Final Draft

Today, I'm grading final drafts. Here's one from the student who's original intention was to write a paper explaining why homosexuality was "wrong." As mentioned in my previous posts, she seemed to have been swayed a bit from her initial outlook. Her final draft now confirms this. Here is a portion of her introduction:

As I started this research paper I had my self thinking it’s a choice. Homosexuals get to chose who they like and who they don’t like just as heterosexuals do and example is a girl not liking another girl but yet liking a guy or by vice versa. They chose who they liked and didn’t like. Throughout this research paper the sites I have researched on have overturned my decision. I now think it’s genetic. A homosexual can’t wake up every morning and say I’m sticking to guys/girls maybe I’ll change tomorrow. This statement threw my state of mind right out the window...

Interesting. But there's something else. Turns out this girl is a natural scholar. I've never told students how to conduct and write up an interview; I just suggest that they do it. The results, of course, vary. But they are always intriguing. This girl, is by far, the best at it. You may recall that she had written about her gay uncle in her revised proposal. I suggested she interview him. She did. And it's a marvellous write-up she's done. Best I've ever seen from an inexperienced interviewer/freshman:

Throughout this research time my uncle [name omitted] has been in my head the entire time. He’s one of my favorite uncles but he’s hasn’t had it easy. He’s a homosexual. He’s into the whole guy and guy thing. I’m not going to say I’m proud of him because I would be lying. I had my times when he lived with us that we would walk down the street in a group of 3 me, him, and his “boyfriend” I’ll admit I was ashamed. However, it was his sexual orientation and he was happy. I got a hold of my uncle and had him come down for thanksgiving and he agreed to participate in an interview. As me and my uncle sat at the table he began biting his nails I asked him why are you biting your nails? He replied I’m nervous, not very many people want to sit down one on one with a homosexual and talk about his sexual orientation none the less it being my niece. We shared laughs, then down to business. My first question to him was why be a homosexual? He replies, it’s something you can’t help it’s like a “straight” person and there opposite sex partner. We didn’t ask for it. It just happened....

Sure, there are so many technical miscues to pick on: The absence of quotes, especially. And the obvious lack of revision. But at this stage, who cares? This is just a dynamite write-up. And it gets even better!

Up, Up, and Away...

I'm no fan of David Broder, the so-called dean of the Washington Establishment Press. In fact, he should have been put out to pasture long ago; his gasbag editorials have all the relevance of stale mustard.

This editorial, however, is the exception:

College has become increasingly unaffordable to millions of middle-class and working-class Americans, and the rising barriers to attending are costing the United States in the international competition for a trained workforce...

Between 1982 and 2007, college tuition and fees rose three times as fast as median family income, after adjusting for inflation. In the past decade, there has been a 50 percent increase in the number of undergraduate borrowers and a doubling in the inflation-adjusted total of students' debts.

The affordability barrier to college is eroding America's standing in the world.

In 2005, when I entered the Education program on this campus, three credit hours cost $550.00. By last Fall semester, that same total had increased to $866.00 -- a whopping 57% increase in just three years!

All this should make one thing clear...the current economic meltdown was caused by more than bad debt and lack of government oversight. Over the past few years, builders of houses, manufacturers of autos, makers of pharmaceuticals, distributors of oil and gas (as well as dispensers of higher education?) decided if the middle-class could not keep up with the price bubble for mere necessities, they could all freeze in the dark and walk to work (or school) and back.

And now those same crooks are asking for -- and receiving -- handouts from the government like welfare had just become respectable again.

Well, why not? In South Asia, begging is considered an honorable profession.

Changes

I have been forced to make some important changes in my lifestyle lately, due to huge necessary overheads incurred by yours truly for behavior he would rather not discuss on this blog or anywhere else.

I am determined to quit smoking some day. As for now, let us admit that I have not quite succeeded; but I have been successful in cutting a 25-30 a day habit down to 6-12, depending on my willpower, which fluctuates with unceasing regularity. This drastic change in behavior, again, is due to economic reasons, not for reasons either altruistic or healthful. Quite simply, it's getting to the point where $34.00/week to maintain a habit is no longer feasible. If it weren't for that, I'd smoke like a chimney. Damned sin tax!

The Big Con

Glen Blalock once told me there's no such thing as academic freedom. I didn't agree with him -- on that, or a lot of other things either. Which got me into a lot of hot water, literally. (Fired, I think, is the accurate description.)

But lately I've come to agree with him. If you want to find steady work in a college or university, you had better (a) quickly discover the guiding philosophy of those in charge and (b) adapt that philosophy as your own. Because if you don't, it's all over for you, baby blue.

Each department has its own agenda, designed to perpetuate a certain hegemony, as dictated and sustained by those at the top of the food chain. To keep your place in the pecking order, you must say, do, or write nothing that clashes with that agenda. In other words, you, as a person, are not allowed to question. You go with the flow; and if you don't, the flow leads out the door. Blalock provided that valuable education by setting an example -- of me. It was an effective lesson. And a disheartening one too.

