Search Engine Wars

My statcounter.com statcounter has a feature that allows me to see if a person came to my blog via a Google or similar search engine. Here are the last eleven searches that have led to my blog:

cary elwes beer belly [this search came from Germany]
special x-mas gift for husband
have i fell out of love with my husband
i think my husband is gay.
atlantic okinawa playset
sarcastic letter of resignation
christmas letter ideas for husband
need more attention from husband
ohoopee river georgia
take easy with husband in bed [this search came from The Islamic Republic of Iran]
letters to a husband when you get offended

Sadly, I don't think my blog has been useful for any of these; at least, I hope not.


Peace

Why? It's the Freedom Stupid! and The Media's Big Board!

Warning: Political post following. Stop now if you do not like my politics or if you just don't like politics.

On October 26, 2006, the AJC staff cartoonist, Mike Luckovich published this cartoon to commemorate the 2,000th American death in Iraq. At the time I thought it a pretty cheap and tasteless rhetorical trick, yet fairly indicative of the media's addiction to numbers and death. Some of my strongest memories of 9/11 and Katrina are those concerning the media's grotesque obsession with numerical estimations. It was as though the disaster wasn't complete until an exact number was determined. If my memory is correct, (I said my memory was strong, not accurate), then the highest estimations reported by the media for 9/11 were 40,000 and the highest for Katrina were "over 10,000". The networks fell over each other in competing to find the highest estimation they could from someone, anyone in fact. If someone said it, they reported it and let it crawl across their banner every ninety seconds: "40,000 may be dead."

With the war in Iraq, the numbers game continues. Every day that an American is killed in Iraq, the fact is reported and the tally updated. I see nothing wrong with the report of the death if the appropriate context is given, which it rarely is, but the running tally reveals either a macabre, Rainman-like obsession with numbers or an acute editorial bias. The phenomenon sadly reminds me of the overly cheerful public TV/radio telethons, "Wait, Doris, a caller from Fallujah is pledging three more deaths! That only puts us four more under our goal for the year. Come on terrori...I mean insurge....I mean Freedom Fighters. I think we can reach our goal of 2,000 dead before the hour is up. Plant those IEDs, strap a bomb to your wife and kids, and go shopping!" It's disgusting.

I am vaguely reminded of Dr. Strangelove, a movie about very different types of obsessions. The general, "Buck" Turgidson" and played by George C. Scott, is obsessed with "the big board". The big board so obscures his thinking that he cannot make rational decisions or see the obvious beyond the big board. The board provides some great comedic moments; I can still hear Scott's particular way of pronouncing it. Numbers in Iraq have become the Media's big board. Like the tally board on a telethon, they cannot see anything of significance beyond the numbers. Luckovich's cartoon only underscores that sad truth. He asks the question "Why?" with the names of the 2,000. Never mind that the large majority of those 2,000 knew the answer. Luckovich's own newspaper reports the answer despite itself at least every few weeks. How many elections do the Iraqis have to hold, how many constitutions do they have to write, how many of them have to lay down their own life defending their new nation? Where is the tally of Iraqis who have paid the last full measure fighting for their new government? A seventeen year old, Danielle of Fairburn, Georgia, and an 11th-grader at Arlington Christian School provides the obvious answer to Luckovich's question:

Luckovich should feel like I did the day I was caught stupid the first time I taught American government. We were discussing the three branches and the differences between the House and Senate. A student asked how many members are in the House. I confessed that I didn't know. The student continued to expose my ignorance by asking if the number was set constitutionally. I opened my mouth, unsure whether to lie to cover myself and hope for ignorance on the part of my students or further confess my own ignorance (note to new teachers: confess your own ignorance). Another student stepped in, "Actually, there are 435 members of the House, and the number is set by statute." That night I went home and did my homework and have never been caught quite so stupid again. Mr. Luckovich needs to do his homework. I credit him with responding to Danielle's cartoon, but I think that for him, there is still no answer for the question. For Luckovich the war remains pointless and the dead died in vain.

I think it is appropriate and necessary to ask the question, "Why?" about any public endeavor, including the decision to go to war. But to continue to ask it after the answers continue to pile up is ignorant. You didn't hear people asking, "Why?" in 1943. Or "Why?" in 1780. They knew. They knew that: "THESE are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated." Duh! It's the Freedom Stupid.

I wish that I could claim Danielle as my student. Follow the links to read more, including Danielle's letter, but free registration might be required.

Original Why?

Response Freedom

Peace

All Cars Go to Heaven

Friday was our last day of school before break. I was looking forward to the day. All I had to do was input a few grades, go to the high school Christmas party, and go home at noon. Since my wife would not need our good car that day, I decided to take it instead of our mortally wounded mini-van. I should have taken it as a divine sign that the driver's side door was frozen shut. Alas, I forced open the passenger side door and pushed open the driver's side door. It was cold. The entire car was covered in a thin layer of ice. I let the car warm up. Just as the first warm drafts of air began wafting into the cabin, the car cut off. It cut off and refused to restart. My gut told me that it was the end. It was the same feeling that I had the other two times that I have had cars give up the ghost under my foot. Actually, on the other two times it was the same car on two separate occasions, but that is another story. I left our good car's carcass there to thaw in the sun and got into the mini-van. It too was covered in a thin layer of ice. I gingerly let it warm up a bit and turned on the wipers to help break up the ice. Half of the wiper is still glued to the windshield, but I made it to work.

With the cloud of an auto-funeral hanging over my head, I tried to enjoy the day and the party. I discovered another of the little known benefits of teaching freshmen: the parents are still in a middle school mindset and are generous with their gifts. One of the nice things that my school does is take up a cash collection and distribute it equitably to all of the teachers. This avoids any problems with favoritism, bribery, or etc. Every year I get an envelope filled with cash. I count on it for Christmas shopping. It is so much better than another "Best Teacher in the World" apple-shaped ornament. I got $175 in cash this year. In addition, individual parents gave me:
$50.00 American Express Gift Cheque
$15.00 Atlanta Bread Company Gift Card (lousy service-good food)
$5.00 Zaxby's Gift Card
$50.00 Publix Gift Card
A ubiquitous tin of shortbread cookies
A ubiquitous bag of chocolate turtles
A box of See's Chocolates (oh man these were good--great; I am glad that it was a small box; best chocolates I have ever had)
A bag of homemade cookies

A grand total of $290 dollars and 7,540 calories! It may not be much in the way of a Christmas bonus by the business world's standards, but it does make one feel appreciated.

Back to the car. The word came Monday that it had indeed expired. We had been counting on that car living a few more years and buying new one to replace the van. My son burst into tears when his mother told him that the "blue car" died. He was desperately worried about his smiley face stickers, "Did my stickers die, too?". The news that we were buying a new silver car only made him more upset, "I don't like silver, I like blue." I am sure that we will be reaping the theological whirlwind of this event in the middle of some night real soon; we just need to let these ideas percolate around in his curious brain for a while.

Today, I bought my first new car. It is a 2006 Toyota Corolla. It had seven miles on it when I signed the papers. It is a beautiful thing. I drove it home and have not driven that carefully since I had bought my children home from the hospital. In fact, the "blue car" was the car in which I drove my children home from the hospital. I will not dwell on that, or I too shall be crying over smiley face stickers. Money will be a bit tight for the next 63 months, and we only have one car. But it is Christmas, my children are thrilled with the holidays, and there is joy in the world (and one more dark chocolate--marshmallow--caramel in my box of See's).


Peace

Encounters with Santa, Part III

Getting to sleep on Christmas Eve is a real challenge for a youngster. I had two basic strategies when I was growing up. The first and earliest strategy related to the Christmas Eve tradition of opening one present per person. I would spend the days and weeks before Christmas Eve weighing, shaking, squeezing, and analyzing each gift under the tree that was addressed to me. Then I would choose the one gift that I thought could sufficiently distract me on Christmas Eve with hours of fun. Ideally, the hours of fun, hopefully with a new Lego set, would culminate with a satiated and exhausted me climbing into bed and actually falling asleep. Despite the expertise in gift assessment that I developed, there were years where I would choose poorly, and I would be left trying to figure out how a new set of school clothes could get me to sleep.

As I grew older, my Christmas Eve insomnia did not abate, but my strategy changed as my gifts evolved. That Christmas is a bittersweet one when a boy first asks for clothes or tools for Christmas. It is another step on the road to manhood and away from childhood. Needless to say, clothes and tools will not put me to sleep on Christmas Eve. I went from searching for Lego to searching for baseball cards, video games, or books. In addition, my second strategy developed after a school chum gave me a boxed set of Lord of the Rings. After that, I would read LOTR over Christmas break. My reading would culminate on Christmas Eve when I would read LOTR (usually somewhere in The Two Towers) by the light of the two foot tall artificial tree in my room. Three hours of reading would usually do it. If not, I would read some more.

