Saturday, February 01, 2003
'Tu:
Long catch-up cellular talks with Reetu are heaven held to your head until your wrist and index finger ache and you don't care.
Yay.
Long catch-up cellular talks with Reetu are heaven held to your head until your wrist and index finger ache and you don't care.
Yay.
Beer and Music report:
...first Guiness I've had in a while, a thick nightcap. I'm drinking it as another in a string of ridiculous closure ceremonies, considering who bought it for me.
I'm re-owning a lot of the music I've listened to recently, attaching it to new sense-memories. Jeff Buckley is still tough territory, even though the melodies and tenor-eccentricities are yet in my head. Flaming Lips, Miles Davis, Nico, and Travis abound. I've been using Jurassic Five and 311 as warm-up music for home basketball games.
I've got a half-dozen Sammies left in the fridge, and when they have gone down, I'm going to start expanding my beer horizons at the well-stocked St. James Beer and Soda store. International suds, time, and me. mmmm
[I'm disturbed by the parabolic curve of this posting. I go from beer to music and back to beer. Is there anything of meaning here? I don't drink that often, or perhaps my standard for "often" has changed. If Cheers wasn't on every night, I think I'd go crazy.]
...first Guiness I've had in a while, a thick nightcap. I'm drinking it as another in a string of ridiculous closure ceremonies, considering who bought it for me.
I'm re-owning a lot of the music I've listened to recently, attaching it to new sense-memories. Jeff Buckley is still tough territory, even though the melodies and tenor-eccentricities are yet in my head. Flaming Lips, Miles Davis, Nico, and Travis abound. I've been using Jurassic Five and 311 as warm-up music for home basketball games.
I've got a half-dozen Sammies left in the fridge, and when they have gone down, I'm going to start expanding my beer horizons at the well-stocked St. James Beer and Soda store. International suds, time, and me. mmmm
[I'm disturbed by the parabolic curve of this posting. I go from beer to music and back to beer. Is there anything of meaning here? I don't drink that often, or perhaps my standard for "often" has changed. If Cheers wasn't on every night, I think I'd go crazy.]
Cool as the other side of the Delillo:
On the major all-news networks this afternoon, there was a total Underworld media/image convolution: one set of cameras was fixed on a pair of unmanned, double-mic'ed podiums, awaiting the arrival of two world-leaders to hold what became a tight-lipped press conference; another set of cameras was trained on a intersection-parked, hijacked US Postal truck surrounded by police cars from various Floridian jurisdictions and one offeratory robot-creature (the commentator on Fox News informed us that they had put the feed on a 7-second delay in case something were to happen that would be too graphic for television; I'll bet they lost some ratings when they let that slip). I can almost intuit Delillo's prose as he would capture this distance/non-distance cross-section of media-culture, world politics, infamy, and camera footage. I'm still having trouble enjoying his last book The Body Artist, though. I may have to mail it back to Gary unfinished.
On the major all-news networks this afternoon, there was a total Underworld media/image convolution: one set of cameras was fixed on a pair of unmanned, double-mic'ed podiums, awaiting the arrival of two world-leaders to hold what became a tight-lipped press conference; another set of cameras was trained on a intersection-parked, hijacked US Postal truck surrounded by police cars from various Floridian jurisdictions and one offeratory robot-creature (the commentator on Fox News informed us that they had put the feed on a 7-second delay in case something were to happen that would be too graphic for television; I'll bet they lost some ratings when they let that slip). I can almost intuit Delillo's prose as he would capture this distance/non-distance cross-section of media-culture, world politics, infamy, and camera footage. I'm still having trouble enjoying his last book The Body Artist, though. I may have to mail it back to Gary unfinished.
Erasure:
When I was 8 or so, back on Flower Avenue West, the Owens boys and I spent a good deal of free time playing Nintendo in Chris Richardson's basement, especially in a pooled quest to beat Zelda. Just watching someone from our group play held a sacred importance, and the obtaining of each new object or heart-container was a thrilling dream fulfilment rarely experienced in subsequent years (puberty ruins this). Chris' father, a "cool" dad if there ever was one, who was in the Air Force and played "Guns" with us sometimes, was even more fanatical about the adventures of Link. He had his own saved game.
