of decorators. Kristen, Andy, Christina, Ingrid, Kathie, Holly, and a host of others set up seating for 20(!) as well as decorated the house delightfully with only a few hints from me. It was like a French bistro; I seriously considered just opening a cafe when the whole thing was done using these folk as my staff.
One of our few group shots. This is not everyone but is a representative sampling of the partygoers. Everyone is, of course, paying rapt attention to me here.
Whoops! And there I am! Your host for the evening, Samuel Jenkins, Esq., personal barrister to the late George Sweet, 5th Earl of Coddington. In this shot I'm apparently trying not to laugh at Christina, Kristen, and Kathie rolling around on the floor, giggling themselves silly about something. Either that or I've got a live frog trapped in my mouth and I don't want him to escape.
Wait--who was this whole thing about again? What? It wasn't me?
Oh, right--it's this lovely lady. My beauteous wife as Josephine Jocelyn Sweet, third wife of George, aka "Babylon JoJo, Dynamite on Legs." Yes, I set my wife up as an adulteress, an exotic dancer, and a murderer all in one sweep. That's just the kind of guy I am. She's wearing the beautiful gown Christina fashioned for her on the sly, entirely without being able to get a fitting. It was perfect and Joanna loves it.
Speaking of Christina, here she is, along with her "special friend" for the evening, Mike. She's sporting the fabulous dress she made for herself at the same time she was making my wife's. (I told her she was crazy for doing this--I think she now agrees.) Mike did a tremendous job, playing both George Sweet as an obnoxious crude murderous adulterating boor (before his untimely demise) and his own son, William Sweet, an obnoxious pretentious dilettante ballet artiste. My favorite bit about him, from a police report profiling the murder suspects: "Though of the masculine gender, is often seen prancing about in his undergarments, kicking his legs in the air. Calls himself 'a genius artiste of thrilling physicality.' Deserves to be locked up on these grounds alone."
Here we see Kristen as Dawn Sweet, the Earl's second wife, who always suspected her ex of murdering her father in cold blood. With her is her "special friend" Andy, the man who not only played the snooty Lord Blenkinsop, but was the head chef for the entire overly complex meal I had planned. Other than a few preparations, he cooked every course and kept the kitchen humming. I've never seen this done so well outside a professional restaurant. Beth, if you can convice Kristen and Andy to move to Oregon, you could have a tremendous chef for your catering business.
Our menu for the evening was as follows, served in courses:
Cream Cheese, Celery, and Walnut Tea Sandwiches
Creme d'Asperges (cream of asparagus soup)
Salad of Baby Greens, Pears, Walnuts, and Bleu Cheese with Dijon Shallot Dressing
Beef Scallops with Mushroom and Rosemary and Carrots Vichy
Raspberry Fool
Cheeses and Cream Puffs with Coffee
Now I'm hungry again. It was an insane menu to put together for a surprise party, but these two pulled it off with aplomb. The evening wouldn't have been half so successful without them.
Here we see Tim as P.C. Coppit, our constable and general muscle, as well as the photographer for the evening (you can thank him for these photos). And, of course, we cannot leave out Mr. Dan as our intrepid sleuth, Inspector Addison Crane of Scotland Yard ("Flying Crane of the Yard?"), without whom the murder would have gone unsolved. I knew casting Dan as a detective was a good move, even if he didn't have a magnifying glass.
This is Chuck, the oft-mentioned engineer at many of my Voicetrax classes and the man with The Voice we all wish we had. He came up to play Captain Philip Ratliffe, man of romance and adventure (he was wooing all three of George's former wives [including one who wasn't former when we started]). Poor sod--he didn't know what he was in for when he came. He did a great job, and I love this picture, showing his worldly disdain for the goings on. He ended up getting engaged to my wife by the end of the evening. Even more impressive, he stayed after the party until 1am to help me clean up. Sadly, there weren't any pictures in this batch of my other Voicetrax compatriots, Mary and Deb, who put in fine performances as the gardener and the maid and also helped out tremendously. I have some pictures in our camera that haven't been uploaded yet, and they should be in there--I'll post them as time permits. All these folks were great, and stayed into the next day.
And here are two other helpsters--Kathie as Dr. Christine Hammer, who treated George for his debilitating addictions, and Holly as Rebecca Hope, the Earl's biographer who was too afraid of the Earl to leave his house for two years. She ended up holding all the important documents throughout the evening--a very shrewd cookie.