Several years ago, my nephew was in town for Christmas. It was to be his last Christmas of Santa belief. We could not get him to go to bed on Christmas Eve at my parent's house. He was just too excited and pumped up on Christmas sugars. The hour was getting late and time was required for "Santa" to deliver the goodies. Someone had the brilliant idea of using the extra phone line in the house to call the other line and act as Santa. My nephew's father played the role of Santa. The phone rang in the kitchen and I picked it up. "Its Santa," I told my nephew as I handed him the phone. His eyes grew round as plates, and he nodded into the phone, speechless. After a few moments of wide-eyed listening, he handed the phone to me and said, "I have to go to bed right now!" He almost ran into his dad coming downstairs as he sprinted up the stairs to bed. Today, I believe he claims that he knew it was his dad.


Peace

Encounters with Santa, Part Two

I grew up a firm believer... in Santa. When other friends had cast him aside or backslide into a lazy agnosticism, I still believed. Even when the evidence began to pile up against his existence, I felt that the evidence for was just too strong. Every time I aired my doubts to my parents, they had a scientific explanation. For example, after seeing Santa in two different malls, I asked, "How can Santa be in so many malls at the same time?" The answer was quick and decisive, "Santa is a very busy man so he hires helpers who report their findings back to him." I was fully satisfied in this answer. Here are a couple of incidents that re-affirmed my faith:

The first proof: One year, I don't remember which one, we were going to go to Missouri for Christmas to be with my mom's family. I was excited about that, but concerned about our own traditional family Christmas. We had no tree so we put red balls on a two foot tall evergreen houseplant. I have a vivid memory of sitting at the couch and looking wistfully at the only reminder of Christmas in our home. Even that small thing was enough to bring me joy. I wondered though, how would Santa know where to find us? Looking back, I am sure my parents were wondering how they would haul all of our presents all the way to Missouri and then all of the way back home.

The solution came on a Sunday. My dad did not come to mass with us that day. When we returned, we entered the house to a terrible racket. There was a loud banging and yelling coming from the basement. My dad was locked in the basement! He said that he had been waylaid by Santa, forced into the basement at gift point and locked in! We entered the living room, and there was the full spread of Christmas. According to my dad, Santa knew that we were going to Missouri and had come early to drop off our gifts. Truly, proof that Santa is omniscient. Some in my family have wondered why dad didn't just go out of the basement by the exterior door and use the key hidden in the garage and have brought up the fact that it is a simple matter to lock one's self in the basement. They are unreasonable skeptics. Clearly, Santa intended dad to stay in basement until the family returned and honored Santa's wishes by remaining obediently in the basement. I admire his sacrifice.

The second proof: We always left Santa a drink and some sugar cookies. He always consumed the offering and left a thank you note. I always thought that it was really cool that Santa's handwriting looked a lot like my mom's. Why was this sugar sacrifice such a strong proof? Well, my parents were and continue to be obsessive about cleaning. When we go over to their house for dinner, you have to watch your drink glass. If you leave it unattended for more than 120 seconds, it will be confiscated, washed, dried, and returned to cabinet, where you will have to retrieve it and refill it. Santa was a messy eater and always left a scattering of crumbs and a few leftovers. I reasoned that if my parents were Santa, then they would have wiped up the crumbs, put the dish in the dishwasher, and put the leftovers in a Ziploc. My parents could have never slept in a house with dirty dishes in it. The skeptics again answer this incontrovertible proof with the postulation that my dad, who always had to go downstairs before anyone else on Christmas morning to "check on things", could have easily made a quick mess and scribbled a quick note. A silly argument considering the basic fact that my father never ate anything in the morning before his bowl of Post Raisin Bran.

I must go and make arrangements for our broken car(s).

Peace

Encounters with Santa, Part One

Popular wisdom suggests that couples should discuss their expectations of family size before considering marriage. It is good advice. The popular wisdom, as usual, does not go quite far enough. Couples should also discuss approaches to child-rearing in as much detail as possible. Granted, pre-child wisdom about child-rearing goes right out the window as soon as your son bites your daughter hard enough to make a impression deep enough for the creation of a legally admissible plaster cast. Everything changes when you actually have children. If you have children then you know what I am talking about. If you don't have children then you think you know what I am talking about.

In particular, a couple should discuss Santa. My wife and I knew from before marriage that we disagreed on the subject but avoided examining the subject like one avoids looking at the crumb on the cheek of one's boss at a formal affair. My wife was raised to believe that belief in Santa was akin to Satan worship. I mean, one only has to move a few letters... Like a wolf in a fat man's clothing. I might be exaggerating a bit. Meanwhile, I was raised to believe that he was a supernaturally gifted man who delivered wonderful things to all the children of the world on Christmas day.

We were forced to address the issue when our boy was born almost five years ago. So we talked of other things, his eyes, his hands, his poop, and moved on. We have talked of other things in the almost five years since. In unspoken agreement, we have left the issue in a kind of salutary neglect. We have actively taught our children neither one thing nor the other. Family, friends, movies, TV, and school have done the rest. The result is that my boy is a believer, though not a devout one.

Yesterday, he came home late from a long day out. We never know what he will say when he is in an over tired state (last year he seemed to hearing voices in the wall). He told me that last year he had met Santa Claus. I, surprised at the revelation, asked him when and where such an event had occurred. He lacked details and ended with "Is that funny?" My wife and I did not discuss the conversation. I doubt that we will.

Peace

Monday Miscellany: Bleeding Noses

On Saturday morning, my son woke us up crying from the hallway. He had awoken with a nose bleed, a common occurance for him in the winter. Later, I tried to teach him (again) how to blow his nose. He tried it and inhaled for so long that I thought he was going to pass out. He claimed that he was doing it. Then he went on to explain to me that one nostril is for breathing in and one is for breathing out. That is why we have two.

Tonight, just after his great aunt, Grandma J, and Grandad P left, he walked into a doorknob and began profusely bleeding from his right nostril. We don't think that it is broken. He always bleeds from his right nostril. I don't know if that is significant or not. I only cry from my right eye. Can you be right-eyed or right-nostriled like being right-handed?

My wife of ten years has cleaned up a lot of blood lately.

My wife informs me that my son asked her if Star Wars was real. Later, when she offered to let him watch Star Wars IV, he refused and said that he had to watch it with his daddy.

I previously commented on the use of "previously owned", "pre-owned", and "previously new" to describe used cars. I heard a new one on the radio the other day: "previously enjoyed". Brilliant!

The AJC (Atlanta Journal Constitution) is our one major newspaper. In general it is a generally poor affair (last month I read an article reporting on the large number of metro Atlanta students choosing to attend Georgia Southern University that claimed that GSU sits among rolling green hills!). That being said, they have done an above average job at integrating blogs into their online news. One that is particularly interesting (at least some times) is their education blog. Go here. It might require registration (I did say that the paper is generally poor).

Good news from Afghanistan! Al-Qaida #3 killed. From the article it is not clear how he was killed. That being said, I think we did it.

Peace

X-Mas Boxes

Christmas has always been a special time of the year for my family. Strike that. Too cliche'. Christmas has always been the most wonderful time of the year for my family. Strike that. Too trite. Forget the introductory sentence. Let me get to it.

Yesterday, my little brood, led by my wife, put up a tree, and the four-year old boy and the two-year old girl decorated it with a minimum of fighting and a surplus of good cheer. Yes, only the lower half of the tree is decorated. Yes, several branches are about to snap from the weight of the four or five ornaments hanging from them. This despite the fact that the branches are metallic, an event that I never thought would take place in my home (years of " 'tis the seasonal" allergies and the introduction of children to the home has made me more realistic). Yes, my son tried to group the ornaments by theme only to be stymied by his sister.

I digress. My children are having a joyous Christmas season. They enjoy the daily Advent readings and prayer, if only in anticipation of blowing out the candle. My son's theological worldview continues to develop in its own unique way. Last night he explained that we celebrate Christmas as the birth of Jesus who came to save us from a meteor. I am sure this ties into theories of dinosaur extinction but am not quite sure how. They enjoy the daily opening of another day of the Lego Advent calendar (note to self: next year buy one for each child; I just went to the Lego website to get the link only to find that now they have Viking sets). They had a wonderful time with Grandma J. making sugar cookies and eating copious amounts of sugar. The boy has been making cards for all friends and family. It has been good.

I always remember my family Christmas seasons as a time of family, warmth, and the celebration of the birth of Christ. I hope that my children will have the same memories of Christmas when they grow up. One of the things that I have tried to become cautious of as my children have matured is my tendency to try to recreate my happy memories for my children. As a teacher I have frequently noticed this tendency in other parents . Parents tend to try to recreate their own childhood (or what they wished their childhood had been like) by pushing an agenda on their kids. Often, this explains the parents who spends $2,000 on their kid's prom or buys them a $50,000 car, or pushes them into a sport or other activity. It explains why Christian schools that stress modesty, humility, and stewardship maintain cheerleading programs and sponsor proms, programs and events that all too often contradict the principles of the school.