Well, one summer afternoon, Chris had relatives over for a weekend with younger kids. It wasn't long before the small, ignorant guests found the Nintendo and managed to erase ALL the saved games from the Zelda cartridge. It was shocking. It rocked us to the boyhood core. No friggin way. But from the depths of disbelief, Mr. Richardson (deeply ired by the loss) agreed to pay us money, actual currency, to restore his game to pre-erasure progress ($2 per level was the rate, if I remember correctly). We spent two days straight, and he partly paid us in Candian money, which we welcomed eagerly as a rarity (it had BLUE on it!) Little did we know of exchange rates...
I may have mentioned below my current addiction to Sega Sports Tennis for the PS2, the game-on-tap at WoodDorm. I've been training a character, "TheHIM," for almost two months now, fine-tuning my own game play and TheHIM's footwork, stroke power, serve, and volley ability. His skills had superceded all of the game's pre-programmed stars: Patrick Rafter, Tim Henman, Carlos Moya. Carlo Tee-bop, fellow English teacher/poet/Wood Dorm Parent stopped by Woodhouse tonight with some quick info, and I asked him if he could cover me for a 5 minute break so I could finally get back to my appartment, change, grab my cell, and check phone/email messages. So I took ten minutes, did I deserve this punishment: I return to a repentant Carlo Tee-bop, preparing me for the worst. Yes, he had erased theHIM by mistake while trying to set up an exhibition match with one of the kids. They all anticipated my cardiac arrest, but I took the news rather cooly. I guess my composure is a strong muscle, having been torn-up and re-woven recently.
theHIM was getting to be TOO good, and I was apprehensive of boredom, anyway. Now that I've been reduced back to the game-play Archean Era (I only manage this analogy thanks to the wallet-sized earth-eons chart I recieved sophmore year in Professor Soja's "Dinosaurs to Darwin" geology course; yay Distribution Requirements) and I feel like I have a second-chance at game-life. This time, I'm racking up progress at triple speed. In game-years, I'm well advanced where the original theHIM was. theHIM2 will be stronger, faster, more accurate, and more highly ranked before the age of 24. And he has a killer Borg/Ritchie Tenanbaum cut. Resurrection, baby.
When I was 8 or so, back on Flower Avenue West, the Owens boys and I spent a good deal of free time playing Nintendo in Chris Richardson's basement, especially in a pooled quest to beat Zelda. Just watching someone from our group play held a sacred importance, and the obtaining of each new object or heart-container was a thrilling dream fulfilment rarely experienced in subsequent years (puberty ruins this). Chris' father, a "cool" dad if there ever was one, who was in the Air Force and played "Guns" with us sometimes, was even more fanatical about the adventures of Link. He had his own saved game.
Well, one summer afternoon, Chris had relatives over for a weekend with younger kids. It wasn't long before the small, ignorant guests found the Nintendo and managed to erase ALL the saved games from the Zelda cartridge. It was shocking. It rocked us to the boyhood core. No friggin way. But from the depths of disbelief, Mr. Richardson (deeply ired by the loss) agreed to pay us money, actual currency, to restore his game to pre-erasure progress ($2 per level was the rate, if I remember correctly). We spent two days straight, and he partly paid us in Candian money, which we welcomed eagerly as a rarity (it had BLUE on it!) Little did we know of exchange rates...
I may have mentioned below my current addiction to Sega Sports Tennis for the PS2, the game-on-tap at WoodDorm. I've been training a character, "TheHIM," for almost two months now, fine-tuning my own game play and TheHIM's footwork, stroke power, serve, and volley ability. His skills had superceded all of the game's pre-programmed stars: Patrick Rafter, Tim Henman, Carlos Moya. Carlo Tee-bop, fellow English teacher/poet/Wood Dorm Parent stopped by Woodhouse tonight with some quick info, and I asked him if he could cover me for a 5 minute break so I could finally get back to my appartment, change, grab my cell, and check phone/email messages. So I took ten minutes, did I deserve this punishment: I return to a repentant Carlo Tee-bop, preparing me for the worst. Yes, he had erased theHIM by mistake while trying to set up an exhibition match with one of the kids. They all anticipated my cardiac arrest, but I took the news rather cooly. I guess my composure is a strong muscle, having been torn-up and re-woven recently.
theHIM was getting to be TOO good, and I was apprehensive of boredom, anyway. Now that I've been reduced back to the game-play Archean Era (I only manage this analogy thanks to the wallet-sized earth-eons chart I recieved sophmore year in Professor Soja's "Dinosaurs to Darwin" geology course; yay Distribution Requirements) and I feel like I have a second-chance at game-life. This time, I'm racking up progress at triple speed. In game-years, I'm well advanced where the original theHIM was. theHIM2 will be stronger, faster, more accurate, and more highly ranked before the age of 24. And he has a killer Borg/Ritchie Tenanbaum cut. Resurrection, baby.