But the experience, rather then instilling humility, can better illuminate the "writing on the wall" the next time it happens. And since I tend toward the provocative in the way I teach, what I write, and what I say, I'm certain there will be plenty of "next times." People never know whether I'm serious or kidding, and it makes them uncomfortable. No one likes to be put in the position of guessing.

In the preceding couple of years, I have finally amassed the confidence to accede falsely to no one, and have spoken my mind, risking disrespect and oblivion at every turn. But that's the price one pays for a less muddy conscience.

Sh, Don't Tell the Principal

My dual-credit student who's researching gays and lesbians recently wrote me this, as part of a research journal on a source she found:

...I found this page searching through the yahoo search engine on our school computers. I was searching for the homosexual choice. I clicked on this link except it was blocked so I had to go around it through a proxy. Sh, don’t tell our principal. I picked it because it has a professional view on the homosexual choice. It was very difficult decision to use it or not I didn’t want to but I thought it would be good to use this article...

Just reading this causes me to smile and resolve to cease my customary cynical outlook -- for at least a day.

The Things They Learn These Days

Anyone here ever live in Idaho? Ever visit the place? I just wondered because of this

Excerpt:

...Whoolery and his wife couldn't believe it when their second and third graders got off the bus last week and told them what other students were saying.

"They just hadn't heard anything like this before," said Whoolery. "They were chanting on the bus, 'Assassinate Obama. Assassinate Obama'...

The Whoolery's explained to their kids what assassinate means then contacted the school about what was happening. "I think the thing that struck us was just like, 'Where did they get the word and why would they put that word and that person together?'" said Whoolery...

The Secret Service must be wondering likewise.

Impaled: Confessions of a Groupie

I've written some unkind things about Sarah Palin lately. However, I’ve taken time to re-think my position. Day after day, Palin’s name is persistently in the news. Will she run for president in 2012? Will she appoint herself senator? Will she leave politics for show business? Will she do this, will she do that? Why just yesterday, Matt Lauer and the Today Show invaded her kitchen just to watch her make a halibut and salmon casserole. Is she gearing up to replace Martha Stewart?

On a strictly personal note, I should have seen where all this was leading; but I guess it was inevitable. At last, the constant drip, drip of Palin's face and voice on my TV screen has become like some monstrous variation of Chinese water torture. As a result, my internal resistance to her gibberish has been shattered. And I am like a junkie with neither a prayer nor hope. I can no longer assume responsibility for myself or my actions. In short, I have become a Sarah Palin groupie.

How did this transformation come about? Let me try to explain: Remember that scene in The Music Man where Professor Harold Hill is deciding how and when to put the make on the unsuspecting Marian the Librarian? He commences with a song -- “The Sadder But Wiser Girl for Me” -- and vows that “no bright-eyed, blushing, breathless baby-doll baby” will ever put her hooks in him. He only has eyes for the smartest gal in River City, Iowa: Maid Marian. Well, as far as I’m concerned, Professor Hill can have her.

With apologies to “sadder but wiser girls” everywhere, allow me to state the following facts. Men are not interested in sad women. Men are not interested in wise women. Men want girls who are happy and dumb. The less complicated they are, the simpler to get along with. The less intelligent they are, the fewer arguments to put up with. Believe me, I know. I’ve had smart, and I’ve had dumb; and dumb is incomparably better.

I realize some of you are thinking that this is, to use the new cant, "objectification" of gender, that all this is yet again some sordid male-fantasy vision of women perpetrated by a disciple of Ian Fleming or Hugh Hefner. Well, Sarah Palin is no fantasy; she’s for real. Sarah Palin is the original Stepford Wife – nice, simple, pleasant, devoted, always impeccably dressed and groomed, a nice hostess, great in the kitchen -- AND always available. She’s the Playgirl of the Year who teasingly complains that she wants to be appreciated for her mind and not her body. Well, maybe she does have a little something up there. After all, who else could think up such clever names for her children -- names like “Piper” and “Trig” and “Bristol?” I don’t know about you, but it turns me several shades of chartreuse.

As far as politics goes, Sarah’s job isn’t to put on airs in a public forum and make herself look smart. Oh, no. You see, part of Sarah’s charm is her authenticity. And in that respect, she is authentically clueless. And for that reason alone, I have fallen for her -- and in a big way too. The way one loses their heart and mind to a rising rock star. She was – and is – the new American Idol; I am now 100% behind her. And the view is terrific!