I have wandered far off trail. In setting up our tree, the duty of fetching the boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic over the garage fell to me. It is a dark, cold, and forbidding place. It reminded me of many past Christmas times. My parents kept (and may still keep) their Christmas decorations in "the hole". The hole is a pseudo-attic that can only be reached through the bonus room. A board a little over two feet by three feet can be removed from the wall, revealing a space that stretches the length of the bonus room. In the summer it is quite hot. In the winter it is quite cold. Opening the hole to retrieve the Christmas decorations always signaled to me the official beginning of the Christmas season. My dad would get a flashlight, and we would go up to the bonus room to bring down the Christmas decorations. Upon opening the hole, a blast of cold air that smelled, to me anyway, like Christmas would flow out. My dad's torso would disappear into the darkness of the hole and would return with various boxes filled with Christmas wonders marked, variously as "X-Mas", "Tree", "Christmas". At least one of the boxes was, for a while, a liquor box, not because my parents were big liquor drinkers but because my mom was an expert box scrounger. I would carry the boxes before me like holy relics to my mom who would decorate the house.

All of this came back to me as I was pulling the Christmas boxes out of the cold, dark attic. I tend to read deep symbolism into too many things, usually trivial. This year I moved into a new classroom. The previous teacher, who had left the school, had left nothing behind, or so I thought. In preparing for classes, I cleaned the white board. Shadows of the teacher's handwriting were all that remained. As I wiped the faded marks and the last physical reminder of the teacher's sojourn at the school from the board, I thought that there was something deeply sad about it.

The spirit of symbolism came over me while carrying the boxes into the house. There is something deeply important and beautiful about reaching into a dark, cold, dead place and pulling out a thing of abiding joy. Why else do we celebrate Christmas in the depths of winter? What greater thing does a dark, cold, dead world need than Light and Life? Why not, in the deadest part of the year, put an evergreen tree in our home but to remind us of life and ever-life?


My wife deserves hearty thanks for her work in preparing the house for our Christmas decor and for assembling the tree despite the help of the little ones.


Peace

Coke: $4,000 a Bottle!

The following comes from Ernie Pyle's Brave Men (pages 110-111). He humorously describes the World War II Italian campaign and the ways in which the troops tried to dispose of their extra cash.

My regiment ran a lottery, and the grand prize was a bottle of Coca-Cola.

It all started when a former member, then back in the States—Pfc. Frederick Williams of Daytona Beach, Florida—sent two bottles of coke to two of his old buddies—Corporal Victor Glover of Daytona Beach and Master Sergeant Woodrow Daniels of Jacksonville, Florida. Nobody in the outfit had seen Coca-Cola in more than a year. The recipients drank one of the bottles and then began having ideas about the other. At last they decided to put it up in a raffle, and use the proceeds to care for children whose fathers had been killed serving in the regiment. The boys hoped the Coca-Cola company would match whatever amount they raised.

The lottery was announced in the little mimeographed newspaper, and chances on the coke were put on sale at twenty-five cents apiece. Before the end of the first week the cash box had more than $1,000 in it. The money came in quarters, dollars, shillings, pounds, francs and lire. They had to appoint a committee to administer the affair. At the end of the third week the fund exceeded $3,000.

Then Private Lamyl Yancey, of Harlan, Kentucky, got a miniature bottle of Coca-Cola and he put it up as second prize. Just before the grand drawing the fund reached $4,000. All the slips were put in a German shell case, and the brigade commander drew out two numbers.

The winner and new champion was Sergeant William de Schneider of Hackensack, New Jersey. The miniature bottle went to Sergeant Lawrence Presnell of Fayetteville, North Carolina. Sergeant de Schneider was appalled by what had happened to him. That one coke was equal in value to eighty thousand bottles back home. “I don’t think I care to drink a $4,000 bottle,” he said. “I think I’ll send it home and keep it a few years.”

The Rome radio picked up the item, completely distorted it, and used it for home-front propaganda. The way it came out was that our soldiers were so short of supplies they were paying as high as $10,000 for just one bottle of Coca-Cola. Not only did they give the story completely false meaning, but they deftly added $6,000 to the kitty. Well, that’s one way to fight a war.


The "spin" of war news has not changed. The only difference is that during World War II it was the enemy press "spinning" the news to make it look like we are losing. Today, it is our own.

As for me, I wonder what happened to the $4,000 coke.

Peace

Ernie Pyle Reprise and Update

Catherine Seipp echoes my Veterans' Day sentiments on Ernie Pyle here. She says:

Even when old books do get reissued, there can be something ineffably satifsying about reading them in their original form. Legendary World War II correspondent Ernie Pyle's Brave Men and Here Is Your War finally became available in paperback again a few years ago, but I prefer my old hardback edition of Brave Men, still as moving and immediate as I imagine the original owner, one Winifred Ellsini (her name is inscribed in my copy) found it when she got it for Christmas, 1944.

A bonus is John Steinbeck's hauntingly prophetic description of Pyle — who was killed by a Japanese gunner near Okinawa — on the torn dustjacket: "His dispatches sound as artless as a letter, but other professionals are not deceived. They know that Ernie Pyle is a great reporter... In his unique way, he is almost sure to be a sort of national conscience. If Ernie Pyle should die tomorrow, as well he may, it would still be a long time before Americans forgot Ernie Pyle's war."

I think Pyle deserves more attention than he gets these days. I've never read any "embedded" report from Iraq that could compare to Pyle's — but then he really was up front for years, often digging his own foxholes.

You can find his books at Amazon.com, but it is more fun to pull out a dusty original at your local antique store. My copy of Here is Your War is inscriped Chestina Gates May '44. I paid five dollars for it, and it came with a welcome suprise. Ms. Gates had left original clippings in it, where they had stayed for fifty years. "Enemy Bullet Fells Writer on Ie Island" is pinned together with a publicity photo of him and one of him talking to the GIs. After the war, Ms. Gates added two stories "Pyle Home Preserved" and "Purple Heart, dedication of center in New York will honor Ernie Pyle". Unfortunately, the Pyle home was recently destroyed. I am currently preparing another snippet from his books for your enjoyment (actually, I am not sure that anyone enjoyed the Veterans' Day selection; and my student aide is working on the snippet--a snippet that I will be using for my American Lit. class).


Peace

Monday Miscellany: Special Thanksgiving Review Edition

It was an interesting Thanksgiving break. I had terrible allergies all day Wednesday. I brought out the medicine that usually puts me on another astral plane (sneeze-free, but astral). The medicine was of marginal use. I would have about one good hour out of four. Thursday I was well, and we enjoyed two fine Thanksgiving meals. Friday-Sunday I was brought low by some kind of intestinal disorder. I don't know if was the two meals, the shock of going back to real Coke, the popcorn during an early morning Super-Duper Family Movie Fun Morning (see below), or a bug. I am almost better today.

In the past, our school has had a sixteen-day Christmas break. This year it is twelve. I would gripe about it, but I realize that the normal working world is lucky to get off two or three extra days off at this time of year. Few would sympathize with my loss. I am humbled and happy to get my twelve-day break (seven week days and four weekend days).


On Black Friday my wife and my mom went on their annual all-day shopping mission. I was left with painful heartburn and two over tired children (see above). I decided to give the kids the full Jedi experience.

Months ago, we had instituted a new family tradition (Super-Duper Family Movie Fun Night). We pop corn, turn out the lights, get out the blankets and pillows, and try to watch a movie that we have never seen before.

One of the movies was Star Wars IV: A New Hope. Both of the children fell asleep about forty minutes into it. We never finished it. Since then my boy has become enamored of Yoda (I think he saw Star Wars II at his cousins' house). Since they were so exhausted from Thanksgiving, I decided that we should watch Star Wars V: The Empire Strikes Back on Black Friday. We started at about 7:30am. We popped corn and enjoyed the film. My son was enthralled. My daughter (two years old) was interested for about forty minutes. After lunch we watched Star Wars VI: The Return of the Jedi.

