Saturday, February 21, 2004
C + Sharp
While nothing beyond Gerry McNamara's buzzer-beating three-point hurl (earning the 'CUSE a much-needed late-season victory) to beat the Hoyas seemed possible today, in terms of shocks, I read here and here that frozen pigs are flying in hell over the body of a River.
Hoping to avoid a jinx, I'll only say that it's warming to see that old, back-ordered friendships can overcome bitterness and heal. It would be untrue, though, to say that something bright blue about being fourteen stirred in me. Say it might be so.
While nothing beyond Gerry McNamara's buzzer-beating three-point hurl (earning the 'CUSE a much-needed late-season victory) to beat the Hoyas seemed possible today, in terms of shocks, I read here and here that frozen pigs are flying in hell over the body of a River.
Hoping to avoid a jinx, I'll only say that it's warming to see that old, back-ordered friendships can overcome bitterness and heal. It would be untrue, though, to say that something bright blue about being fourteen stirred in me. Say it might be so.
Friday, February 20, 2004
Method Men
That wheel of fate known as "The Ten Most Recently Published Blogs" spun me to this site, nascent and tidy. It collects varied cultural oddities and contradictions, including a current Atlantic Monthly piece on the new, writing-sensitive SAT.
Synopsis: the classic two-part-torture SAT has been revamped to include a writing section (worth 800 pts), upping the perfect score to 2400. In essence, as the article suggests, the SAT II Writing test has just been "tacked on" to the old standart test, minus its stodgy analogies. I believe this new strain hits Saturdays in March.
First of all, this seems like much bigger news than should have escaped the paltry attention I pay to current events.
More serious is the squeamish conflict of validation and shock I feel in response to the article and its well-made points. Apparently, in order to accomodate efficient grading of a newly-expected, overwhelming payload of teenage paragraphs, the readers spend only a couple minutes on each response; and the criteria for a higher mark require prosaic, unimaginative, cookie-cutter essays.
While I understand the task of sifting and sorting the writing ability of every college-hopeful student, that success is equated with the dull misanthropies of language we try to combat in our students' compositions is frustrating. Come on, SAT, MUST each paragraph contain the phrase "for example"? Should the conclusion begin with "in conclusion" as well?
The authors of the article make entertaining fodder of grading canonical literature according to the new rubric. While I don't expect any of my freshmen or seniors to achieve the stark subltey or rebelious poetry of Hemingway or Stein, I certainly encourage them to be equal parts proper writer and unique writer.
That the Unabomber's no less intellectual, but far less artistic, "test answer" was judged to be of the highest rating (6/6), and Shakespeare's to be far inferior (2/6), reveals society's (or at least society in the manifestation of the College Board) common blindness to what actually constitutes good writing: wit over clear baking instructions, sound and rhythm over "for example," and the shattering -- not the upholding -- of stale conventions.
Why validated? Carlo Teehop, English chair and friend, has impressed upon me (with no resistance) an approach to teaching English that is drenched in writing. Writing, writing, writing. Clarity, style, invention. Coherence, order, form. Spontaneity, revision, revision. Revision. Amanda (the other third of the department) is in like accord. We really, the three of us, just think we are the shit. Three Elizabeth Bennets in land of Lydias. We use annotation, reader's journals, essays, 'blogs, and read and study from the rich models we've received. The classes are courses in literature, but with the intention of learning how to analyse the meaning of and approach the state of literature in their own writing. Now that they will be assessed on their compositional ability by the robotic St. Peters of ETS, I'm A) happy the students at my School will have been so pointedly prepared by our brilliant faculty of three, but B) apprehensive that they might have become too sharp and too iconoclastic to be judged "competent."
That wheel of fate known as "The Ten Most Recently Published Blogs" spun me to this site, nascent and tidy. It collects varied cultural oddities and contradictions, including a current Atlantic Monthly piece on the new, writing-sensitive SAT.
Synopsis: the classic two-part-torture SAT has been revamped to include a writing section (worth 800 pts), upping the perfect score to 2400. In essence, as the article suggests, the SAT II Writing test has just been "tacked on" to the old standart test, minus its stodgy analogies. I believe this new strain hits Saturdays in March.