The Lady With Glasses and a Gun

Smoking in the Men's Room

Second only to a monastery during a prayer vigil, the men’s room is the most silent place on God’s green earth. Men go there solely to take care of business and then leave -- quickly. They don’t talk, they don’t look about, and they rarely hang around long enough to preen themselves in the mirror. Sometimes they’re in such a hurry to exit the premises they don’t even bother flushing. Often, they don’t wash their hands either. Zip down, zip up, and out the door. Finished. In that respect, the proceedings inside a men’s room are as streamlined as a Wall Street stockholders’ meeting, minus the acrimony.

In fact, the men’s room is so quiet that occasionally some go there just to catch up on their newspaper reading. This is especially advantageous for those frequent cases where the custodian has neglected to re-stock toilet paper. That way, the editorial pages of the Corpus Christi Caller-Times can finally be put to good use.

It’s been observed that the highest concentration of bacteria in any public facility is found on the inside handle of the bathroom door. (For reasons why, see paragraph 1 above.) It is highly recommended, therefore, that one use a paper towel for the following two purposes: (1) To dry hands after washing them and (2) to use towel to open privy door when exiting. Hygiene problem solved. But naturally this presents another problem; once you have safely opened the door and made your exit, you discover there is nowhere to dispose of the towel. Solution: Drop the towel on the floor and make your getaway while feigning innocence. It might even do to whistle a tune. “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window” is regarded as most appropriate.

Some may ask whether any of this is important. After all, we spend at least a third of our lives in bed, and a considerably lesser percentage of time in the toilet. Why not point out the cleanliness of changing the sheets once a week, or the necessity of beating and airing out mattresses each season?

Such people should be reminded that this is a family blog, and we don’t discuss what people do -- in, on, with, or even under their beds. It is strictly up to the individual as consenting adult -- just as long as the bed doesn’t mind. We beg not to go into such questionable activities here. And that’s all we have to say on the matter.

Faulkner in Illinois

You recall the plot of "A Rose for Emily," right? Well, someone in Evanston, IL just did her one -- no, no, make that two -- better:

EVANSTON, Ill. (AP) — A 90-year-old woman apparently has been living in a house with the bodies of her three siblings, one of whom may have been dead since the early 1980s, police in suburban Chicago said.

The bodies were found Friday morning by police...

Geez, what with vampires, werewolves, and scary old nonogenarians, this blog is becoming beastly. Better go back to writing reflective prose like everybody else. And soon too...

Bad Movie Dialogue

Jack Nicholson had been wanting to make a film of Wolf for a dozen years. In 1994, someone finally bit.

The shooting script contains the worst dialogue of any film during the '90's. Sample scene: Jack, a typical werewolf character who alternates between normal and hairy, depending on the phase of the moon, shows up at the New York flat of an old professor who researches lycanthrophy. The scene is played straight, in all dramatic seriousness. At one point...

PROFESSOR: The demon wolf is not evil, unless the man he has bitten is evil. And it feels good to be a wolf, doesn't it?
JACK: Indeed it does.
PROFESSOR: Power without guilt. Love without doubt?...I have a favor to ask of you. I would like you to bite me.
JACK: What?
PROFESSOR: I said, I would like you to bite me...

Which is pretty much what the critics said when they reviewed this entertaining stinker.


Wolfman Jack

I Was a Pre-Teenage Vampire

Are we losing our sense of humor? Not if you can laugh at this story.

Excerpt:

POOLER, Ga. (AP) - When Pooler fifth-grader Jordan Hood drew a bloody vampire in art class, it scared a teacher so much she reported him to the principal and campus police...The school system resolved the Tuesday incident by requiring Jordan to undergo psychological testing the next morning and then returning to class in the afternoon.

Presumably, the battery of tests revealed no anti-social tendencies -- a virtual requirement for most serious artists. We can all rest at ease; there will be no budding young painters from Pooler, Georgia.

Irrelevant Question of the Week

Forgot to return a rented DVD of Hitchcock's Vertigo to the library the other day. Anyone know if an overdue library rental affects one's credit rating?

(And don't tell me it's not supposed to. I know that answer.)

Publishing

In the back sections of Literary Nonfiction. Stephen Minot offers advice on publishing one's own work and includes the following caveat:

If you are by nature an optimist, you are apt to submit work that doesn't have a chance for publication; and if you are a pessimist, you run the risk of never sending anything out.

Guess which category I fall under.

No Narratives

I'll never make it as a writer of narratives. Not because I don't have stories to tell. And not because I couldn't tell them artfully or skillfully.

I will never be a writer of narratives because my batch of stories are for me only, and they are not to be shared.

If I wrote stories regularly, however, they would be primarily objective, comedic, satrical, topical, with dialogues filled with verbal slapstick. But the problem with topical satire is that it ceases being relevant a week or a month after it's been written.

Example: Last year I wrote a short teleplay called "Kid School Board," a satire of the reality show, "Kid Nation." I then sent it to the editor of a local-area college's literary magazine. She raved about it but complained of its length. It easily dwarfed the other entries (mostly poems, it turned out) that she received. As a result, it was rejected.