And, finally, one last shot of the top couple for the evening. As you can see, Joanna is still bright and bubbly after five hours; I'm clearly about to collapse. In my defense, I only got about three hours' sleep a night for the week before this all went down. I had fifty pages of notes and instructions to deal with, and though everyone else did the actual work, I did a lot of the figurative work. That's my excuse, anyway.
There are gallons more photos and plenty of other characters, but I don't want this post to blow up any further than it already has. I'll see if I can post the rest elsewhere for interested parties to check out.
So there's more than you probably wanted to know about that. I bet you folk who turned down my offer to run one of these things at Christmas are sad now, huh? It was a great time and I hope to do another in the future (though not a surprise one this time, thank you).
This is one of the gorgeous table settings put up by my crack team of decorators. Kristen, Andy, Christina, Ingrid, Kathie, Holly, and a host of others set up seating for 20(!) as well as decorated the house delightfully with only a few hints from me. It was like a French bistro; I seriously considered just opening a cafe when the whole thing was done using these folk as my staff.
One of our few group shots. This is not everyone but is a representative sampling of the partygoers. Everyone is, of course, paying rapt attention to me here.
Whoops! And there I am! Your host for the evening, Samuel Jenkins, Esq., personal barrister to the late George Sweet, 5th Earl of Coddington. In this shot I'm apparently trying not to laugh at Christina, Kristen, and Kathie rolling around on the floor, giggling themselves silly about something. Either that or I've got a live frog trapped in my mouth and I don't want him to escape.
Wait--who was this whole thing about again? What? It wasn't me?
Oh, right--it's this lovely lady. My beauteous wife as Josephine Jocelyn Sweet, third wife of George, aka "Babylon JoJo, Dynamite on Legs." Yes, I set my wife up as an adulteress, an exotic dancer, and a murderer all in one sweep. That's just the kind of guy I am. She's wearing the beautiful gown Christina fashioned for her on the sly, entirely without being able to get a fitting. It was perfect and Joanna loves it.
Speaking of Christina, here she is, along with her "special friend" for the evening, Mike. She's sporting the fabulous dress she made for herself at the same time she was making my wife's. (I told her she was crazy for doing this--I think she now agrees.) Mike did a tremendous job, playing both George Sweet as an obnoxious crude murderous adulterating boor (before his untimely demise) and his own son, William Sweet, an obnoxious pretentious dilettante ballet artiste. My favorite bit about him, from a police report profiling the murder suspects: "Though of the masculine gender, is often seen prancing about in his undergarments, kicking his legs in the air. Calls himself 'a genius artiste of thrilling physicality.' Deserves to be locked up on these grounds alone."
Here we see Kristen as Dawn Sweet, the Earl's second wife, who always suspected her ex of murdering her father in cold blood. With her is her "special friend" Andy, the man who not only played the snooty Lord Blenkinsop, but was the head chef for the entire overly complex meal I had planned. Other than a few preparations, he cooked every course and kept the kitchen humming. I've never seen this done so well outside a professional restaurant. Beth, if you can convice Kristen and Andy to move to Oregon, you could have a tremendous chef for your catering business.
Our menu for the evening was as follows, served in courses:
Cream Cheese, Celery, and Walnut Tea Sandwiches
Creme d'Asperges (cream of asparagus soup)
Salad of Baby Greens, Pears, Walnuts, and Bleu Cheese with Dijon Shallot Dressing
Beef Scallops with Mushroom and Rosemary and Carrots Vichy
Raspberry Fool
Cheeses and Cream Puffs with Coffee
Now I'm hungry again. It was an insane menu to put together for a surprise party, but these two pulled it off with aplomb. The evening wouldn't have been half so successful without them.
Here we see Tim as P.C. Coppit, our constable and general muscle, as well as the photographer for the evening (you can thank him for these photos). And, of course, we cannot leave out Mr. Dan as our intrepid sleuth, Inspector Addison Crane of Scotland Yard ("Flying Crane of the Yard?"), without whom the murder would have gone unsolved. I knew casting Dan as a detective was a good move, even if he didn't have a magnifying glass.
This is Chuck, the oft-mentioned engineer at many of my Voicetrax classes and the man with The Voice we all wish we had. He came up to play Captain Philip Ratliffe, man of romance and adventure (he was wooing all three of George's former wives [including one who wasn't former when we started]). Poor sod--he didn't know what he was in for when he came. He did a great job, and I love this picture, showing his worldly disdain for the goings on. He ended up getting engaged to my wife by the end of the evening. Even more impressive, he stayed after the party until 1am to help me clean up. Sadly, there weren't any pictures in this batch of my other Voicetrax compatriots, Mary and Deb, who put in fine performances as the gardener and the maid and also helped out tremendously. I have some pictures in our camera that haven't been uploaded yet, and they should be in there--I'll post them as time permits. All these folks were great, and stayed into the next day.