First of all, this seems like much bigger news than should have escaped the paltry attention I pay to current events.
More serious is the squeamish conflict of validation and shock I feel in response to the article and its well-made points. Apparently, in order to accomodate efficient grading of a newly-expected, overwhelming payload of teenage paragraphs, the readers spend only a couple minutes on each response; and the criteria for a higher mark require prosaic, unimaginative, cookie-cutter essays.
While I understand the task of sifting and sorting the writing ability of every college-hopeful student, that success is equated with the dull misanthropies of language we try to combat in our students' compositions is frustrating. Come on, SAT, MUST each paragraph contain the phrase "for example"? Should the conclusion begin with "in conclusion" as well?
The authors of the article make entertaining fodder of grading canonical literature according to the new rubric. While I don't expect any of my freshmen or seniors to achieve the stark subltey or rebelious poetry of Hemingway or Stein, I certainly encourage them to be equal parts proper writer and unique writer.
That the Unabomber's no less intellectual, but far less artistic, "test answer" was judged to be of the highest rating (6/6), and Shakespeare's to be far inferior (2/6), reveals society's (or at least society in the manifestation of the College Board) common blindness to what actually constitutes good writing: wit over clear baking instructions, sound and rhythm over "for example," and the shattering -- not the upholding -- of stale conventions.
Why validated? Carlo Teehop, English chair and friend, has impressed upon me (with no resistance) an approach to teaching English that is drenched in writing. Writing, writing, writing. Clarity, style, invention. Coherence, order, form. Spontaneity, revision, revision. Revision. Amanda (the other third of the department) is in like accord. We really, the three of us, just think we are the shit. Three Elizabeth Bennets in land of Lydias. We use annotation, reader's journals, essays, 'blogs, and read and study from the rich models we've received. The classes are courses in literature, but with the intention of learning how to analyse the meaning of and approach the state of literature in their own writing. Now that they will be assessed on their compositional ability by the robotic St. Peters of ETS, I'm A) happy the students at my School will have been so pointedly prepared by our brilliant faculty of three, but B) apprehensive that they might have become too sharp and too iconoclastic to be judged "competent."
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Menu
Anyone remember Mssr. Mangez-Tout? from Believe it or Not? This guy doesn't quite compare, although his story is more compelling and poetic than most cases of pica (not that I know of many others). Instead of eating bikes and Cessnas, this unidentified French man ate mostly only coins. I can see a bad documentary or novel being released in two years titled The Money Eater.
Apparently, as I young child I once ate dirt. And a Marquez character survives in the jungle by eating dirt and rocks and later paint from a wall.
Anyone remember Mssr. Mangez-Tout? from Believe it or Not? This guy doesn't quite compare, although his story is more compelling and poetic than most cases of pica (not that I know of many others). Instead of eating bikes and Cessnas, this unidentified French man ate mostly only coins. I can see a bad documentary or novel being released in two years titled The Money Eater.
Apparently, as I young child I once ate dirt. And a Marquez character survives in the jungle by eating dirt and rocks and later paint from a wall.
Comments solicited. Revision imminent. (Feedback junkie.)
Vigil
I am not in love with poems about the night, tonight.
Divorces: music from ear,
fingers from the face of a peach,
breath from wind, wind from skin,
science from literature,
freshmen from seniors, respect
from respect, friendly gesture from recognition,
an idea of home from home.
Night is not in love with poems about me, tonight.
Intrusions: unlovely vigil,
liar with a growing will,
you see me falsely in a pool of indigo,
but I am onxy without luster, I am
the false brother of warmth, and
I seeth at the boundary of blankets and windows.
Tonight is not in love with itself, me.
Affirmations: the mind is a spark,
the wind is a courier, the blackness always glows,
the blanket warms the pools of growing will,
I don't have a brother,
but I never fail to see peach in a friend,
or the lovely fingers of my lover,
when dusk begins its solemn study of the trees.
Vigil
I am not in love with poems about the night, tonight.
Divorces: music from ear,
fingers from the face of a peach,
breath from wind, wind from skin,
science from literature,
freshmen from seniors, respect
from respect, friendly gesture from recognition,
an idea of home from home.
Night is not in love with poems about me, tonight.