A few months later, I ran into the editor in the department office as I was collecting my mail. I told her she made the right decision in rejecting my work -- not because it was overlong, but because it had become obsolete; after all, "Kid Nation" had ended last Fall, and has not been seen or heard of since. A big "who cares."

A film critic once described The French Connection as having "all the depth of a mud puddle." Six months later, it won the Academy Award for Best Picture, beating out A Clockwork Orange, The Last Picture Show, and Fiddler on the Roof, all nominated in the same prestigious category.

That film represents my favorite type of creation -- not because I enjoy cops-and-robbers story, but I do dote on something that's fast, funny, and direct, with the gallery in mind largely, and the mezzanine and loge as strictly an afterthought. It might be shallow, but there's something in the cheap and tawdry that represents the American experience -- our experience. A collective experience that we can connect with.

As for my own experiences, they have no connection with anyone or anything remotely collective. Besides, my life and my stories are, for the most part, my own business. They represent me and only me, and the stories in my life would amount to little more than one long cautionary tale that would appeal to neither the loge nor the cheap seats.

Bloom's Voices

I'm not much on cooking, so I'm putting off Bloom's recipes from The Seven Deadly Virtues until Monday...


But I've looked at pretty much everything else; and for our more immediate purposes, the chapter dealing with the author's health problems is, to me, the most helpful as to the drafting of our personal academic essays.

Not only does Bloom relate an effective (and affecting) narrative, she also explains why it is effective. Often, we mistake the word narrative as the inclusion of every detail we can remember during a personal episode. But Bloom emphasizes the idea of exclusion -- i.e., including only that content which will ultimately serve the narrative as an art form and not the precise recording of fact, as if filling out a data sheet or an accident report. Even the deliberate sidestepping of absolute accuracy is deemed an occasional necessity.

Incidentally, there's an interesting article from the U. of Connecticut's website on Bloom's book that includes audio recordings of her discussing the The Seven Deadly Virtues, etc. in particular -- and creative nonfiction, in general.

Dear Ann Landers...

Sometimes, I think I need to take this fellow's advice...

Still More Thoughts on Dialogue

My student seems to have softened her position on the gay issue (see 2 posts below). Here is part of her proposal (draft only) she submitted by e-mail last night:

I’m not a homosexual. I go to church and like guys and if the question is going through anyone’s head, yes I am a girl. But I do have a uncle who’s a homosexual. It’s not easy being him either. People tell him stuff everyday. He’s been cussed at, threatened, and has had objects thrown at him. Yes, all that for walking with a guy and holding hands. For this reason, I think this topic is interesting and a hot issue to research on. Many Homosexuals are threatened and humiliated for the reason that they love someone of the same sex. Why is that when Americans get mad at people for being ”fake”, yet homosexuals are as real as they get and yet you ridicule them?

I'm not sure what's happened here. She appears to have done a 180 on this issue in just three days -- by just thinking about the issue on her own. Strange...but nice.

Further Thoughts on Dialogue

In Michigan, the schools have used this election year for real-world applications:

Programs such as these teach students to become critical thinkers and help them understand that voting gives them a voice in society. They quickly learn the relevance of specific issues like health care and the economy, issues many say they never paid attention to before getting involved at school. These are invaluable lessons our students will carry with them throughout life, learning how each decision will affect their future.

Which is all fine and dandy. I wonder, though, where political education just may overlap into the area of indoctrination. With the heavy feelings of commitment displayed by individuals toward each presidential candidate this season, is it possible that objectivity in the classroom can be thrown to the winds?

In the case of the student who tells me she objects to those who engage in alternative lifestyles (see post below), I try to remain as noncommittal as possible. I avoid telling her, "I think you're wrong, and here's why..." Because that's indoctrination. My role does not involve telling students what to think. Instead, I give her the freedom to carry out her research, make her arguments, support them -- while, at the same time, I play devil's advocate, instilling the need to anticipate opposing arguments, and to attempt to refute them, etc. Naturally, there are topics that are not only unsuitable, but outrageous -- (Example: "Hitler Didn't Go Far Enough" or something similar.) -- and I won't go there. All the same, I must be careful that I do not impose my own politics and personal values upon my students. That is not my mission.

Dialogue with an English Student...

...and it starts out rather cryptically. The subject has to do with what topic she will research for the near-balance of the semester, and I'm thinking of including it in my personal academic essay. The student begins with what sounds like a direct question but is actually a possible topic and/or research question for her essay...

STUDENT E-MAIL: is homosexuality acceptable?

TEACHER E-MAIL: That depends. There's a whole array of arguments you could make on such a broad topic? What is the argument you wish to make?

STUDENT E-MAIL: that it's wrong.

TEACHER E-MAIL: ...Wrong, based upon what sources of scholarly information?