My son's observations/review:

• He quickly caught on to the soundtrack. "This is the bad guy music?" He was humming it last night. I am of the firm belief that the soundtrack elavated those movies from hokum to epic.
• At the revelation that Darth is Luke's father, the boy said nothing but his eyes glazed over as his face grew intense. I thought he was going to cry. I remember that I wasn't convinced until the release of Return of the Jedi.
• During Return of Jedi, about Leia's outfit: "Where's her clothes?" He repeated this several times until she finally put some clothes on. He said it as though offended and deeply disappointed. I offered that it was like a swimsuit. "But there is no water to swim in." He'll appreciate it when he's older.
• As Yoda explains the Force to Luke and its presence all around us, generated by all living things, "Where's God?"
• He kept waiting for Yoda to pull out a light saber. I think he was sorely disappointed in Yoda.
• At the end of Jedi, "That was a great movie. Remember when we watched the other movie and we didn't finish it?" "Yes son, you and Evelyn fell asleep." "I didn't fall asleep, I was just laying down with my eyes open." I will save that movie for another day.
• He has been making light sabers, space ships, and blasters out of his Lego bricks ever since.

I am glad he is still a child, and I wonder at the mind of a child. Thankful I am.

Peace

Monday Miscellany

My son's preferences (he will be five in January):

• Star Wars character: the green guy (Yoda)
• Color: green
• To be when he grows up: a T-Rex then a teacher (not in order of preference; his plan is to be a T-Rex for a while and then become a teacher)
• Video game: Spyro the Dragon
• Activity with daddy: fighting (either Star Wars or Spyro the Dragon)
• Super-hero: Spiderman
• Joke: Knock knock? Who's there? Banana. Banana who? Banana pants.
• Food: chocolate in nearly any form (that's my boy)
• Meat: he prefers no meat, but will eat chicken nuggets (which hardly count)
• Animal: dinosaurs (particularly T-Rexs which were, I am assured, green)
• Book: Richard Scarry's Busy Town
• TV Show: Any cartoon made before about 1975 (Tom and Jerry, Spiderman, Bugs, etc)

On the day that the new Georgia Aquarium has opened, news breaks that Atlanta has ranked seventh in a survey of most dangerous cities. I think this gives us the new Atlanta slogan: "Last in education. Top ten in crime. First in big tubs of fish."

I have given up on diet colas. The sweetener used in most of them seems to have some unpleasant side effects. Good-bye apartame, hello rapid weight gain. That being said, Diet Dr. Pepper and Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper were the best in terms of taste. Each has so many other tastes that the apartame taste is well-cloaked. So why not give up all cokes? I'll get back to you on that one

As a treat last week, I showed my 9th grade students the fine cinematic feature "Abbott and Costello Meet Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." My guess is that about 25% of my students found it funny (which is more than I thought--it was actually a student who suggested it). One scene in particular involving a cat caught in a wax head got laughs from most of the class. Comedy has changed a bit over the years. Lou Costello was a brilliant physical actor. Boris Karloff played a fine Dr. Jekyll. Not only did they change a horror novel into a horror/comedy, but a romance was thrown in for good measure.

Peace

Some Updates

I knew I shouldn't have done it. I have already recieved a hit from someone looking for "wife pictures". He or she came from Malvern, Penn using the Shared Medical Systems servers.

Last night I woke up in cold sweat wondering why someone at the US State Department was searching for "Powder Puff Girls". I suppose the Girls are a fitting symbol for their particular corner of the Federal government.

And yes, I might be re-posting the words "wife pictures" and "Powder Puff Girls" to increase my hitcount. I am stuck at "999".

I haven't heard anything back from Nigeria in a while. I think that is normal. It probably takes a lot of time to process the paperwork to transfer $9.5 million to the United States.

The Google Bot Cometh

In the early, heady days of Ohoopee Online, the management was concerned with customizing the website as much as possible. A little bit of code was played with here and there. This was just enough modification to realize that a little bit of code should not be played with anywhere by anyone at Ohoopee until further training is acquired.

One of the few successful modifications was the insertion of a hit counter. I used an easy to use (read "free") one from the good people at statcounter. I wanted one not because I thought my blog would become an instant "hit", but because I love stats. Compilations of numbers fascinate me.

I haven't exactly had a lot of stats to look at; there has not been alot to compile. You can see the counter at the bottom of the page as it slowly counts up to 1,000. It provides me with a report of when people visited, where they come from, and what internet service provider they use. Don't worry, it gives me no personal information and is essentially anonymous. The most interesting statistic it gives me is information on search hits. A search hit occurs when a person searches on Google or Yahoo for something like "Incisive commentary on China" and then clicks on your website out of the list of thousands or tens of thousands that come up. That hasn't happened to me yet.

I have gotten the most search hits on searches for "Powder Puff Girls". One searcher came from the State Department in Washington D.C. They came because of my post entitled "Powder Puff Girls Fraud Alert." The second biggest number of search hits I have gotten have been from searches for the "Ohoopee River." This one makes me feel a little guilty. I have used the name of a river for my website and the only information I have about the river is a picture I stole from someone else's website and a sarcastic remark about how lovely it is. The next time I go down I-16, I will take some pictures with my new digital camera and write a full report. That should be sometime in the year 2017.

The "Google Bot" has come twice. The bot crawls through websites to assess, I guess, their content for suitability and rankability in search results. Apparently, the bot did not like what it found as a search for Ohoopee Online results in 554 links and none for this site. "Gay North Chicago" is there but not TOLN. Change the search to "Ohoopee Online" however, and I come up second of sixteen.

My wife's site gets the creepy searches. One search for "sleeping wife pictures" and another twisted one that I cannot remember because it is too disturbing to think about.

I have also gotten searches for "Doctrine of the Sin Nature", "Letter Star EE", "Other Names for Teacher", "Peter Sellers Being There Opening Music", and many others. I have had searchers from the Russian Federation, Thailand, Australia, Atlanta, and elsewhere come to my humble site. Sadly, I don't think anyone found what he or she was looking for.

Now that I have included the terms "Powder Puff Girls", "Gay", "Sin", and "Wife Pictures" in the same post, I fear my hit count may increase for all of the wrong reasons.


Peace

Monday Miscellany: Monday Millionaire UPDATED

I have waited for this moment for ten years. I finally received notification that a distant relative of mine (James Whitehurst) working for an oil company in Nigeria has died and left $9.5 million in an account in Lagos. A lawyer named David Thomas has contacted me and assured me that it is a simple and legal procedure to transfer the money into my account: "All I require from you is your honest cooperation to enable us see this transaction through and I guarantee that this will be executed under legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law." I can't believe that he has been looking for me for so long. This is too good to be true!

I have to work fast because according to the e-mail I received, "The said Bank has issued me a notice to provide the next of kin or have the account confiscated within the next (60) thirty official working days". I am guessing the problem with the number of days relates to a translation problem. I have wired him my bank account information, and in a few days I will be looking pretty good you losers!!! That's right. I'm going to be a millionaire and will have no need for any of you jerks now. I have already burned my bridges at work and turned in my resignation! Let's just say that I have no chance of slaving away in Christian education ever again! You will hear my laughing all the way to the Nigerian bank!

No, I will not loan or give any of you money. Don't even think about asking for my help.

Jerks

UPDATE
Okay. The funds in my account are not enough to free up the Nigerian funds. David Thomas has assured me that only a few thousand dollars more stand between me and millions. I will be willing to share some of the windfall to anyone who wants to front me the money. I was just kidding about the "losers" and "jerks" thing. Let me know if you want to help out, and I will let you know where to send your financial information. E-mail David Thomas at nigerianbankscam@gullybullgreedeeamericans.com. I love you guys. Does anyone have an leads on jobs?

On the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month of the year 1918...

...the guns of World War I went silent. Today is Veterans' Day. As a history teacher this has always been one of the most important days of the school year, a day where I put aside the curriculum and talk about the reality of history. I am no longer a history teacher, and I struggle this morning with that fact. How can I fold this day into World Literature? Two of my classes are going to the library this morning for research, and three of them will be reviewing for a Tuesday test. How shall I stop and remember?

At the least I shall leave you with this selection from chapter 18 from Ernie Pyle's Here is Your War. The book is finally back in print. Buy it and laugh and cry and, most of all, remember. You can also go here to read some of his columns online. The chapter that follows is the last in that book and concerns the wrap up of the North African campaign, the first major campaign involving Americans in the European theater. The last two paragraphs are the most moving paragraphs of war writing that I have ever read, skip to them if you don't have time to read the entire post.


It is hard for you at home to realize what an immense, complicated, sprawling institution a theater of war actually is. As it appears to you in the newspapers, war is a clear-cut matter of landing so many men overseas, moving them from the port to the battlefield, advancing them against the enemy with guns firing, and they win or lose.

To look at war that way is like seeing a trailer of a movie, and saying you’ve seen the whole picture. I actually don’t know what percentage of our troops in Africa were in the battle lines, but I believe it safe to say that only comparatively few ever saw the enemy, ever shot at him, or were shot at by him. All the rest of those hundreds of thousands of men were churning the highways for two thousand miles behind the lines with their endless supply trucks, they were unloading the ships, cooking the meals, pounding the typewriters, fixing the roads, making the maps, repairing the engines, decoding the messages, training the reserves, pondering the plans.
...