Happy New Year (Pacific Rim):
To celebrate Chinese New Year, Miss Stein had planned a dinner-event to which I was added as a last-minute driver. I'm on duty this weekend (meaning I live and live more in Woodhouse, away from my room and amenities), but since all the Wood boys were going to the dinner at Eastern Pavillion in Setauket, I was free to chauffer/ join the party. I drove my Hyundai, carrying with me three hyper but funny Korean adolescents (fitting); fart jokes transcend, friends, time and geography. And they're still funny. All three of them had sweetly-high-tech digital mini-cameras, and many interior shots of my car were flashed.
The restaurant was a combination Chinese/Japanese joint, but with a cultural power-balance that reflects the physical size of the respective countries: the whole menu was Ameri-Chinese fare, with a small corner devoted to different sushi/teryaki dishes. Great food, though, and free! Perks fucking rock my rock. I started with miso soup (mmm) followed by a savoury egg roll, and sesame chicken for the main course. I sat with a round table with 7 of the younger kids, and there was one of those Lazy Susan/revolving trays in the center of the table, as per the opening scene in Temple of Doom (I had to whip out the "remains of Hirhachi, last emperor of the Ming Dynasty.." quote, to no avail: who gave these kids permission to have been born after 1986? kidding).
Just watching the kids in a crowded restaurant with one uneasy server was enough to pass the three hours (mostly waiting for food). I spoke with Gabby and Nat about grunge rock, The Silence of the Lambs, and because I'm a geek, I ended up explaining (unsolicited) the meaning of the word "semantics" to 7th grader Colin Ireland (which he endured and even seemed to appreciate).
Good night to be on duty.
To celebrate Chinese New Year, Miss Stein had planned a dinner-event to which I was added as a last-minute driver. I'm on duty this weekend (meaning I live and live more in Woodhouse, away from my room and amenities), but since all the Wood boys were going to the dinner at Eastern Pavillion in Setauket, I was free to chauffer/ join the party. I drove my Hyundai, carrying with me three hyper but funny Korean adolescents (fitting); fart jokes transcend, friends, time and geography. And they're still funny. All three of them had sweetly-high-tech digital mini-cameras, and many interior shots of my car were flashed.
The restaurant was a combination Chinese/Japanese joint, but with a cultural power-balance that reflects the physical size of the respective countries: the whole menu was Ameri-Chinese fare, with a small corner devoted to different sushi/teryaki dishes. Great food, though, and free! Perks fucking rock my rock. I started with miso soup (mmm) followed by a savoury egg roll, and sesame chicken for the main course. I sat with a round table with 7 of the younger kids, and there was one of those Lazy Susan/revolving trays in the center of the table, as per the opening scene in Temple of Doom (I had to whip out the "remains of Hirhachi, last emperor of the Ming Dynasty.." quote, to no avail: who gave these kids permission to have been born after 1986? kidding).
Just watching the kids in a crowded restaurant with one uneasy server was enough to pass the three hours (mostly waiting for food). I spoke with Gabby and Nat about grunge rock, The Silence of the Lambs, and because I'm a geek, I ended up explaining (unsolicited) the meaning of the word "semantics" to 7th grader Colin Ireland (which he endured and even seemed to appreciate).
Good night to be on duty.
Friday, January 31, 2003
Make Feb. 12 a day of Poetry Against the War
I'm sure many (especially Flynn) will appreciate this nugget from the current friction created between poets' war-protests and the Bush administration.
While I agree that poets' voices should not be silenced (they're not), I can see Mrs. Bush's prudent decision to avoid a publicized Symposium on Whitman, Dickinson, and Langston Hughes that was becoming more of a vaunted event-podium for the opportunistic sides of some of America's greatest writers (writers aren't always the most astute political scientists, even if their words sometimes more passionately inspire liberal politics), including the ancient Stanley Kunitz, Adrienne Rich, Rita Dove, and W.S. Merwin— some of whom will contribute new work to an anti-war collection. Based on prior work, I'm at least more interested to read anything any these greats have managed to crank out than anything by Baraka, Pinter, or Andrew Motion.