STUDENT E-MAIL: Mainly on chiristian and religious sites.

TEACHER E-MAIL: For the purposes of research/argumentative essays, strictly sources based upon the spiritual, the mystical, the religious are not enough. Indeed, many professors will demand emphasis on the scientific, the empirical, the clinical, and the objective. Objective sources of information with no political axe to grind, no agenda to sell its readership -- these are the types of sources that you will be asked to consult throughout your college career. Besides, and I'll have to re-check this, I believe that I am restricted somewhat by the College Handbook from discussing religion in the classroom. (At least, this was what I was informed by the former chair of my department in 2001.) For my own part, I am not uncomfortable discussing virtually any topic in the classroom, but I may also be bound by certain rules and regulations. So, I shall have to look into this more. In short, I think you had better re-think your topic or at least the approach you propose to take.

STUDENT E-MAIL: what if i change it to it's the person's decision?

TEACHER E-MAIL: I'm not sure what you mean? Are we still discussing homosexuality? Many agree that it is a personal decision. Others might argue that adaptaton of the lifestyle is the result of other factors. Is this what you are referring to?

STUDENT E-MAIL: yes.

TEACHER E-MAIL: Okay. I'll be interested in seeing your proposal.

The preceding exchange was real, uncut, uncensored -- including my inadvertant mis-spelling of "adaptation." And I trust I'm not violating any ethical code in publishing this here.

As for myself, I'm still trying to make sense of it. Especially that "adjustment" in topic. In addition, I will need to inform the student that opinion pieces are allowed, based upon certain rhetorical requirements. (What was I thinking?)

UPDATE!

One minute after I published the post, I received this from the student:

STUDENT E-MAIL: ok. thank you for the help.

Some help, huh? I know this sounds cynical, but sometimes I wonder if I'm in the right racket.

Not Just Another Assignment

As a student in Teaching Basic Writing over a decade ago, I wrote a personal experience essay about high-school high-jinks the night of my graduation. It was the usual "us-boys-could-really-party" cliche, done up in five pages; and the nicest thing one could say is that it was stylish but silly.

Naturally, the story had to have a "point." That was a stated requirement. I interpreted this as stuffing my essay with something of deep import to complement what was merely a superficial remembrance full of aimless, sophomoric humor. So I reached into my memory banks and came up with the Kent State University shootings. I guess it worked because I got an 'A' on the paper.

Now I am required to write a personal academic narrative, and I have a day in which to e-mail an idea or two to my professor. This is going to be tough! Looks like it's time for an attitude adjustment.

The Name's Bloom

First reactions to Bloom's hardships as she traversed the spiral stairway to Tier A:

**Clever use of the "name" motif: "Call me Lynn," echoing the "Ishmael" reference from an earlier chapter -- and the idea of writers as survivors who have lived to "tell the tale."

**The professional allusions seem designed to appeal to anyone in academia. Namely,

*those who enjoy tenure...
*those who had tenure, but resigned for family reasons...
*those who teach half-time with half benefits and responsibilities...
*those who dream of tenure and their own office, while sharing space beneath the stairs with the kitty litter...

And there's more. On this last note, let me report that having your own office is not all it's cracked up to be. NOT having an office has its advantages. It's not as if you're a professional nomad, and Bloom is dramatizing when she recalls her own part-time experiences as some weird sort of night creature, haunting the campus at all hours, morning, noon, or evening.

Virtual space has replaced physical space for many instructors. My office is in a computer. I have found it convenient. So have the students. Certainly, office space has its advantages too. A comfortable, familiar place to prepare before class, unwind after class, and to meet with students. But technology is in the process of altering all of that.

And let me add this -- Ten years ago, I would never believe that I would ever express the feelings above.

Indoctrination or Stupidity?...

...Is there a difference? Well, yes, there is. But I'm not certain I'd run this opinion piece by my students, no matter what the tetrad. On the other hand, perhaps it might be advisable to occasionally remind students that there are indeed a few supporters of the Dred Scott decision here and there -- even in good, old, enlightened 21st Century America. (Or am I going too far?)

The piece begins provocatively enough:

I'M WHITE, and I'm not voting for Barack Obama...

And from there on, it's all downhill. At one point, we are told:

...Obama is in so many ways the Great Black Hope...

The author is Christine M. Flowers. She is a lawyer. This opinion piece was published in the Philadelphia Daily News. And if someone confronts me with that tired jive about Obama as "the darling of the Eastern Establishment liberal media," I'll have them attempt to explain Christine M. Flowers.

Invention or Indoctrination?

Assuming one were teaching a composition class in the History/Political Science tetrad, how would the instructor facilitate the subject of the post below?

I'm not sure I would want to; my tendency to hide my political leanings from my students might well evaporate. I am constantly en garde with reference to a teaching strategy that might very well resemble indoctrination. Even if students happen to present an argument that I am in agreement with, I challenge them with a counter-argument.