What I have seen in North Africa has altered my own feelings in one respect. There were days when I say in my tent alone and gloomed with the desperate belief that it was actually possible for us to lose this war. I don’t feel that way any more. Despite our strikes and bickering and confusion back home, America is producing and no one can deny that. Even here at the far end of just one line trickle has grown into an impressive stream. We are producing at home and we are hardening overseas. Apparently it takes a county like America about two years to become wholly at war. We had to go through that transition period of letting loose of life as it was, and then live the new war life so long that it finally became the normal life to us. It was a form of growth, and we couldn’t press it. Only time can produce that change. We have survived that long passage of time, and if I am at all correct we have about changed our character and become a war nation. I can’t yet see when we shall win, or over what route geographically, or by which of the many means of warfare. But no longer do I have any doubts at all that we shall win.

The men over here have changed too. They are too close to themselves to sense the change too. They are too close to themselves to sense the change, perhaps. And I am too close to them to grasp it fully. But since I am older and a little apart, I have been able to notice it more.

For a year, everywhere I went, soldiers inevitably asked me two questions: “When do you think we’ll get to go home?” and “When will the war be over?” The home-going desire was once so dominant that I believe our soldiers over here would have voted-if the question had been out-to go home immediately, even if it meant peace on terms of something less than unconditional surrender by the enemy.

That isn’t true now. Sure, they all still want to go home. So do I. But there is something deeper than that, which didn’t exist six months ago. I can’t quite put it into words-it isn’t any theatrical proclamation that the enemy must be destroyed in the name of freedom; it’s just a vague but growing individual acceptance of the bitter fact that we must win the war or else, and that it can’t be worn by running excursion boats back and forth across the Atlantic carrying homesick vacationers.

A year is a long time to be away from home, especially if a person has never been away before, as was true the bulk of our troops. At first homesickness can almost kill a man. But time takes care of that. It isn’t normal to moon in the past forever. Home gradually grows less vivid; the separation from it less agonizing. There finally comes a day-not suddenly, but gradually. As a sunset-touched cloud changes in color-when a man is living almost wholly wherever he is. His life has caught up with his body, and his days become full way days, instead of American days simply transplanted to Africa.
...

Our men can’t make this change from normal civilians into warriors and remain the same people. Even if they were away from you this long under normal circumstances, the mere process of maturing would change them, and they would not come home just as you knew them. Add to that the abnormal world they have been plunged into, the new philosophies they have had to assume or perish inwardly, the horrors and delights and strange wonderful things they have experienced, and they are bound to be different people from those you sent away.

They are rougher than when you knew them. Killing is a rough business. Their basic language has changed from mere profanity to obscenity. More than anything else, they miss women. Their expressed longings, their conversation, their whole conduct show their need for female companionship, and the gentling effect of femininity upon a man is conspicuous here where it has been so long absent. Our men have less regard for property than you raised them to have. Money value means nothing to them, either personally or in the aggregate; they are fundamentally generous, with strangers and with each other. They give or throw away their own money, and it is natural that they are even less thoughtful of bulk property than of their own hard-earned possession. It is often necessary to abandon equipment they can’t take with them; the urgency of war prohibits normal caution in the handling of vehicles and supplies. One of the most striking things to me about war is the appalling waste that is necessary. At the front there just isn’t time to be economical. Also, in war areas where things are scarce and red tape still rears it delaying head, a man learns to get what he needs simply by “requisitioning.” It isn’t stealing, it’s the only way to acquire certain things. The stress of war puts old virtues in a changed light. We shall have to relearn a simple fundamental or two when things get back to normal. But what’s wrong with a small case of “requisitioning” when murder is the classic goal?

Our men, still thinking of home, are impatient with the strange peoples and customs of the countries they now inhabit. They say that if they ever get home they never want to see another foreign country. But I know how it will be. The day will come when they’ll look back and brag about how they learned a little Arabic, and how swell the girls were in England, and how pretty the hills of Germany were. Every day their scope is broadening despite themselves, and once they all get back with their global yarns and their foreign-tinged views, I cannot conceive of our nation ever being isolationist again. The men don’t feel very international right now, but the influences are at work and the time will come.
...

Your men have been well cared for in the war. I suppose no soldiers in any other war in history have has such excellent attention as our men overseas. The food is good. Of course we’re always yapping about how wonderful a steak would taste on Broadway, but when a soldier is pinned right down he’ll admit ungrudgingly that it’s Broadway he’s thinking about more than steak, and that he really can’t kick on the food. Furthermore, cooking is good in this war. Last time good food was spoiled by lousy cooking, but that is the exception this time. Of course, there were times in battle when the men lived days on nothing but those deadly cold C rations our of tin cans, and even went without food for a day or two, but those were the crises, the exceptions. On the whole, we figure by the letters from home that we’re probably eating better than you are.

A good diet and excellent medical care have made our army a healthy one. Statistics show the men in the mass healthier today then they were in civil life back home. Our men are will provided with clothing, transportation, mail, and army newspapers. Back of the lines that had Post Exchanges where they could buy cigarettes, candy, toilet articles, and all such things. If they were in the combat zone, all those things were issued to them free.
...

And then finally the Tunisian campaign was over, spectacularly collapsed after the bitterest fighting we had known in our theater. It was only in those last days that I came to know how any of the men who went through the thick of that hill-by-hill butchery could ever be the same again. The end of the Tunisian war brought an exhilaration, then a letdown, and later a restlessness from anticlimax that I can see multiplied a thousand times when the last surrender comes. The transition back to normal days will be as difficult for many as was the change into war, and some will never be able to accomplish it.

Now we are in a lull and many of us are having a short rest period. I tried the city and couldn’t stand it. Two days drove me back to the country, where everything seemed cleaner and more decent. I am in my tent, sitting on a newly acquired cot, writing on a German folding table we picked up the day of the big surrender. The days here are so peaceful and perfect they almost give us a sense of infidelity to those we left behind beneath the Tunisian crosses, those whose final awareness was a bedlam of fire and noise and uproar.
...

It may be that the war has changed me, along with the rest. It is hard for anyone to analyze himself. I know that I find more and more that I wish to be alone, and yet contradictorily I believe I have a new patience with humanity that I’ve never had before. When you’ve lived with the unnatural mass cruelty that mankind is capable of inflicting upon itself, you find yourself dispossessed of the faculty for blaming one poor man for the triviality of his faults. I don’t see how any survivor of war can ever be cruel to anything, ever again.

Yes, I want the war to be over, just as keenly as any soldier in North Africa wants it. This little interlude of passive contentment here on the Mediterranean shore is a mean temptation. It is a beckoning into somnolence. This is the kind of day I think I want my life to be composed of, endlessly. But pretty soon we shall strike our tents and traipse again after the clanking tanks, sleep again to the incessant lullaby of the big rolling guns. It has to be that way, and wishing doesn’t change it.

It may be I have unconsciously made war seem more awful than it really is. It would be wrong to say that war is grim; if it were, the human spirit could not survive two and three and four years of it. There is a good deal of gaiety in wartime. Some of us, even over here, are having the time of our lives. Humor and exuberance still exist. As some soldiers once said, the army is good for one ridiculous laugh per minute. Our soldiers are still just as roughly good-humored as they always were, and they laugh easily, although there isn’t as much to laugh about as there used to be.

And I don’t attempt to deny that war is vastly exhilarating. The whole tempo of life steps up, both at home and on the front. There is an intoxication about battle, and ordinary men can sometimes soar clear out of themselves on the wine of danger-emotion. And yet it is false. When we leave here to go on into the next battleground, I know that I for one shall go with the greatest reluctance.

On the day of final peace, the last stroke of what we call the “Big Picture” will be drawn. I haven’t written anything about the “Big Picture,” because I don’t know anything about it. I only know what we see from our worm’s-eye view, and our segment of the picture consists only of tired and dirty soldiers who are alive and don’t want to die; of long darkened convoys in the middle of the night; of shocked silent men wandering back down the hill from battle; of show lines and atabrine tablets and foxholes and burning tanks and Arabs holding up eggs and the rustle of high-flown shells; of jeeps and petrol dumps and smelly bedding rolls and C rations and cactus patches and blown bridges and dead mules and hospital tents and shirt collars greasy-black from months of wearing; and of laughter too, and anger and wine and lovely flowers and constant cussing. All these it is composed of; and of graves and graves and graves.

That is our war, and we will carry it with us as we go on from one battleground to another until it is all over, leaving some of us behind on every beach, in every field. We are just beginning with the ones who lie back of us here in Tunisia. I don’t know whether it was their good fortune or their misfortune to get out of it so early in the game. I guess it doesn’t make any difference , once a man has gone. Medals and speeches and victories are nothing to them any more. They died and others lived and nobody knows why it is so. They died and thereby the rest of us can go on and on. When we leave here for the next shore, there is nothing we can do for the ones beneath the wooden crosses, except perhaps to pause and murmur, “Thanks, pal.”