One of the best anti-war poems I've read was written by Robert Bly:
"Counting Small-Boned Bodies"
Let's count the bodies over again.
If we could only make the bodies smaller,
the size of skulls,
we could make a whole plain white with skulls in the
moonlight.
If we could only make the bodies smaller,
maybe we could fit
a whole year's kill in front of us on a desk.
If we could only make the bodies smaller,
we could fit
a body into a finger ring, for a keepsake forever.
********
Shit, there's a better one, but it's in the anthology in my office/room up the hill. I'll post it tomorrow.
I'm sure many (especially Flynn) will appreciate this nugget from the current friction created between poets' war-protests and the Bush administration.
While I agree that poets' voices should not be silenced (they're not), I can see Mrs. Bush's prudent decision to avoid a publicized Symposium on Whitman, Dickinson, and Langston Hughes that was becoming more of a vaunted event-podium for the opportunistic sides of some of America's greatest writers (writers aren't always the most astute political scientists, even if their words sometimes more passionately inspire liberal politics), including the ancient Stanley Kunitz, Adrienne Rich, Rita Dove, and W.S. Merwin— some of whom will contribute new work to an anti-war collection. Based on prior work, I'm at least more interested to read anything any these greats have managed to crank out than anything by Baraka, Pinter, or Andrew Motion.
One of the best anti-war poems I've read was written by Robert Bly:
"Counting Small-Boned Bodies"
Let's count the bodies over again.
If we could only make the bodies smaller,
the size of skulls,
we could make a whole plain white with skulls in the
moonlight.
If we could only make the bodies smaller,
maybe we could fit
a whole year's kill in front of us on a desk.
If we could only make the bodies smaller,
we could fit
a body into a finger ring, for a keepsake forever.
********
Shit, there's a better one, but it's in the anthology in my office/room up the hill. I'll post it tomorrow.
Yawn:
In past summers, some of my best days have been spent at Campbell's point, a small private beach community on Lake Ontario, with my nine-year-old cousin, Becky. Swimming, fishing, tubing, sand construction, and trips to Pennock's Ice Cream Stand occupy our time, and I always find it incredible how draining merely 3 or 4 hours can be.
That said, I find that one night with Ballz is just as exhausting (and fun). Granted, I've had a full workday, but just going out to get Mexican and whatnot with her leaves me weary and leaden. Great company, as always, but work. There's something about our friendship-dynamic that seems to require insane amounts of energy; our conversations are erratic, eccentric, and rarely inane. It's anti-chitchat (yes, Erin, I used "chitchat" - what's next, nougat?). In a single moment, we can go from second grade giggling to candid confessions of self-doubt or neurotics (usually on my side), from pre-school to post-modern, from post-college stress sydrome to pee pee.
So, yes, the comparison became apparent tonight.
In past summers, some of my best days have been spent at Campbell's point, a small private beach community on Lake Ontario, with my nine-year-old cousin, Becky. Swimming, fishing, tubing, sand construction, and trips to Pennock's Ice Cream Stand occupy our time, and I always find it incredible how draining merely 3 or 4 hours can be.
That said, I find that one night with Ballz is just as exhausting (and fun). Granted, I've had a full workday, but just going out to get Mexican and whatnot with her leaves me weary and leaden. Great company, as always, but work. There's something about our friendship-dynamic that seems to require insane amounts of energy; our conversations are erratic, eccentric, and rarely inane. It's anti-chitchat (yes, Erin, I used "chitchat" - what's next, nougat?). In a single moment, we can go from second grade giggling to candid confessions of self-doubt or neurotics (usually on my side), from pre-school to post-modern, from post-college stress sydrome to pee pee.
So, yes, the comparison became apparent tonight.
Thursday, January 30, 2003
Item:
The Baja Grill is a fine establishment: gourmet Mexican fare to-go or to eat-in. Ballz and I head there tonight, as long as she gets over her paranoia regarding a recent ex-love interest and his proximity to/affinity for this restaurant.
I usually order the Barbeque Chicken Wrap, but last time I ventured for the Chicken Fajita Wrap which is packed with three kinds of cheese, green peppers, onion, black beans, and (get this) LIME sour cream (mmmm)— still, only as good as Flynchilladas.
The Baja Grill is a fine establishment: gourmet Mexican fare to-go or to eat-in. Ballz and I head there tonight, as long as she gets over her paranoia regarding a recent ex-love interest and his proximity to/affinity for this restaurant.