And there are counter-arguments that could be presented to establish a justification for AIG's week of partying at the St. Regis Spa in California. (Among the revelers, there were actually only 10 AIG representatives present. Besides, the week had been planned and scheduled before the bailout had been requested and granted. Et cetera.) And there are counter-counter-arguments. (Whether there were 10 or 20 AIG employees, what difference does that make? And even if the big, expensive celebration was already scheduled, why could it not be cancelled?) And there are, of course, counter-counter-counter rejoinders...

The first strategy that comes to mind would be an in-class debate. Fine, but how would you set that up? What would the rules be? Would the teacher serve as judge and evaluator, or would a panel of students serve in that capacity? Would the format include both uninterrupted vocal delivery as well as a verbal free-for-all among all participants? What about readings beforehand? Not just recent news articles, but one concerning the ethics of business practice in a global economy, or a Paul Krugman or David Brooks op-ed piece.

And oh yes, where would writing come in? Oh, well. Just thinking out loud...

Party Time!

If I had it to do over again, I would have majored in business. Here's why. It's a bill from a fashionable spa in sunny California. Note the grand total. 443,000 smackeroo's. Whew!

And who's being billed all that money?...Why none other than AIG. You've heard of them, right? They're a big Wall Street outfit that was about to go belly-up last month, until the government rode to the rescue with $85 billion of taxpayer moolah.

And what's the first thing AIG does with all that brand new inflow of bail-out capital from Uncle Sam? Why they throw a big shindig for the boys in the sales department for a job well done.

Oh, brother! Did I ever get in the wrong racket ?!

UPDATE!

Even after all the hullabaloo created by AIG's half-million dollar weeklong post-bailout vacation, Treasury Secretary Henry "Swifty" Paulson has decided to award the troubled company an additional $37.8 billion in federal subsidies.

All of which gives more and more credence to conspiratorial claims on the part of some observers that Bush and Paulson and Wall Street have successfuly engineered the greatest bank robbery in history -- and with the sanction of Congress to boot. The result: a sudden and massive redistribution of wealth under the guise of a $750 billion loan.

...Or is there an alternative interpretation?



NO. NOT IN A MILLION YEARS!

Montaigne's Medallion

Viewed my old VHS copy of "Quiz Show" last Sunday afternoon. It's the film about the Columbia U English prof who gets caught up in the NBC quiz-show scandals of 1957-58.



At one point in the film, the prof is seen lecturing his students on Michel Montaigne, informing them that the essayist used to sport a medallion with the words, "What do I know?" Interesting -- and an irony too, in light of the fact that the prof himself will soon be challenged by a Congressional investigator with regard to that very same question.

Why Did I Despise the Dallas Cowboys?...

...Because it was fun. Great fun.

Years ago, I used to follow professional football religiously. I don't use that adverb lightly either. To many in this state, the 'Boys were a religion. What was it the Cowboy fanatic said about their stadium in Irving with the "hole" in the roof?:

"Well, y'see, that hole was put thar so God can watch His team play."



For years, the Dallas franchise advertised itself as "America's Team." It didn't matter that no one but Texans actually swallowed that drool. Because when you discuss football in the Lone Star State, you'd better not diss the boys with that lone star on their helmets. That star is no mere pentigram; it's the equivalent of a halo.

Now admittedly, Texas actually had not one, but two NFL teams. But Cowboy fans were loathe to admit the reality of anything other than the legitimacy of their own obsession. And as far as that Houston team went? Well, sheeeeeeee. That lowly football club down in the Bayou weren't nothin' to talk about. To local sports fans, they were about as interesting to follow as a ladies' field-hockey expansion club.

One summer, a hurricane just brushed the city of Corpus Christi, and the local TV station that carried all the Cowboys games was knocked off the air. The station could have fixed the problem in a day or so....if it weren't for the fact that their nifty, conscientious maintenance department didn't stock the spare part to repair their transmission problems. The part had to be back-ordered from the factory. As a result, it took over two weeks for them to reestablish a signal.

Fans of "Knot's Landing" and "Dallas" and "Falcon Crest" didn't mind; after all, it was the re-run season. The daytime soap-opera fans didn't mind; the stories moved so slowly, who could possibly notice the difference if two weeks were missing? And what about the news junkies? No, they weren't put out by the missing TV station either. They all thought Cronkite, the network anchorman, was a "pinko" anyway. Besides, there was always HBO and the other 5 stations on cable.

Now losing one out of five local TV stations was not exactly the Tragedy of the Century. It certainly didn't rank right up there with the Depression or the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. So did Cowboy fans take it all in stride when they were denied their weekly fix of meaningless Dallas exhibition games? No sirree, they did not! And for the next fateful 14 days or so, the owner and the general manager of the station were snowed under with a blizzard of invective and hate-mail and phone calls from anonymous fans who swore the station owner would meet his fate one night soon, in a dark, deserted alley. You see, when you mess with fans of God's team, you also risk suffering His wrath.