Intrusions: unlovely vigil,
liar with a growing will,
you see me falsely in a pool of indigo,
but I am onxy without luster, I am
the false brother of warmth, and
I seeth at the boundary of blankets and windows.
Tonight is not in love with itself, me.
Affirmations: the mind is a spark,
the wind is a courier, the blackness always glows,
the blanket warms the pools of growing will,
I don't have a brother,
but I never fail to see peach in a friend,
or the lovely fingers of my lover,
when dusk begins its solemn study of the trees.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Connotation
What her parents called sex she calls herself.
What the older teacher called context she
screams to hallway between tortured bouts
of sex. The tempos of lovesongs
have gone all slurry, like red acoustic wine.
A wooden guitar dripping with the heavy liquid
her textbook called menstruation, a word
she chooses to adopt into conversations
with only the daughters she'll start having soon.
What dead men have called poetry
she flees, like from the frozen corpse of a god.
What her parents called sex she calls herself.
What the older teacher called context she
screams to hallway between tortured bouts
of sex. The tempos of lovesongs
have gone all slurry, like red acoustic wine.
A wooden guitar dripping with the heavy liquid
her textbook called menstruation, a word
she chooses to adopt into conversations
with only the daughters she'll start having soon.
What dead men have called poetry
she flees, like from the frozen corpse of a god.
Goodbye, Soriano
In a brief internte search, I've yet to see any of the major sports/MLB analysts post an in-dept article on the latest -- and greatest -- off-season trade. I invoke "great" here free of all moral connotations and purely for its denoting "large[st] size."
Not that I want to avoid a brief throw-down of baseball morality. It is hard, having been raised as a Yankee fan through the era of only-Mattingly, and given my passion for the sport and its role in our culture, to reach an objective vantage point on the Yankees's (that is, on Steinbrenner's) unequaled use of money to amass talent. Too many mitigating factors root, and their strength together blocks any sense of guilt (that any Red Socks fan/ Yankee-hater can easily stoke).
1) Although, more and more, the Yankee roster balloons with super-star names, it has ALWAYS been the coordination of their entire team that contributes most to their success. The true mythic clutch-heroes whom we've canonized in the last eight years of brilliance are Luis Sojo, Scott Brosius, Girardi, Boone -- not Giambi or Jeter. Any Yankee, at any time, threatens. For every star's hitless streak, a nasty steal or an immortal defensive play compensates. That the stars contribute greatly to Yankee dominance is evident, but they are not the lone, or most vital, force.
2) In a similar vein, grassroots ambition and historical grace out-weigh greed in the scale of reasons to become a Yankee. Unfortunate as it is to all non-Yankee fans, their teams are simply not the Yankees. The draw the pinstripes exert is a pure draw, aglow in the innocence of every card-collecting child. Jeter, Soriano, and Manny Ramirez all came of ball-playing age literally in the shadow of the Bronx Bombers. Two of these players have earned their seat in the eternal feast of baseball glory, the other is a fantastic athlete on a perennially doomed ballclub who scavenges for scraps.
3) While the Yankees outspend every other franchaise, they also outclass them. I, too, would jump in line to mock seven-figure ego-cases if they all followed the path of Deon Sanders or most any NBA star. Prima-donnaism and the distractions of attempting to be "stylish" is anathema in Stein's house. Respect for the game, and for pursuing excellence in its play, are at the core of the Yankee philosophy. THAT is why anyone on the bench can sting you. Every Yankee shaves, grooms, is a gentleman.
Now we have gone and bought the most expensive player in baseball, Alex Rodriguez. I'm probably less happy than the majority of Yankee fans. Despite all the above reasons in defense of the Yankees's financial habits, I am not pleased by this deal. I see it not as a fabulous acquisition, but as a dubious loss. Alfonso Soriano, the other half of the trade with the Rangers, had taken the coveted pedestal in my soul labelled "favorite yankee" (previously occupied by Scott Brosius). I loved his vivacity, his tenacity, the way he'd wind up tight in the absolute front of the batter's box, daring the pitcher to throw his heat, a furious base-stealer (like I once was), and a continual smiler. Best of all, he was human. He made errors, and they tore at his ego's musculature, but then it healed, stronger, scarred. He was the kind of player that defines Yankee. Something classic, something alive, something eternal. Now, he's just another skilled 2nd baseman. Let's see, however, what kind and how much of an impact he makes on the Rangers, compared to Rodriguez in his first year as a Yank.