I usually order the Barbeque Chicken Wrap, but last time I ventured for the Chicken Fajita Wrap which is packed with three kinds of cheese, green peppers, onion, black beans, and (get this) LIME sour cream (mmmm)— still, only as good as Flynchilladas.
Wednesday, January 29, 2003
your brain's cracks and crevices:
Lyrics stuck in my head, that's all.
Anyway, the ---- Varsity Basketball Team (which I co-coach) played it's first game tonight. Our record is 0-7, but this is the first game my boys PLAYED. EVERYONE was on tonight, and nobody was dogging-it on defense. We had intensity and desperation. We pressed and passed and made some threes. If anyone is acquainted with the energy released when their favorite team hits a crucial three-point shot, it's nothing compared to when you are coaching the team: the power is synergized/amplified. Fist pumping was rampant. The only thing missing was Dick Vitale's intonated chanting.
We lost, and all, but it was a great game. We lost 69-49, but it was a solid game. This was the first game where I kicked the wall, and I made the most intense (and perhaps inappropriate) criticisms of the shitty refs' officiating. Up until now, I had only cared that my players peform the fundamentals; I really haven't cared about winning, I just wanted them to improve. Tonight, I wanted that WIN, bitch. Coach Beerose and I are both pumped, though, just to have seen everyone "show up" with ire and intensity.
Lyrics stuck in my head, that's all.
Anyway, the ---- Varsity Basketball Team (which I co-coach) played it's first game tonight. Our record is 0-7, but this is the first game my boys PLAYED. EVERYONE was on tonight, and nobody was dogging-it on defense. We had intensity and desperation. We pressed and passed and made some threes. If anyone is acquainted with the energy released when their favorite team hits a crucial three-point shot, it's nothing compared to when you are coaching the team: the power is synergized/amplified. Fist pumping was rampant. The only thing missing was Dick Vitale's intonated chanting.
We lost, and all, but it was a great game. We lost 69-49, but it was a solid game. This was the first game where I kicked the wall, and I made the most intense (and perhaps inappropriate) criticisms of the shitty refs' officiating. Up until now, I had only cared that my players peform the fundamentals; I really haven't cared about winning, I just wanted them to improve. Tonight, I wanted that WIN, bitch. Coach Beerose and I are both pumped, though, just to have seen everyone "show up" with ire and intensity.
With seconds left...:
...before the masses get back from dinner and sign on and start downloading shit (they've been told not to KaZaa) and crash the server (any minute now) I'm going to try and put up this fade-away posting to let ya'll know I'm alive and kickin' it.
...before the masses get back from dinner and sign on and start downloading shit (they've been told not to KaZaa) and crash the server (any minute now) I'm going to try and put up this fade-away posting to let ya'll know I'm alive and kickin' it.
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
I Am Duty:
I love it when Sun Ho or J. Rok inquire about whether or not I am on duty at WoodDorm (their dorm) on any given night (as opposed to the other 2 teachers who share the Dorm Parenting role). They ask with subtle excitement, "Are you DUTY tonight?" No matter how many times I explain the slang term "dooty" refers to poop, they always ask it this way first (except H. M. "Phil" King, who internalizes every new piece of English-language information like it was handed to him from the deathbed of a blood relative), and I always grin.
So what doo I doo when I'm on duty?
WoodDorm has four student bedrooms, all equipped to be triples, that house seven boarding students (5 Koreans, 1 Taiwanese, 1 White American). There is also a decent sized den/common area that has a prehistoric PC, a 27 inch television, and a School Class Gift of '02-provided Play Station 2, with games that rotate around the different dorms. Currently, the only game worth playing is Sega Sports Tennis, to which I am afraid I am addicted. I have to stop myself on days off-duty from just stopping in to increase my player's stats (he's saved on a memory card). I named my tennis avatar "The HIM" in definite-article honor of a certain Colgate professor of the same nickname (of which he is unaware). Sun Ho pronounces it "The HEEM" and often adds "Ohh, the HEEM is good, now." Indeed, The HIM's skills have steadily improved over the "11 year" career, and he now ranks in the top 100.
Sun Ho, of all the Asian boarders in Woodhouse, seems to have an uncanny grasp on the ever-sidewinding culture of American cool: he knows who Alfred Hitchcock is and that his is "good director," he knows that NCAA Hoops is FAR superior to the NBA, he can recognize many icons and trends. He seems not only aware of our culture, but well-trained in it. He's a sharp kid.