I was probably the only sports fan in the city who didn't miss those 2 games; I had ceased devoting myself to Cowboymania in 1977, after they drafted a running-back from Pitt, Tony Dorsett, in the first round. A real character, this Dorsett. Immediately after signing his contract, he called a press conference to announce he was changing the pronunciation of his name, from DOR-sett, to Dor-SETT. Amazing! What was Tom Landry smoking the day he settled on this guy?

So I began dissing the 'Boys. I did it in public too. Despite the number of Cowboy-hotheads in the vicinity, no one challenged me to a fistfight. Nothing that drastic. After all, these 20-something macho Dallas fans were also my friends from high-school and even long before. And it amused me no end to go to their homes or apartments and munch their snacks and guzzle their beer and watch all the games on their sets and thank them for their hospitality by laughing out loud every time Roger Staubach was sacked by a 300-pound defensive lineman, or when Drew Pearson fumbled a Hail-Mary bomb in the end-zone, or when the speedy Tony Dor-SETT ricocheted off a noseguard and was dropped behind the line of scrimmage to set up a fourth-and-26. To most Texans, dissing the Cowboys was like taking a dump in the middle of a Papal Mass. You simply didn't do it. It wasn't accepted behavior.

Predictably, the invitations from friends to watch games on Sunday afternoon trickled down to nothing. But I didn't mind. I discovered new obsessions to keep me occupied. But more about those later...

Friday's "Discovery"

When one endeavors to "discover the self" through the type of post I made below (on Friday), then he (or she) had better get it right. And by getting it right, I mean writing honestly and truthfully, because if you avoid the truth, your audience will sense it practically every time. (Which makes me wonder how Washington Post reporter Janet Cooke actually got away with it. But we'll leave that for another time.)

It's not that the post is deliberately dishonest or ignores the "truth." What it is, is an example of not being honest or truthful enough. As I read it over a second time, I can see that there are (unintentional) omissions that, in a reverse sort of way, act as the sort of self-serving nonsense that can really alienate a reader. And there are other problems too. So let's take a closer look; some revision is in order.

That bit about "a pile of charred remains" in an early paragraph. That's got to go. Sounds like something Stephen King made up in his salad days. But........since it's Saturday and I'm feeling more self-deprecatory than usual, I think I'll leave it in there, and only as a reminder that humility is also necessary for "honest," "truthful" writing. Now to continue...

Note where I wrote, "...I did regret one person was not there to share my birthday with me, even for just a hour or a half-hour -- That person is my daughter." Stop right there.......Now a reader would be justified in asking, why so short a time for a visit? Why just an hour or a half-hour? Okay. That's a fair question. Wanna hear the answer? Good, then here it is....Because that just might probably be the total amount of time we can stand to feel comfortable with each other! Ah, but I left out that little morsel of information, didn't I? Now why was that? Was it because I feared it would spoil the otherwise sombre mood of the piece as a whole? Maybe. But more than likely, I just didn't feel like revealing that much of our relationship at the time the post was written. The point is, I made the choice not to include it. And that's dishonesty through omission.

There are other spots. But I won't belabor the issue; I think you get the point. If you write these sorts of -- what? Outpourings? -- you can not consciously or unconsciously omit the "truth" from your writing. Because your audience won't "get" it, unless you're seeking solace from the gullible. Instead, you'll be on the receiving end of a big Bronx cheer. Deservedly too.

On Not Reflecting

Thus far, this blog contains three separate examples of personal writing observed objectively:

(1) Essay-writing to win a contest prize;
(2) Essay-writing to be published in a newspaper (where the author is employed);
(3) Essay-writing as a sample for a college's admissions office.

Three separate purposes. So, I guess it's my turn. Well then, here goes. (And I don't even know my purpose yet.)

Yesterday was my birthday. How old am I? The answer is of small consequence. Let's put it this way: if I baked a cake and stuck in the number of candles required to designate my age, then my place of residence might possibly be a pile of charred remains this morning.

Yesterday, I received no presents, no cards, no calls. Absolutely nothing from no one. But I did not mind. It was my birthday. I was left alone. Well, almost. But I did not mind terribly the e-mailed memorandum from my place of employment telling me that I had neglected to turn in a personal information form at the start of term. That was easy to take care of; in fact, they were very nice about it. They suspected it was all a mistake in paperwork due to a "transition" in the office team.

Yet there was nothing special about yesterday...except for the fact that I did regret one person was not there to share my birthday with me, even for just a hour or a half-hour -- That person is my daughter. My daughter, whom I have not seen in three years.