And here are two other helpsters--Kathie as Dr. Christine Hammer, who treated George for his debilitating addictions, and Holly as Rebecca Hope, the Earl's biographer who was too afraid of the Earl to leave his house for two years. She ended up holding all the important documents throughout the evening--a very shrewd cookie.
And, finally, one last shot of the top couple for the evening. As you can see, Joanna is still bright and bubbly after five hours; I'm clearly about to collapse. In my defense, I only got about three hours' sleep a night for the week before this all went down. I had fifty pages of notes and instructions to deal with, and though everyone else did the actual work, I did a lot of the figurative work. That's my excuse, anyway.
There are gallons more photos and plenty of other characters, but I don't want this post to blow up any further than it already has. I'll see if I can post the rest elsewhere for interested parties to check out.
So there's more than you probably wanted to know about that. I bet you folk who turned down my offer to run one of these things at Christmas are sad now, huh? It was a great time and I hope to do another in the future (though not a surprise one this time, thank you).
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
The Writing on the Wall
Graffiti is generally bad, a kind of ugly little social ill that makes things ugly. We know this. Efforts to limit its spread seem kind of useless. Back at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, there was a "graffiti wall" in one of the bathroom stalls--you could write whatever you wanted there and it wasn't erased. I don't recall that it ever stopped people from writing graffiti on the other surfaces anyway (though it did prove the only time I've engaged in "tagging" [as the kids call it] myself. My message? "Repent--the day of judgement is at hand.").
It has spread even to unexpected places. Sure, it seems to be expected that gas station bathrooms, stadium restrooms, or other high-traffic areas. I must admit to being surprised at just how much graffiti accumulates at SBVC--we've got the population for it, but I just always assumed there'd be some modicum of respect on a campus of higher education. Dumb me.
It's also shown up in the Barnes & Noble where I grade in Redlands. Who goes into a bookstore to tag the bathroom? "I just ducked in to pick up the latest Pynchon novel and decided to leave my mark so all the homeboys who come in before the book club this week?"
There were two odd examples of graffitio in the B&N restroom. One read "Anglos Go Home Pleez." I was glad to see racism going both ways and not the usual hate just directed at the usual groups. This was almost cute--how nice was it that the person said "pleez," even if he couldn't spell it? When you're demanding mass emmigration, it's good to be polite.
The other graffiti was much more disturbing. It was a series of pictograms rather than words. The first was a small airplane; the second two boxes that seemed clearly to suggest the Twin Towers; the third a skull and crossbones; and the fourth was a Star of David.
So clearly the hate graffiti is being spread around, and some of the usual suspects still come in for a beating. What an odd place and an odd format to foment your rabid conspiracy theories. I was shocked and saddened.
This post has no good ending. Not sure why I brought this up, really, except that it stood out in my mind. Make of it what you will.
It has spread even to unexpected places. Sure, it seems to be expected that gas station bathrooms, stadium restrooms, or other high-traffic areas. I must admit to being surprised at just how much graffiti accumulates at SBVC--we've got the population for it, but I just always assumed there'd be some modicum of respect on a campus of higher education. Dumb me.
It's also shown up in the Barnes & Noble where I grade in Redlands. Who goes into a bookstore to tag the bathroom? "I just ducked in to pick up the latest Pynchon novel and decided to leave my mark so all the homeboys who come in before the book club this week?"
There were two odd examples of graffitio in the B&N restroom. One read "Anglos Go Home Pleez." I was glad to see racism going both ways and not the usual hate just directed at the usual groups. This was almost cute--how nice was it that the person said "pleez," even if he couldn't spell it? When you're demanding mass emmigration, it's good to be polite.
The other graffiti was much more disturbing. It was a series of pictograms rather than words. The first was a small airplane; the second two boxes that seemed clearly to suggest the Twin Towers; the third a skull and crossbones; and the fourth was a Star of David.
So clearly the hate graffiti is being spread around, and some of the usual suspects still come in for a beating. What an odd place and an odd format to foment your rabid conspiracy theories. I was shocked and saddened.
This post has no good ending. Not sure why I brought this up, really, except that it stood out in my mind. Make of it what you will.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Taking on Defenseless Opponents
Because there is a plethora of children's books out there, it's inevitable that some of them will be not so good.