Anyway, I pretty much hover about the den-room while on duty, making periodic checks to see that the kids are studying during the allotted study hall time (730-930PM) and not playing Warcraft or chatting on the Korean-friendly version of IM. I also assist with English/ESL homework, and am chaperone in general. Recently, most of my time is spent watching NCAA basketball, while half-grading papers or typing up the Wednesday vocabulary quizzes. The computer now functions, but the internet is down so often that I rarely use it for that or any other purpose.
Otherwise, even thought I bring books of poetry, I end up playing Sports Tennis and relaxing. At 830PM I give the kids their brown-sack snack (they usually offer up an Oreo™ or something), and from 930-10 (lights out) I play games with them (that is, I demolish them at Sports Tennis), or keep them from getting TOO hyper.
I also find being on duty is a good time to keep up tele-communications with Class of '02ers, family, or Watertown friends (or people in-between definitions). I feel vindicated in having a cellular phone/plan, especially when I eat up my free weekend/night minutes. And there is nothing wrong with keeping in touch. I caught Flynn and friends at a Bennigan's one night, and just Sunday, Reetu and Kyle called from a bar in Chicahgo during the Superbowl. I've kept in frequent contact with Mom and Dad, too, which is good for them AND I. After Chrissy leaves for school next Fall, I don't know what they'll do. Keep smoking and fantasy-baseballing in the empty nest?
I love it when Sun Ho or J. Rok inquire about whether or not I am on duty at WoodDorm (their dorm) on any given night (as opposed to the other 2 teachers who share the Dorm Parenting role). They ask with subtle excitement, "Are you DUTY tonight?" No matter how many times I explain the slang term "dooty" refers to poop, they always ask it this way first (except H. M. "Phil" King, who internalizes every new piece of English-language information like it was handed to him from the deathbed of a blood relative), and I always grin.
So what doo I doo when I'm on duty?
WoodDorm has four student bedrooms, all equipped to be triples, that house seven boarding students (5 Koreans, 1 Taiwanese, 1 White American). There is also a decent sized den/common area that has a prehistoric PC, a 27 inch television, and a School Class Gift of '02-provided Play Station 2, with games that rotate around the different dorms. Currently, the only game worth playing is Sega Sports Tennis, to which I am afraid I am addicted. I have to stop myself on days off-duty from just stopping in to increase my player's stats (he's saved on a memory card). I named my tennis avatar "The HIM" in definite-article honor of a certain Colgate professor of the same nickname (of which he is unaware). Sun Ho pronounces it "The HEEM" and often adds "Ohh, the HEEM is good, now." Indeed, The HIM's skills have steadily improved over the "11 year" career, and he now ranks in the top 100.
Sun Ho, of all the Asian boarders in Woodhouse, seems to have an uncanny grasp on the ever-sidewinding culture of American cool: he knows who Alfred Hitchcock is and that his is "good director," he knows that NCAA Hoops is FAR superior to the NBA, he can recognize many icons and trends. He seems not only aware of our culture, but well-trained in it. He's a sharp kid.
Anyway, I pretty much hover about the den-room while on duty, making periodic checks to see that the kids are studying during the allotted study hall time (730-930PM) and not playing Warcraft or chatting on the Korean-friendly version of IM. I also assist with English/ESL homework, and am chaperone in general. Recently, most of my time is spent watching NCAA basketball, while half-grading papers or typing up the Wednesday vocabulary quizzes. The computer now functions, but the internet is down so often that I rarely use it for that or any other purpose.
Otherwise, even thought I bring books of poetry, I end up playing Sports Tennis and relaxing. At 830PM I give the kids their brown-sack snack (they usually offer up an Oreo™ or something), and from 930-10 (lights out) I play games with them (that is, I demolish them at Sports Tennis), or keep them from getting TOO hyper.
I also find being on duty is a good time to keep up tele-communications with Class of '02ers, family, or Watertown friends (or people in-between definitions). I feel vindicated in having a cellular phone/plan, especially when I eat up my free weekend/night minutes. And there is nothing wrong with keeping in touch. I caught Flynn and friends at a Bennigan's one night, and just Sunday, Reetu and Kyle called from a bar in Chicahgo during the Superbowl. I've kept in frequent contact with Mom and Dad, too, which is good for them AND I. After Chrissy leaves for school next Fall, I don't know what they'll do. Keep smoking and fantasy-baseballing in the empty nest?