Actually, the last I had heard about her was in early 2006, when her mother phoned me up at school and told me that my "little girl" had been using her high-school graduation present, a new Izusu, to transport loads of methamphetamine for her boy friend. In fact, she was sampling some of the merchandise herself.

Her mother and I are separated; and customarily, we never communicate with one another. That's the way we prefer it. But on this rare occasion, her mother deemed the situation serious enough for her to call. And yet she knew that if my daughter discovered that I had been informed of what she had done, it would shame her no end. Thus, I did not do what I probably should have done; rushed right over to have a talk with my daughter -- even while she was still speeding. Instead, I did not do a thing, based on the recommendation of her mother that I should feign ignorance of the affair.

Yet, why did she call with this news of my daughter? Why did she feel it necessary for me to know -- and then to say, "but don't tell her I told you so?" What was this? A game? Yet at the time, I was too surprised and disappointed to even consider such possibilities. I was in no mood to reflect.

How convenient to be told that your daughter's screwing up her life; and then told afterwards that it's okay to ignore it, based upon even more convenient reasoning.

I have not seen my daughter in over 3 years. Maybe I don't deserve to see her. Maybe I deserve birthdays in which aloneness is both apprecitated and despaired.

The rough part is my inability to experience any guilt over my own complacency. Even now, I feel no anguish over my decision to accept her mother's recommendation. But I did. And I feel no remorse.

I only feel cold.

So happy birthday to me.

From the Land of 10,000 Lakes

Anne Van De Veer, 16, won a $100 worth of gifts for this entry in an essay contest sponsored by something called Teens Against Dating Abuse. (I don't take lightly the apparent purpose of this something, merely the multiple references suggested by the object of the preposition.)

In her essay Miss Van De Veer confesses:

Now I’m 16; still pretty young and not very experienced in dating relationships. But I do know something about love. I know what love isn’t.

Right. And I know something about Timbuktu...because I have never been there. But leaving aside this bit of Palinesque logic (in honor of the candidate from Alaska who knows all about Russia because she can see it outside her window), one can glance further down Anne's essay and realize that she's at least trying to get at something:

If the person you love has a sense of humor and teases you, that’s fine, but I feel that real love is seeing the line, and staying away from it. When the teasing is too much, and it perhaps turns mean, then they’ve crossed a highly important line. Then it’s no longer funny and the relationship isn’t as healthy as it ought to be. Teasing in a hurting way is not really love...

...Love is kindness, honesty, forgiveness, differences, imperfections, and disagreements. However, we are blessed with the ability to love infinitely.

But, hey! What do I know about love?

Probably more than I know, Anne dearest. I reached the Age of Indifference long ago.

After the Storm

The Houston Chronicle has been publishing a series of "personal essays" on survivors of Hurricane Ike. These creative entries serve as riveting recordings of what, for many, will become a red-letter date in Golden Triangle history.

This essay mourns the damage to a large acreage of gardens planted by Houston's famed benefactor, Ima Hogg (1882-1975).



"A city abhors the darkness. When we light up the night we can walk on the sidewalk with no fear."

Thus concludes David Kaplan in his selection on how one city pub has discovered for itself (and its patrons) a suddent, quiet ambience:

...Normally, the place is more of a sports bar, with games blaring on multiple TVs, he said. Working at a noisy sports bar night after night can wear you down, he said. On this night, though, the people were not as loud and "weren't acting up as much," John said. He felt like he was still on vacation. Behind the bar, Jesi and Charlotte served beer. Their faces glowed from candlelight. They could have been 17th-century waitresses. In Ike's wake, there was a feeling here at the bar: This is all we're left with, and this is all we need...

Two other essays in this series are linked below.
Glory, With Flick of Switch
Unplugged, and Oh, So Uneasy

The authors are city-desk and staff reporters, but here they respond to the challenge of injecting the personal into their otherwise just-the-facts style of composing. And they are more than up to the task.

Strictly Business

Personal essays are fine and dandy....for Freshman Comp 101. But not if you're trying to crash the college scene in the first place. So says this Boston College professor and part-time advice-columnist.

"Hi. I'm Ron...Dr. Fletcher to you.
I teach personal essay-writing at B.C. and publish an advice column on the side...Dr. Phil's got nuthin' on me!"
Quoth he:

Each year I've had to walk a fine line with students who've wanted to write about intimate matters, such as discovering their true sexual orientation or revealing a struggle with depression. I applaud their courage and candor, but ask that they step back and consider the audience and objective of the college essay.

Tales of besting adversity can work well. Tales of existential despair, however, can appear as a red flag to admissions committees, many of which are increasingly concerned about their prospective students' state of mind.

And in this era of Columbine and Virginia Tech, one can see why.

Thus, Fletcher warns, if you wanna wow the powers-that-be and show the big-shots in Admissions that your wonderful writing can move mountains more forcefully than a California earthquake, then you better wait till you sign up for his class. Until then, cool it and keep it strictly impersonal.