Because I am forced to read many of them, over and over again, you must share my pain.
There is a category of children's books that are written in verse. Sometimes these stories do not demand to be written in verse--perfectly acceptable prose versions exist in abundance. Still, someone got it in their head that the world needed a sing-songy rhyming version.
Which brings me to the pop-up book of Little Red Riding Hood (sorry about the dull page--it took quite a bit of work to track down this baby).
You know you're in trouble when you don't even have an author. The only information given about its publication comes in the following kid-friendly credit on the back:
"Published by Playmore, Inc., Publishers and Waldman Publishing Corp."
This is written in the world's tiniest font; I actually had to use an electron microscope to make out the copyright notice. Nothing says, "Fun family values" than a mass-produced corporate fairy tale, eh?
The book itself is about the size of a postcard and printed vertically--you raise each succeeding page upwards. This is odd. The entire book is five pages long, each accompanied by various figures that do not so much "pop up" as stiffly rise from the page. The art isn't awful, but I'd doubt if it's won any prizes. It's warm and simplistic, with rosy-cheeked characters that look for all the world like those from old Rankin-Bass animated specials (not the stop-motion ones; the cartoons, like Frosty the Snowman). Occasional freakish eye depictions are evident; the wolf's eyes are far too large and human, giving him a disturbingly sultry look, and Little Red Riding Hood's eyes are like cobalt diamonds, complete with cuts, so that she looks like she's high on crank most of the time.
The thing that really makes my head hurt about this rendition, though, is the text. Here it is, in full:
"'Grandma isn't feeling good
And she's all alone in her house in the wood.
Take her this basket with good things to eat
And don't talk to strangers you happen to meet.'"
This isn't awful, though it's entirely unmetrical and clunky. The odd part is that the speaker isn't identified. Like the other books in this series we have, you have to be familiar with the original story already to understand the book. The children this is aimed for--maybe 2-4--don't know this story most likely. I kind of wondered what I would think was happening if I didn't bring my preconceived ideas to the table. Something surreal, I should imagine. Though I don't remember the mother's admonition to avoid talking to strangers--that sounds like a modern interpolation to me.
"Red Riding Hood promised to obey.
She stopped to pick flowers along the way.
But when a wolf stepped suddenly out of the shade
Red Riding Hood forgot the promise she made."
I'm not certain how stopping to pick flowers constitutes obeying her mother's command; sounds like she's slacking off to me. This page has the aforementioned doey-eyed wolf and crack-frazzled LRRH eyes, so it's fairly bizarre. Li'l Red looks much more dangerous here--I'd advise the wolf to avoid eye contact and flee as soon as possible.
"The sly wolf ran on ahead.
He plopped himself in grandma's bed.
He even put on grandma's clothes
And pulled the covers up over his nose."
Now the story really starts coming off the rails. What the hell? The writer here seems to have forgotten to include the conversation between Li'l Red and the wolf. Any poor kid has got to be wondering how, exactly, she "forgot the promise she made." They don't even mention that there was any exchange of words. And without that, how the heck did the wolf know about grandma? This is so confusing...
The picture on this page shows a slightly concerned looking Grandma hiding in the closet. The whole "I ate your grandmother" thing has been dropped here, I guess. The whole story has been rendered bloodless, which removes any interest I had as a young man in what is about to happen. The wolf's later threats seem much more credible if he's got your old granny in his stomach.
"Red Riding Hood knew something was wrong
When she saw his teeth, so sharp and strong.
'Grandma, what big teeth you have!' she cried out in fear.
Said the wolf, 'The better to eat you with, my dear!'"
Just try to read those last two lines and make them come out right. It's a tough job. The wolf looks so cuddly in this picture that you just can't imagine he's going to do more than give Red Riding Hood a big ol' hug; meanwhile, Red throws her basket in the air and dumps out its contents, reavealing small brown globs that look nothing so much like feces. Here, grandma--have some dung to make you feel better!
"Red Riding Hood screamed as loud as she could.
In rushed a woodsman, who'd been chopping wood.
The wolf ran away. They were out of danger
And Red Riding Hood never again spoke to a stranger."
Again, read those last two lines and try to keep them from falling dead onto the page like a handful of iron slugs. They just make for bad poetry, but the computer which spits this drek out just knows that the last words rhyme, so it's got to be good.
Our moral for the day is hammered home once more. And the wolf lives on to prey on grandma another day...