After reporting in Europe for several years, Pyle was exhausted by the war and came home, hoping to never return to the front. But he couldn't stay away. He went to the Pacific and reported from there. He was killed by Japanese machine gunners on the island of Ie Shima, just off of Okinawa in the last major battle of the Pacific campaign.

Thanks, pal.


Peace

Night of the Bug

9:02pm Sit down to watch new episode of one of three favorite TV shows.

9:03pm Wife announces the presence of a large, palmetto-bug type insect in our room; assistance requested.

9:04pm Bug hunt begins.

9:14pm Quarry spotted by hunters; bug escapes under bed.

9:15pm Flashlight hunt begins.

9:19pm Working flashlight found; bug hunt resumes.

9:34pm Lecture on housecleaning met with icy stares.

9:40pm Marriage near divorce.

9:41pm Lead hunter abandons chase and returns to show to save marriage.

10:20pm Wife discovered gingerly sorting laundry in bedroom. Outfit includes shorts and over the calf boots.

10:30pm Go to bed. Wife goes downstairs, turns on every light and plays Rachet and Clank.

10:31pm-2:03am Fitful sleeping in bed with lamp and TV on. Wife not present.

2:04am Spider-senses tingling, sit up to go to bathroom; something shoots across the floor.

2:05am Solo bughunt begins again.

2:07am Door opened on bare foot.

2:08am Massive release of clove-scented pesticides.

2:10am Pesticides having failed, bug captured under bowl.

2:11am Funeral "at sea" for bug. Twenty-one flush salute.

2:12am Wife informed of successful conclusion of bug hunt. Marriage saved.

2:15am Benadryl administered to combat allergic reaction to clove-scented pesticide.

2:20am Return to bed. Wife still not present.

5:40am Alarm sounds. Night of the bug over.


Peace at Last

Monday Miscellany

We keep getting ads in our mailbox declaring that "Life is too short to clean your own home." We have taken their advice and stopped cleaning our home.

Today our school co-hosted a teaching conference with another school. I had the pleasure of serving as parking lot attendant. The number of teachers that I had to assist to the correct campus was disappointingly high. Teachers can make for terrible students.

The catered lunch provided for the attendees included a chocolate chunk cookie advertised as "A 1/4 pound cookie". It was the highlight of my day.

I took Friday off. I took the day off to grade papers. Something is deeply wrong with that.

The Simpsons was back last night with a hilarious dig at MLB. It was a good episode. The good episodes are not coming as often as they used to. Tonight, Arrested Development. Tomorrow, House. If only I felt like I didn't have to wash my mouth out with soap after watching TV.

The last daylilly of the summer (taken last week):


Peace

Scantron Shame

At the end of last year our school acquired its first ever Scantron machine. Okay, we might be a little slow in the adoption of "new" technologies, but even we can see the writing on the SmartBoard. I would like to brag that we are the only private school in the area that provides each of its students with a laptop, but I don't think square sheets of slate and fist sized hunks of chalk count. I exaggerate--back to the Scantron.

For those of you unaware, a Scantron machine is an automatic test grader. Students fill in answer bubbles on pre-printed answer sheets with #2 pencils, and the teacher feeds the sheets through the machine. The results shoot out the other end. Now you probably know what I am talking about.

Anyway, we finally have one. It didn't come in time for many of us to make use of it last year. This year it has been adopted by several teachers for nearly every one of their tests and quizzes. Last week I finally got around to using it.

Traditionally, I have a pre-test ritual. I tell my students to clear their desks of everything except for a blue or black pen only. One of them will respond in befuddlement, "Is a pencil okay?" or "Can I use green?" The rest of the students will respond in exasperation, "He just said blue or black pen." By the middle of the first semester this has become the test day joke. On this day, I had them take out a number two pencil for a grammar test. I should have taken the general befuddlement of the class as a bad omen, but I was under the influence of Benadryl.

As soon as the test was done, I gathered up my answer sheets and headed to the teacher workroom. I began to feed answer sheets into the open maw of the Scantron. As each sheet goes through, a tiny dot matrix printer with red ink marks every wrong answer and tabulates the number wrong for each student on his or her answer sheet.

I soon discovered that the more noise that it makes, the worse a student has done. It is a fairly noisy process and takes place in a public place (the teacher workroom). A long silence followed by a single "tsat!" indicates a 100, but a long series of "tsats!", similar in sound to a printout of the Pentateuch, indicates a serious problem. After the first two grammar tests went through, I grew concerned. I looked around at the other teachers in the workroom and chuckled nervously. Maybe it's my key. I checked my key. It was fine; I continued to feed the sheets into the Scantron. "Tsat-tsat-tsaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!Tsat!" Oh dear. "Tsat! Tsaaaaaaat! Tsat! Tsaaaaaaaaaaaat! Tsat!" Not doing so well. No one would look me in the eye as I tried to explain that it was a grammar test, but I trailed off in a mumble.

It continued this way through over fifty tests. Only two 100's and alot of lesser grades resulted. Bowing my head in shame, I left the teacher workroom, the eyes of the other teachers boring into my back as they shook their heads.

I have petitioned the administration of the school to have the Scantron machine moved into a sound proof closet to better protect student privacy rights. Until then, I am grading my own tests. Let my failures be my own.

Peace

Thar's Cold in them thar Hills

Atlanta has gone from long lasting summer to early winter. We seem to have skipped fall completely. I was running the air conditioner three weeks ago. Two nights ago I had to fire up the furnace. The AJC reported that they closed a road in North Georgia due to flurries/icing. Next thing you know, they will be closing school because gas prices are too high! Oh, wait...nevermind. There was a thick layer of frost on my windshield this morning. This proved to be a more difficult problem than usual.

While driving home yesterday, the temperature gauge on my vehicle spiked to hot, an alarm sounded, and I began an emergency pullover. Before the echoes of the alarm tone had abated, the temperature suddenly fell to normal so I returned home. My vehicle, she is dying. It is not dying a sudden, glorious death, but is failing system by system. In the last year: external door latch breaks on passenger side making door operable only from the inside, air conditioner begins only blowing out of the defroster, driver side automatic window ceases functioning, left rear window ceases functioning, ABS light goes on, brake light goes on, check engine light goes on, emissions test fails due to previous failure, am radio ceases functioning. Today, the heat went out. I believe the heating failure must be related to yesterday's overheating problem. If she were a horse, I'd shoot her.

Cars make me tired. I have direct primary source evidence that Henry Ford was the anti-Christ.

Peace

UPDATE: The heat was on this morning! I found one of the problems myself.

Monday Miscellany

The phone rang on Saturday evening. It was later than we normally received calls, and we both wondered who it might be. My wife answered it. A puzzled look appeared on her face, and she handed the phone to me and said, "I think it is a student."

I took the phone. There was a lot of giggling. A girl's voice came on and said (you have to imagine it interspersed with giggling and echoes of giggling in the background), "This is Jane Doe, I am over here at Sue Smith's house. We are playing 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire", and we get to phone a friend for a question so I am phoning a friend." She went on to ask if I would answer a question. I said that I would be glad to do so. The question was: which of the following is a type of sword? a. scimitar b. sitar c. slide d. siddhartha. I gave the correct answer (scimitar). They thanked me and hung up. I am glad they thought of me.


My son is convinced that my niece has promised him an outdoor play set for his birthday. I hope she is saving her pennies. My niece will probably be outraged and embarrassed that I mentioned her on my blog. Just wait and see what happens if he doesn't get that playset!

Speaking of my son, I took him to an incredible new East Cobb park last week. Looking around, I was impressed at how integrated the suburbs have become. My son loves to swing now. He had gone through a phase where he was afraid to swing. He is a fearful child which is typical of the first child. Now the fear is gone. He kept having me push him higher and higher until I became concerned. He shouted, "Daddy, I love swinging now. I'm not afraid anymore." It was a proud moment.

Afterward we celebrated with a spot of McDonalds in what used to be known as the "Metro McDonalds". I ordered a quarter-pounder with cheese. They gave me a double-quarter pounder with cheese. I don't know what they do different at this McDonalds, but it was the best fast food hamburger that I have ever had. I ate the entire thing while my son sat across from me telling me about his life at school and wishing upon a star. It was a good time. I love that boy.

My classes are currently studying: Bartleby the Scrivener (11th Grade) and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (9th Grade).

Peace

I Got a New Car for My Birthday! Pics!

Thursday was my birthday. A large group of seniors (twenty or so) came into my classroom at lunch and serenaded me with a very loud version of "Happy Birthday". This was very kind of them considering they are no longer my students. I miss that group.