A-Rod plays shorstop, but since the Yanks already have an icon/team-captain at that position, he's getting shoved about fifteen feet to the right to cover the gap left by currently-injured-for-the-season, regular 3rd baseman Aaron Boone. All this fuss over who will cover which part of half the infield, when MORE attention should be paid to who's going to cover the gap left by Soriano: 2nd base. Erick Almonte? Enrique Wilson? Give me a break. No life, no spark.
In a brief internte search, I've yet to see any of the major sports/MLB analysts post an in-dept article on the latest -- and greatest -- off-season trade. I invoke "great" here free of all moral connotations and purely for its denoting "large[st] size."
Not that I want to avoid a brief throw-down of baseball morality. It is hard, having been raised as a Yankee fan through the era of only-Mattingly, and given my passion for the sport and its role in our culture, to reach an objective vantage point on the Yankees's (that is, on Steinbrenner's) unequaled use of money to amass talent. Too many mitigating factors root, and their strength together blocks any sense of guilt (that any Red Socks fan/ Yankee-hater can easily stoke).
1) Although, more and more, the Yankee roster balloons with super-star names, it has ALWAYS been the coordination of their entire team that contributes most to their success. The true mythic clutch-heroes whom we've canonized in the last eight years of brilliance are Luis Sojo, Scott Brosius, Girardi, Boone -- not Giambi or Jeter. Any Yankee, at any time, threatens. For every star's hitless streak, a nasty steal or an immortal defensive play compensates. That the stars contribute greatly to Yankee dominance is evident, but they are not the lone, or most vital, force.
2) In a similar vein, grassroots ambition and historical grace out-weigh greed in the scale of reasons to become a Yankee. Unfortunate as it is to all non-Yankee fans, their teams are simply not the Yankees. The draw the pinstripes exert is a pure draw, aglow in the innocence of every card-collecting child. Jeter, Soriano, and Manny Ramirez all came of ball-playing age literally in the shadow of the Bronx Bombers. Two of these players have earned their seat in the eternal feast of baseball glory, the other is a fantastic athlete on a perennially doomed ballclub who scavenges for scraps.
3) While the Yankees outspend every other franchaise, they also outclass them. I, too, would jump in line to mock seven-figure ego-cases if they all followed the path of Deon Sanders or most any NBA star. Prima-donnaism and the distractions of attempting to be "stylish" is anathema in Stein's house. Respect for the game, and for pursuing excellence in its play, are at the core of the Yankee philosophy. THAT is why anyone on the bench can sting you. Every Yankee shaves, grooms, is a gentleman.
Now we have gone and bought the most expensive player in baseball, Alex Rodriguez. I'm probably less happy than the majority of Yankee fans. Despite all the above reasons in defense of the Yankees's financial habits, I am not pleased by this deal. I see it not as a fabulous acquisition, but as a dubious loss. Alfonso Soriano, the other half of the trade with the Rangers, had taken the coveted pedestal in my soul labelled "favorite yankee" (previously occupied by Scott Brosius). I loved his vivacity, his tenacity, the way he'd wind up tight in the absolute front of the batter's box, daring the pitcher to throw his heat, a furious base-stealer (like I once was), and a continual smiler. Best of all, he was human. He made errors, and they tore at his ego's musculature, but then it healed, stronger, scarred. He was the kind of player that defines Yankee. Something classic, something alive, something eternal. Now, he's just another skilled 2nd baseman. Let's see, however, what kind and how much of an impact he makes on the Rangers, compared to Rodriguez in his first year as a Yank.
A-Rod plays shorstop, but since the Yanks already have an icon/team-captain at that position, he's getting shoved about fifteen feet to the right to cover the gap left by currently-injured-for-the-season, regular 3rd baseman Aaron Boone. All this fuss over who will cover which part of half the infield, when MORE attention should be paid to who's going to cover the gap left by Soriano: 2nd base. Erick Almonte? Enrique Wilson? Give me a break. No life, no spark.