Our last note: In German, Frosty the Snowman is Frosty der Schneemann.
Geshundheit.
Because I am forced to read many of them, over and over again, you must share my pain.
There is a category of children's books that are written in verse. Sometimes these stories do not demand to be written in verse--perfectly acceptable prose versions exist in abundance. Still, someone got it in their head that the world needed a sing-songy rhyming version.
Which brings me to the pop-up book of Little Red Riding Hood (sorry about the dull page--it took quite a bit of work to track down this baby).
You know you're in trouble when you don't even have an author. The only information given about its publication comes in the following kid-friendly credit on the back:
"Published by Playmore, Inc., Publishers and Waldman Publishing Corp."
This is written in the world's tiniest font; I actually had to use an electron microscope to make out the copyright notice. Nothing says, "Fun family values" than a mass-produced corporate fairy tale, eh?
The book itself is about the size of a postcard and printed vertically--you raise each succeeding page upwards. This is odd. The entire book is five pages long, each accompanied by various figures that do not so much "pop up" as stiffly rise from the page. The art isn't awful, but I'd doubt if it's won any prizes. It's warm and simplistic, with rosy-cheeked characters that look for all the world like those from old Rankin-Bass animated specials (not the stop-motion ones; the cartoons, like Frosty the Snowman). Occasional freakish eye depictions are evident; the wolf's eyes are far too large and human, giving him a disturbingly sultry look, and Little Red Riding Hood's eyes are like cobalt diamonds, complete with cuts, so that she looks like she's high on crank most of the time.
The thing that really makes my head hurt about this rendition, though, is the text. Here it is, in full:
"'Grandma isn't feeling good
And she's all alone in her house in the wood.
Take her this basket with good things to eat
And don't talk to strangers you happen to meet.'"
This isn't awful, though it's entirely unmetrical and clunky. The odd part is that the speaker isn't identified. Like the other books in this series we have, you have to be familiar with the original story already to understand the book. The children this is aimed for--maybe 2-4--don't know this story most likely. I kind of wondered what I would think was happening if I didn't bring my preconceived ideas to the table. Something surreal, I should imagine. Though I don't remember the mother's admonition to avoid talking to strangers--that sounds like a modern interpolation to me.
"Red Riding Hood promised to obey.
She stopped to pick flowers along the way.
But when a wolf stepped suddenly out of the shade
Red Riding Hood forgot the promise she made."
I'm not certain how stopping to pick flowers constitutes obeying her mother's command; sounds like she's slacking off to me. This page has the aforementioned doey-eyed wolf and crack-frazzled LRRH eyes, so it's fairly bizarre. Li'l Red looks much more dangerous here--I'd advise the wolf to avoid eye contact and flee as soon as possible.
"The sly wolf ran on ahead.
He plopped himself in grandma's bed.
He even put on grandma's clothes
And pulled the covers up over his nose."
Now the story really starts coming off the rails. What the hell? The writer here seems to have forgotten to include the conversation between Li'l Red and the wolf. Any poor kid has got to be wondering how, exactly, she "forgot the promise she made." They don't even mention that there was any exchange of words. And without that, how the heck did the wolf know about grandma? This is so confusing...
The picture on this page shows a slightly concerned looking Grandma hiding in the closet. The whole "I ate your grandmother" thing has been dropped here, I guess. The whole story has been rendered bloodless, which removes any interest I had as a young man in what is about to happen. The wolf's later threats seem much more credible if he's got your old granny in his stomach.
"Red Riding Hood knew something was wrong
When she saw his teeth, so sharp and strong.
'Grandma, what big teeth you have!' she cried out in fear.
Said the wolf, 'The better to eat you with, my dear!'"
Just try to read those last two lines and make them come out right. It's a tough job. The wolf looks so cuddly in this picture that you just can't imagine he's going to do more than give Red Riding Hood a big ol' hug; meanwhile, Red throws her basket in the air and dumps out its contents, reavealing small brown globs that look nothing so much like feces. Here, grandma--have some dung to make you feel better!
"Red Riding Hood screamed as loud as she could.
In rushed a woodsman, who'd been chopping wood.
The wolf ran away. They were out of danger
And Red Riding Hood never again spoke to a stranger."
Again, read those last two lines and try to keep them from falling dead onto the page like a handful of iron slugs. They just make for bad poetry, but the computer which spits this drek out just knows that the last words rhyme, so it's got to be good.
Our moral for the day is hammered home once more. And the wolf lives on to prey on grandma another day...