A couple of freshmen actually went out to Target and got me a new hall/bathroom pass. In order to understand the significance of this gift, a bit of background is probably necessary. Last year I found a model of a P-38 World War II warplane at Big Lots. I bought it, unsure of what I could use if for. Ultimately, I decided to utilize it as a hall/bathroom pass. It was very popular with the students and had the unexpected affect of increasing bathroom requests. Other teachers quickly emulated my examples, and slide-rules, softballs, and other items became part of our school's hall pass tradition.

Here's the original. You can see significant battle damage: both props damaged, tail wing destroyed, right wing clipped, landing gear missing. As far as I know, a, um, water landing has never been necessary.











Later in the year, the plane found a friend. It just appeared one day in my class and became quite the school mystery for a week. The writing on both passes is identical, but I knew that I did not write anything on the Barbie car!









Look closely. My original writing is on the tape on the plane. The forgery is on the tape on the Barbie car. Can you tell a difference? No doubt, here was the work of a master forger.









Eventually, one of our talented art students confessed to the forgery, and I adopted the Barbie car as one of two choices students could take to the hall or bathroom. The Barbie pass has been surprisingly popular with the male students.

My freshmen decided it was time to upgrade my ride and got me this:












The Barbie car has been retired. Now I am a Groovy Girl! The joys of teaching know no bounds.


Peace

Eating Our Seed Corn

Last night I had the privilege of attending an event at which Zell Miller was the keynote speaker. Zell was the governor of GA for eight years, senator from GA for four years, but is most famous or infamous (depending upon your point of view) for his 2004 Republican National Convention speech. Since I was a table host, I was allowed the added privilege of meeting Senator Miller and having my picture taken with him. I have now met three "celebrities" in my life. Zell Miller, Jeff_Blauser, and Steve Taylor (who probably doesn't really count, though his entry is surprisingly long). I was able to blubber something about being a history teacher who needed the picture of another great patriot to hang on my wall (Zell was also a history teacher). He is a surprisingly diminutive man (about 5'10 and quite thin), but exudes a definite presence.

His address was outstanding. Much of his address related to his new book, A Deficit of Decency. He must have been an outstanding history teacher. Miller is known for his down-home colloquialisms (he hails from Young Harris, GA), and I was eagerly anticipating them. Unfortunately, all I got was "eating our seed corn". He is a spellbinding speaker who, even though retired from politics, has a lot to say. He is a deeply spiritual man who has experienced many significant changes in his life (hence his nickname "Zig-Zag Zell). To me, he came across completely genuine, gentlemanly, and passionate. I found little in his speech that I could disagree with and much that I heartily agreed with. He represents many aspects of the South that I deeply respect and love, but that are, unfortunately, disappearing. No, I am not talking about openness, opportunity, optimism; I mean decency, patriotism, loyalty, respect, and love of family. I would vote for him.


I have now left enough personal and professional clues in my blog for anyone to find out who I am, where I live, where I work, and the names of at least one of my children. I don't know why I am hiding anyway. Only 1.3 people read this on any given day, and none of them, as far as I know, are mass murderers or tax evaders.

No pictures today.

Peace

Monday Miscellany: Bland Brand and a Tag

From the city that brought you Izzy, Atlanta has a new 'brand' and logo. All of it relates to the theme of "Openness, Opportunity, Optimism." I am not sure what to say about it. There is so much material to work with here that it staggers the imagination. If this was an attempt to create a "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" kind of brand, it has fallen far short. I wonder how long it took to come up with three words that begin with "op". Opportunity and optimism are trite and dull, but okay. Openness? I suppose they had to settle for openness since tolerance does not have the proper opening letters. Overall, it seems to be the safest theme and logo tax dollars could buy. Do you find it significant that one of the key members on the board creating this thing works for Coke? For those of you who are not Atlantans, "Atl" is pronounced by saying each letter "A.T.L". Kinda like the ATF, but more violent.

Separated at birth?












I would've preferred something with some real southern flavor:
Atlanta: Whatayahave? (a la The Varsity, or What goes in your stomach, might stay in your stomach)
or techno-savvy:
Atl: Our name is easy to text message!
or maybe:
Atlanta: Better than Birmingham!
What do you think, fine readers? What would be a better brand for Atlanta?


Grammar note: I originally typed "I would of preferred" in the paragraph above. I have found it to be a common error among my students since they know can't use contractions in their formal writing. Because of the phonetics, they cannot extrapolate "would have" from "would've".

Alabama note: I visited Birmingham last January for a convention and found it, in fact, to be a lovely southern city. It has a first rate art museum and still maintains a bit of a small town feel. I would like to return and wouldn't mind moving there.


The lovely and talented Buchusa Blutterspangle tagged me. Since it is not a terribly involved tag, I saved it for my Miscellany:
1. Delve into your blog archive.
2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions. Ponder it for meaning, subtext or hidden agendas...
5. Tag five people to do the same.

"The entire family is 'super'."

Taken out of context, it is unclear to which family the sentence refers. The use of "entire" as a modifier of "family" is both vague and hyperbolic; does this mean every relative or only the immediate family? The quote marks around the word 'super' suggest either sarcasm or skepticism. The short sentence and simple words strongly indicate an author of limited intelligence.


Peace

Guess what I got for my Birthday!

Give up yet? Here is your only clue.

Now I have an entirely new way to bore and disappoint my readers: amateur photography! Actually, I think my wife got me the camera in the hopes that I would no longer have time for political rants if I had a new hobby. All of you can thank my wife.

Speaking of the lovely Buchusa Bluttersplangle, my wife has had an interesting night and day.

Later, I may post my son's series of artwork about superheroes. It includes images of Batman, Green Goblin, Spiderman, Spiderwoman, and Spiderdog. No, I don't know where he came up with Spiderdog, but he is orange and yellow in a piebald sort of way.


Peace

Pink Eye

The little girl, a stout princess of two and a half, picked up the bottle of Orange Glo, turned the nozzle towards her precious baby blues, and pulled the trigger. The fine mist entered her eyes, nose, and mouth. Poison control advised tightly wrapping the child in a towel, laying her down in the tub, and pouring water over her eyes for five minutes. The girl has the strength of two three year olds and poison control might as well have instructed the anxious mother to insert an elephant in a thimble. Through much travail the mother prevailed. A trip to the doctor's office confirmed that the girl is just fine. Well, one wouldn't really say "just fine". Rather, one could say that she is the just the same as she was pre-Glo.

Rewind thirty years. A young boy, a stout cowboy of three or four, observes the goings-on in a bathroom shared by his parents and his older brother and sister. The sister is just old enough to begin using make-up. Finding himself alone in the bathroom while his family finishes dinner, the boy picks up a bottle, turns the cap, and pulls out a brush. The boy remembers seeing his sister use a brush like this on her eyelashes. He applies the brush to his eyelashes with eyes wide open to see the effect. The fingernail polish runs into his open eye. Years later, the family claims that the scream was so primal that they thought to find the boy dead. They wash out his eye, and he recovers to full heterosexuality.

Like father, like daughter.


Peace

UPDATE: See mom's version here.

Monday Miscellany

It’s Monday again?

It try to make student assessments (tests and quizzes) interesting for my students. On my AP multiple choice questions, I would substitute one of the answers for a statement about a plot by subterranean monkeys to take over the world. My students gave me a monkey at the end of one year. A stuffed monkey. Last week, my ninth graders had a vocabulary quiz. They have to match words with definitions. I like to add a few faux definitions to make them think about it. For the word "pungent", I added this definition to the list: a young man with a fondness for word play.

Last week was homecoming week so things have been crazy at school. We have about four to five weeks every year that are useless for academic pursuits. Last week was one of them. Our students did a good job choosing homecoming court. I am, generally, opposed to the entire idea of a court. That being said, our students are supposed to select the students who best represent the spirit of our school: the earnestly seek to follow God, they work hard (though not necessarily earning "A"s, and the work to better the school. That is exactly the type of court that was elected this year. It was not a popularity contest, nor a beauty contest. The senior court is required to give speeches; students then vote on king and queen based on those speeches. This is the only part of the entire week that I enjoy. Not that the speeches are brilliant, but that I might get a shout-out. Anytime a student gives a speech, there is the off chance that they might mention a teacher in a positive light. That teacher might be me. I finally made it into the fifth of sixth speeches. One of the court was recounting fond memories that the student body has shared. She said, "...we'll remember the squeaking of a history teacher's voice during a lecture..." She didn't have to say my name, everyone knew it was me. In fairness, she made up for it later in reading a laundry list of things teachers has done for her, "I have been encouraged in Mrs. C's and Mrs. A's class, I have been inspired in Mr. Chintzibobs class..." "Inspired". I'll take that.

My wife and I have decided that we need a full-time theologian at our house. Our son is now asking about cemeteries and death. Last night he wanted to know why it stopped raining. After a pause, he pondered, "Why is God done feeding the earth?" I gotta re-read my catechism.