Cine-Balm:
Ah, the healing power of Swingers: last night Hayes stopped by under the facade of planning a student-poetry reading for a Friday School Meeting sometime next month, but, as I suspected, the conversation turned to "girl issues" at one point, as well. It's an archetypical discussion with slight variations, but always centered around the same themes. As medicine, I had him watch the first scene where "Mikey" and the John Livingston character who lookes like John Seitz from the London Study Group Spring 2001 are sitting in a cafe, and Mikey is being educated on "forgetting" and "pretending to forget." Hayes admitted to the "so truth" of the scene, especially the essential wisdom that "somehow, they know not to come back 'til you really forget." So truth, indeed. That movie has helped to save me when I needed saving, especially in the time before me and beer was an "us."
Ah, the healing power of Swingers: last night Hayes stopped by under the facade of planning a student-poetry reading for a Friday School Meeting sometime next month, but, as I suspected, the conversation turned to "girl issues" at one point, as well. It's an archetypical discussion with slight variations, but always centered around the same themes. As medicine, I had him watch the first scene where "Mikey" and the John Livingston character who lookes like John Seitz from the London Study Group Spring 2001 are sitting in a cafe, and Mikey is being educated on "forgetting" and "pretending to forget." Hayes admitted to the "so truth" of the scene, especially the essential wisdom that "somehow, they know not to come back 'til you really forget." So truth, indeed. That movie has helped to save me when I needed saving, especially in the time before me and beer was an "us."
Monday, January 27, 2003
Sketches...I MEAN PLAYS!:
CETC humor, there.
Anyway, I wrote last night listening to Miles Davis' "Sketches of Spain" and thinking about those Picasso sketches of Don Quixote.
I need a title and much criticism:
“Sketches of Sketches #1"
play me lusty lip jazz
while we walk to ghost’s house
so the chapping teeth
don’t go galloping shadows
bluish hark, red-orange hark
sillhouette modern, sillhouette morning
arms too long for sanity—
heat vapor making a dance of their jousting
the smell of a short beard and grease
a crescendo of hair unwoven
hair clop to hair clop to not, to care clop
clop clop sigh clop sigh-shuffle weight clop
clop “shake and unwarning, beast and brandish
cleaving the thirst from chests, drinking from the muscle
the metal I carry is the soul of delusion
the stance imaginary willing is winging,
trading gold-smelling maps for gold-smiling teeth
clop
aunts on boats and poodle coifs
euro clop sun-country alimentation
siesta con besos, he dormido con amarillos”
CETC humor, there.
Anyway, I wrote last night listening to Miles Davis' "Sketches of Spain" and thinking about those Picasso sketches of Don Quixote.
I need a title and much criticism:
“Sketches of Sketches #1"
play me lusty lip jazz
while we walk to ghost’s house
so the chapping teeth
don’t go galloping shadows
bluish hark, red-orange hark
sillhouette modern, sillhouette morning
arms too long for sanity—
heat vapor making a dance of their jousting
the smell of a short beard and grease
a crescendo of hair unwoven
hair clop to hair clop to not, to care clop
clop clop sigh clop sigh-shuffle weight clop
clop “shake and unwarning, beast and brandish
cleaving the thirst from chests, drinking from the muscle
the metal I carry is the soul of delusion
the stance imaginary willing is winging,
trading gold-smelling maps for gold-smiling teeth
clop
aunts on boats and poodle coifs
euro clop sun-country alimentation
siesta con besos, he dormido con amarillos”
About Mundays:
A recent trend in mondays has been developing for me in the past weeks that I am eager to perpetuate: I rock casbahs in the classroom on monday morning. I'm sharp, I'm articulate, I'm jumping over moons. Kids are smiling, kids are asking questions, kids aren't looking vacantly out the window (mostly). Today, even my 9th grade class went super-swell: a mini-lesson and direct/indirect objects and WHY/HOW concieving of them can improve our writing style (I'm using this in conjunction with adjective review to start building their sentences up from bland), a review hand-out on poetry terminology for a mini-quiz tomorrow (too much mini, perhaps), and a discussion on the abridged version of the Carver story I read to them on Friday and the nature of image and the mind's eye. English IV was phat-splendid with some brilliant insights/predictions made in the students' weekend writing assignment, especially by K. Ching and Mutt Landau (yessss). Both made clever observations (Darcy's need for "education"/ that the Bennet marriage represents the books fundamental dichotomy: marry for convenience, or marry when you meet your match?) that resonate perfectly with some of the book's intended themes. It's somehow astonishing to hear these kids, who have no experience with Austen, come up with the classic analyses that readers and lit. critics have noticed for decades, but for their first times, orginally.