Our last note: In German, Frosty the Snowman is Frosty der Schneemann.
Geshundheit.
Typing in the Icebox
Sitting in my bracingly cold office seems to be waking me up again, which is good. I was starting to zone out as I finished this latest batch of papers, and I have a bit more work to do before beddy-bye, so the briskness is useful.
Another bracing fact revealed to me this weekend is the fact that my mother is reading my blog on occasion. Gracious. So from now on, you'll see a lot less of the blasphemous profanity I'm wont to use, and a lot fewer discussions of how my childhood and upbringing warped me into the hideous mutant you read about in these pages. No, those disgusting habits of thought and self-destructive tendencies all came from the example of my shiftless friends in high school. Shame on them.
I heard this news at our now annual pumpkin carving party, held on Saturday. For the last few years it's been a delightful event: our family all crowd into our little house and spend an afternoon and evening... well, carving pumpkins. I am brutally mocked every year for taking the longest to produce a jack-o-lantern or, in the worst cases, not getting one done at all. I'm afflicted at those time with the same malaise that kept me from posting here for so long: my desire to do a terrific job keeps me from starting the job at all. I'm so overwhelmed with the possibilities for error and misstep, and so unable to make a decision as to a course of action, that I spend all evening fretting and almost none of it carving sweet pumpkin flesh. Not only that, but a handful of us--my mother-in-law, my wife's brother-in-law, and my father, as well as my eldest niece and nephew--have been striving these past years to create ever more elaborate 'lanterns, complete with shading, see-through panels, and copyrighted characters; my mother-in-law went so far as to graft clear marbles into the pumpkin skin to enhance the light effects. This year saw outstanding renditions of Scooby Doo, Darth Maul, Snoopy asleep atop a Peanuts-style pumpkin, and little Nemo (I fully expect legal squads from Hanna-Barbera, LucasFilm, Disney, and the Schultz estate to come barrelling through the door tomorrow evening, lawsuits in hand). Of course, these people spent hours at the carving table working with tiny awls and planes, but we were impressed.
This year, I only handled one pumpkin, and my carving was all done at the direction of the boys, so I actually finished the first pumpkin. Granted, it was a simple two-eyes, one-nose, spooky-mouth job, but it existed. I felt okay this year, simply because I feel like I'm putting creative endeavor into other areas, so my squash-slicing skills are not as vital as once they were. Now if only I could produce something at some point, I might validate that instinct...
Another bracing fact revealed to me this weekend is the fact that my mother is reading my blog on occasion. Gracious. So from now on, you'll see a lot less of the blasphemous profanity I'm wont to use, and a lot fewer discussions of how my childhood and upbringing warped me into the hideous mutant you read about in these pages. No, those disgusting habits of thought and self-destructive tendencies all came from the example of my shiftless friends in high school. Shame on them.
I heard this news at our now annual pumpkin carving party, held on Saturday. For the last few years it's been a delightful event: our family all crowd into our little house and spend an afternoon and evening... well, carving pumpkins. I am brutally mocked every year for taking the longest to produce a jack-o-lantern or, in the worst cases, not getting one done at all. I'm afflicted at those time with the same malaise that kept me from posting here for so long: my desire to do a terrific job keeps me from starting the job at all. I'm so overwhelmed with the possibilities for error and misstep, and so unable to make a decision as to a course of action, that I spend all evening fretting and almost none of it carving sweet pumpkin flesh. Not only that, but a handful of us--my mother-in-law, my wife's brother-in-law, and my father, as well as my eldest niece and nephew--have been striving these past years to create ever more elaborate 'lanterns, complete with shading, see-through panels, and copyrighted characters; my mother-in-law went so far as to graft clear marbles into the pumpkin skin to enhance the light effects. This year saw outstanding renditions of Scooby Doo, Darth Maul, Snoopy asleep atop a Peanuts-style pumpkin, and little Nemo (I fully expect legal squads from Hanna-Barbera, LucasFilm, Disney, and the Schultz estate to come barrelling through the door tomorrow evening, lawsuits in hand). Of course, these people spent hours at the carving table working with tiny awls and planes, but we were impressed.
This year, I only handled one pumpkin, and my carving was all done at the direction of the boys, so I actually finished the first pumpkin. Granted, it was a simple two-eyes, one-nose, spooky-mouth job, but it existed. I felt okay this year, simply because I feel like I'm putting creative endeavor into other areas, so my squash-slicing skills are not as vital as once they were. Now if only I could produce something at some point, I might validate that instinct...