Peace

Monday Miscellany: I Dream that I am Reading Them

My four year old boy is finally getting the yesterday, today, tomorrow thing down. He struggled with the ideas in the abstract, but is conquering the ideas when faced with concrete problems. I bought the kids some new Play-Doh. They can only paint and use the clay in the art room (my office). I introduced the kids to the new clay on Saturday. After cleaning up, my boy stated that he wanted to play with the clay later. I said, confident of his ignorance of the meaning of tomorrow, "Maybe we will play with the clay tomorrow." He marched purposely up to me on Sunday, stood beside me and stated, "Remember when it was yesterday and you said that we could play with the clay tomorrow. Its tomorrow." We played with the clay. We made sea creatures, dinosaurs, money, popsicles and directions.

An inspiring story from the LA Times about a community library in a poor Brazilian community. The library was started by one man. The man is illiterate. One of volunteer workers, who is also illiterate, is asked why she does it. She says, "I dream that I am reading them." . That library has three times as many books as the library at my school does.

I started online grad school on Saturday (while at Saturday school). It is necessary for my career. I have my doubts that it will be worth anything beyond that. I shall keep an open mind and pray that my brains don't leak out.

Spiderfall count:
Spiders spotted: 3
Spiders dispatched: 3
The good guys are winning.


Peace

Achievement: Historical Significance or Trivial Pursuit

During my morning news browse yesterday, I came across an article on CNN linked as “Lawmakers call for history lessons” and titled “Schools directed to expand history curriculums” At last, I thought, politicians will be getting behind more history in high schools. But the full url is more revealing:

http://www.cnn.com/2005/EDUCATION/09/28/ethnic.courses.ap/index.html

Ethnic courses? The story concerns the creation of an "Amistad Commission" in New York State to direct schools to "teach students more about the struggles and triumphs of different races and ethnic groups". Oh. Make that "Uh-Oh". New York State is one of the big three movers and shakers in curriculum. They, along with California and Texas, have the highest populations and hence, are responsible for the bulk of textbooks orders. Textbook companies create whatever their most important clients demand.

The movement for inclusion is nothing new. In fact, it is part of a wider trend in history that has increasingly focused on the "common man" and social history. Even military history has tended in this direction with its growing literature of journals, letters, and first person narratives. Stephen Ambrose (Citizen Soldiers), John Keegan (The Face of Battle), Ronald Spector (At War at Sea), Mark Bowdan (Blackhawk Down) and Victor Davis Hanson (Hoplites: The Classical Greek Battle Experience) have all done fascinating and/or important work in this area.

The AP US History Exam has evolved over the years to reflect this change. Originally, the exam was almost solely political and diplomatic history. Now the exam breaks down as follows (from AP Central): "Political institutions and behavior and public policy account for approximately 35 percent of the questions, and social and cultural developments account for approximately another 40 percent. The remaining questions are divided between the areas of diplomacy and international relations (15 percent) and economic developments (10 percent)."

I have found the overall trend to be a major improvement in the depth of our historical understanding. It is difficult to understand why Lee was so successful if you know nothing of the fiber of the tens of thousands who served under him. Unfortunately, the trend has had some unintended and disturbing consequences. Special interest groups representing historically oppressed or abused groups have pushed for inclusion in these new social histories. In and of itself, this inclusion has been a positive thing. The addition of the history of slavery, the honest discussion of American Indian culture, the study of the growth of the idea of freedom, the exploration of the evolving role of the woman in society and the family, the understanding of the roles of family and community, the drama of the Civil Rights movement, and so many other topics have made American History a much richer and pertinent subject.

The inclusion has led to confusion between true achievement and trivia. A couple of my colleagues and I were discussing this at lunch on Wednesday. I proposed the idea that being the first to do something does not make for historical significance. I used as my example Crispus Attucks. For those you who don’t know Crispus, he was killed during the Boston Massacre. He has recently been added to history textbooks as the first black man to be killed during the American Revolution. In other words, his achievements were: being black and getting killed. There is little historical significance in this. Sure, I can discuss the roles and rights of free blacks in colonial society, but I can do this without the death of Mr. Attucks, about whom all I can really say is that he died and was black.

His inclusion has, necessarily, led to the excising of other individuals from textbooks. Generally, these people removed are white, male, and are of European descent. This has not gone on without raucous political debate. Sergeant Alvin York is no longer included in US History texts. The story of Alvin York is inspiring, thought provoking, and eminently teachable. I can discuss conscientious objectors, the role of religion in war, just war, heroism, poor white southerners, and a host of other issues through Sergeant York. Alas, he is dead to history.

The phenomenon of including the “firsts” in history books as significant has reached an extreme. Books include sidebars on the first black to do this, the first woman to this, the first Hispanic to this, and etc. Some of these are vital to understanding American history. The story of Jackie Robinson is, like Alvin York’s, inspiring, thought provoking, and eminently teachable. It is also historically significant. Being the first to do something can only be significant if there were considerable social, political, or historical forces making it difficult to accomplish that first. Otherwise it is mere trivia. The accomplishment itself must also be historically significant. Being the first three fingered, Hispanic, female to do twenty handstands in a hot air balloon over New York City does not meet the criteria. It is mere trivia.

The trivialization of the accomplishments of minorities or oppressed groups has actually served to undermine the importance of true accomplishment. Dontrelle Willis, the ace pitcher of the Florida Marlins, recently won twenty games. In baseball, this is a significant statistical accomplishment achieved by few players. It is a true achievement and a testimony to his natural abilities, hard work, and dedication to the game. The press would have you think other wise. His write up on Wikipedia mirrors the main stream media accounts of his accomplishments: “He became just the 13th African-American pitcher to win 20 games in a season, joining the "Black Aces." He was also the first African-American pitcher to win 20 games since Dave Stewart won 22 in 1990." Doesn’t this trivilize his accomplishment? Were there any social forces working against his winning twenty games because he was black?

CNN.com gives us this recent teaser for a story about the death of a Civil Rights pioneer and a true heroine of the movement as "First black woman on federal bench dies". The actual title and subtitle of the article is much more significant: "Civil rights champion Constance Baker Motley dies at 84: Justice pivotal force in landmark cases, worked tirelessly for cause". Which is more important, the trivia or the actual achievements? Which should I teach?

The discussion I was having with my colleagues closed with me proposing, without really thinking about it, that, “True achievement cannot be something that anyone could have done. Neil Armstrong being the first man to land on the moon is trivia. Any other astronaut could have done it. There was another astronaut behind him, waiting to do it. There was another one orbiting, wishing to do it. True achievement has to be something that only that person could do at that moment.”

Later, I understood my proposition's weaknesses. I think a superior understanding would be to say that true achievement cannot be simply being the first to do something. True achievement must be something that is either immensely difficult to do the first time and be worth doing, or it must be excellence in doing something that is difficult to do well and be worth doing. Jackie Robinson’s achievement meets both of these criteria. Crispus Attucks meets neither. Dontrelle Willis’ achievement meets the second and has nothing do with his race. Neil Armstrong’s meets the first one. Constance Motley’s probably meets the first, but her qualifications for the second are much more significant.

Recently, California has mandated a Cesar Chavez day for their public schools. This past summer, Philadelphia city schools added a graduation requirement: one year of black history. Soon, American history classes will consist of little but special days, weeks, months, and years, each assigned to the most powerful special interest groups. The state of history education in the United States is rotten.

My apologies if you have read this far. I have tried to supress my political rantings. When was the last time I posted on China? I like to try, even if it means failing.

Peace

Return to New Orleans

Yesterday, I lost one of my freshmen. She returned to her home in New Orleans. She has been with us for the last three weeks. She is an intelligent, confident, and hardworking student, and I am sad to see her go. I told her that I was sorry that we were losing her, but glad that she was getting to go home. She retorted wistfully that she wasn't so glad because she loved it here and wanted to stay. This moment made me swell with pride for my students and the many ways that they had embraced her. She experienced little of the discomfort and pain of the "new student". If only my students would respond with the same kind of love for every new student.

This student's presence led to a very awkward moment for me. The day after she arrived we were discussing Lord of the Flies and I connected the breakdown of the boys' society with the craziness in New Orleans (which now looks like it wasn't as bad as the media reported it). I forgot she was in my class; I think my words were something like "The boys on the island are just like the people down in New Orleans who went crazy after the hurricane". A couple of students on the back row started giggling. It was my New Orleans student and the girl at her table. The rest of the class soon remembered her presence and also started laughing at my discomfiture. I admitted, "Well, this is awkward" and offered a very lame qualification of my remarks. I approached her after class to apologize if she had been offended by my remarks. She thought it was funny and claimed not to have cared. I hope she didn't.

Peace