Take Me Out To The Ball Game

When I was a kid, my dad used to take me and my sister and brother to see the Tidewater Tides (now the Norfolk Tides) play minor league baseball. It was there that I developed a deep and abiding love of baseball and there that my brother, somehow, didn't. (Or maybe he just hates baseball because my dad likes it, I don't know.) Collectively, these Tides games with my dad are some of my fondest childhood memories. I remember how the anticipation would build as I rode to the games in the back of my dad's green VW bug. I remember scampering up to the cheap seats when it began to rain, waiting out the rain under the narrow overhang in the hopes that play would resume, and moving down to the abandoned expensive seats to enjoy the remainder of the game once it finally did. I remember dragging my mom to a game and looking at her like she had fourteen heads when I discovered she'd brought her cross-stitching in case the game got boring (boring?!). I remember bringing my glove (which I had to share with my sister) to the games and praying that I'd catch a foul ball. I remember being terrified that a foul ball might come my way and hit me in the face before I could get the glove up, and that my dad would be disappointed his little girl hadn't been keeping her eye on the ball. I remember seeing Darryl Strawberry (who we later cleverly took to calling Darryl Strawbaby, although I don't remember why. Coke?) play before he became famous. I remember getting lots and lots of promotional Tides and Mets stuff (the Tides are a Mets farm team), including a sweet Tides duffle bag that years later I let my now-baseball-hating brother have.

When I was older and we lived in DC, not Tidewater, I became a die-hard Orioles fan. I cut many a class in college to watch an important game, emailing my understanding professors: "Sorry, I can't make it to class this afternoon -- it's Opening Day. . .the O's might sweep the Yankees. . .it's game four of the ALCS." This lasted for years until Peter Angelos traded away half the team in 2000, scattering my favorite players far and wide. My beloved Mike Mussina willingly defected to the fucking Yankees, Harold Baines went to the White Sox, Mike Bordick to the Mets, and BJ Surhoff to the Braves (he cried when this was announced, and I cried the first time I saw him play for the Braves). Only Cal Ripken, Jr. remained, probably because that bastard Angelos knew he'd be assassinated if he so much of as thought about trading Cal. Even after this shake-up I hung in there through the signing of Albert Belle and the manager-ships of Ray Miller and Mike Hargrove. But it's been years since I really loved the Orioles and years since I've followed baseball religiously. I miss it.

And since I now live a mere five minutes from Harbor Park, home of the first baseball team I ever loved, I feel a Tides game coming on.

A New Kind Of Radicalism

That the Dixie Chicks are still considered radical -- and by such a fluffy, mainstream publication as Time -- for saying three years ago that they were embarrased by the president, a sentiment now shared by the majority of Americans, is disheartening. That they've finally decided to embrace this label and thumb their noses at the country music establishment is pretty damn cool.

Although I'm not a fan of today's popular country music (which, for the most part, is complete musical crap), I've loved the Dixie Chicks since the first time I heard "Wide Open Spaces." I own all their albums, including their latest -- a gutsy and thorough declaration of independence from the vapidity and jingoisim that currently passes for music in Nashville.

I like the new album well enough, but what I really like is that these girls are not fucking around. They've made a conscious decision to create the kind of music they want to create and to speak their minds, regardless of the impact this has on their ability to sell records. Said one of the chicks, "I'd rather have a smaller following of really cool people who get it, who will grow with us as we grow and are fans for life, than people that have us in their five-disc changer with Reba McEntire and Toby Keith. We don't want those kinds of fans. They limit what you can do." In other words, "Fuck you if you don't like us. We'd be insulted if you did."

I guess that attitude is pretty radical, and I like the Dixie Chicks more for it. If record sales are any indication, so do a lot of other people. Apparently that following of really cool people isn't as small as they thought.

Socrates Would Not Be Pleased

Although you're not supposed to, I have several favorite students. They are either very much like me or nothing at all like me -- in between students, while generally nice, are somehow not my favorites. One of my favorite students of 2005-2006 is a young lady to whom I often refer as mini-me because, duh, she reminds me of my tenth grade self. In reality, this chick is way cooler than I was in the tenth grade. For example, yesterday she came to school in a t-shirt that said "stop the genoicide in Sudan." When I complimented her on it, she whipped out an order form and explained that she'd had the t-shirt custom made and that she was selling them to, get this, raise money to donate to an organization working to stop the genoicide in Sudan.