My closest guess as to a reason behind my Monday prowess would be my intense loathing of all that is, and has ever been, SUNDAY, and Monday's soothing relief-proximity. It is as if Monday is the release of a great, heavy ball from a precipice, a motion that cannot be slowed (until the weekend). Sunday is suck. This smacks of Sisyphus, I know, but it's the truth. Usually, either Tuesday or Wednesday suffer karmically. Fridays usually involve "fun" assignments. Thursday's getting better....
A recent trend in mondays has been developing for me in the past weeks that I am eager to perpetuate: I rock casbahs in the classroom on monday morning. I'm sharp, I'm articulate, I'm jumping over moons. Kids are smiling, kids are asking questions, kids aren't looking vacantly out the window (mostly). Today, even my 9th grade class went super-swell: a mini-lesson and direct/indirect objects and WHY/HOW concieving of them can improve our writing style (I'm using this in conjunction with adjective review to start building their sentences up from bland), a review hand-out on poetry terminology for a mini-quiz tomorrow (too much mini, perhaps), and a discussion on the abridged version of the Carver story I read to them on Friday and the nature of image and the mind's eye. English IV was phat-splendid with some brilliant insights/predictions made in the students' weekend writing assignment, especially by K. Ching and Mutt Landau (yessss). Both made clever observations (Darcy's need for "education"/ that the Bennet marriage represents the books fundamental dichotomy: marry for convenience, or marry when you meet your match?) that resonate perfectly with some of the book's intended themes. It's somehow astonishing to hear these kids, who have no experience with Austen, come up with the classic analyses that readers and lit. critics have noticed for decades, but for their first times, orginally.
My closest guess as to a reason behind my Monday prowess would be my intense loathing of all that is, and has ever been, SUNDAY, and Monday's soothing relief-proximity. It is as if Monday is the release of a great, heavy ball from a precipice, a motion that cannot be slowed (until the weekend). Sunday is suck. This smacks of Sisyphus, I know, but it's the truth. Usually, either Tuesday or Wednesday suffer karmically. Fridays usually involve "fun" assignments. Thursday's getting better....
Sunday, January 26, 2003
Curricuar Report:
For tomorrows weekly American Poetry Enrichment Course, I plan to resurrect Balakian's stodgy "Intoxication with Nature/Whitman and Dickinson" discussion and make it hippp. Kids will be talking about coitus and beach-heads, erogenous zones and the smell of trees. I'll try (hard) to retrain the "balakian voice" from escaping while I read "I taste a liquor never brewed" with the students. Any suggestions for props or concepts to help increase the "thematics" of the day and atmosphere (other than bringing in a wooden bowl full of water)? Results will be posted tomorrow evening (permitted the internet connections stays intact).
For tomorrows weekly American Poetry Enrichment Course, I plan to resurrect Balakian's stodgy "Intoxication with Nature/Whitman and Dickinson" discussion and make it hippp. Kids will be talking about coitus and beach-heads, erogenous zones and the smell of trees. I'll try (hard) to retrain the "balakian voice" from escaping while I read "I taste a liquor never brewed" with the students. Any suggestions for props or concepts to help increase the "thematics" of the day and atmosphere (other than bringing in a wooden bowl full of water)? Results will be posted tomorrow evening (permitted the internet connections stays intact).
Sucked In:
Got sucked into watching MTVs "Battle of the Sexes" reality-fare, probably because the cast of contestants includes PUCK, of RW San Francisco infamy. He's changed, and he hasn't changed. It takes me right back to the glorious summer of '94 which featured THE STATE, Daisy Fuentes, Green Day, "Black Hole Sun," and "Regulators," St. Lawrence soccer camp, Strobert's house, fishing, Stars Soccer, and the innocence and stagnation before driver's licenses.
Got sucked into watching MTVs "Battle of the Sexes" reality-fare, probably because the cast of contestants includes PUCK, of RW San Francisco infamy. He's changed, and he hasn't changed. It takes me right back to the glorious summer of '94 which featured THE STATE, Daisy Fuentes, Green Day, "Black Hole Sun," and "Regulators," St. Lawrence soccer camp, Strobert's house, fishing, Stars Soccer, and the innocence and stagnation before driver's licenses.