If memory serves, the coolest, most activist things I did in the tenth grade were to A) sign a petition at the Earth Day Festival requiring curbside recycling in Virginia Beach (it worked) and B) plant two trees in honor of Arbor Day, one of which died and the other of which is now almost as tall as my parents' beach house (3 stories!). I also vaguely remember being the cause of a major fight between my parents after my dad, a nuclear submariner with the Navy, found out that my mom had been writing monthly checks to Greenpeace to shut me up about the importance of saving the whales. And, if it counts for anything, I totally fell in love with a guy who had long unkempt hair and really really liked Jane's Addiction. But genoicide wasn't even on my radar.

There's a point to all this.

This favorite student of mine stopped by after school yesterday to talk about what she'd just learned in Algebra class:

1. Global warming doesn't exist. It's just something politicians made up to get votes.
2. Social norms are not to be questioned.
3. Jesus is the only true god, and it is important to live by his laws.
4. Her generation is ruining the world.
5. Muslims pretty much just torture people.

That must be the "new" math I keep hearing about.

Here's the thing about teaching: I get to talk about global warming, lying politicians, social norms, Jesus, who's ruining the world and how, Islam, and the Geneva Conventions. I'm a Social Studies teacher and, believe it or not, all that shit is in my curriculum. But I don't get to preach, and I tend to err on the side of caution. Oh sure, today I said that nobody at FOX News even knows how to read and I did once claim to be smarter than our current president, but I said those things to make my kids laugh and not to make them believe what I believe.

I don't even necessarily want my kids to believe what I believe, at least not in the way that this Algebra teacher seems to. What I really want is for my kids to think for themselves after examining all sorts of different viewpoints. If they end up believing what I believe, cool. And if they end up thinking FOX News is quality journalism, obviously they're fucking retarded. Okay really, if they end up thinking FOX News is quality journalism, I'm okay with that as long as they've actually thought it through.

Because thinking is pretty much what education is all about. But forcing your beliefs on other people, especially when you're a grown-up and the other people are 15, is not teaching, it's preaching. And although the two words rhyme, they're completely different in spirit. This Algebra preacher has clearly chosen the wrong profession. School is for challenging one's existing views and expanding one's mind. If you want people to remain exactly where they are knowledge-wise, or worse, to accept everything you tell them without thinking, I'm sure there's a nice church nearby. Failing that, you could always apply at FOX News.

Quick! To The (Independent) Bookstore!

If you haven't read any David James Duncan, you're really missing out. An excerpt from the chapter "What Fundamentalists Need For Their Salvation," in his most recent book, God Laughs & Plays:

To allow televangelists or pulpit neocons to claim exclusive ownership of Jesus is to hand that incomparable lover of enemies, prostitutes, foreigners, children, and fishermen over to those who evince no such love. And to cede the word "Christian" to earth-trashing literalists who say "the End is nigh" feels rather like ceding my backyard henhouse to weasels.

In addition to his intelligent and spiritual nonfiction, Duncan also writes beautiful and spiritual fiction. His novel The River Why is one of my all-time favorites, as I may have mentioned once or twice before. If you find yourself wandering around wishing you had an uplifting, enlightening, thought-provoking, funny book to read, grab anything by David James Duncan and you won't be disappointed.

Whose Expectations Are Unreasonable?

As I was walking up to school this morning, I noticed a young lady getting off the bus and was struck by what she’d brought to school to aid her in the pursuit of knowledge: a pencil.

A lone pencil is an interesting statement of one’s expectations for the school day. Arriving at school with nothing but a pencil says, “I’m fairly certain that no one in this building is going to give me anything (handouts or graded papers, for example) worth taking home, so I haven’t brought a backpack or a binder or even a slim folder in which to transport such items. It’s equally unlikely that anyone will ask me to complete an assignment I find meaningful enough to bother with, so I have no need for paper. However, I haven’t given up on them yet. There’s a slim possibility that one of these adults whose job it is to reach me and teach me might say something today of such interest and importance that I’ll want to write down. Thus, this pencil.”

I hope someone inspired her to use that pencil today.

More than likely, though, someone chastised her for being unprepared and tomorrow she’ll come to school with nothing, if she comes at all.

He's A Uniter, Not A Divider

You know things are bad over at Bush, Inc. when they revive a bigoted campaign pledge made in the hopes that the Religious Right would be stupid enough to re-elect them and then promptly abandoned once those hopes were realized. So, that constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage you haven't heard of since the presidential victory dance? It's back.

Of course, a 31% approval rating calls for drastic measures. Nixon resigned, for example. Bush, Inc., though -- in a bold fit of strategery -- is opting for something different. Instead of attempting to determine what exactly has caused 69% of Americans to believe he's doing a crappy job, Bush, Inc. has decided to just keep right on truckin'.

According to a Gallup polll conducted in May, only 50% of Americans support a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage. 50% may sound like a lot, but it's only half. It's not a majority. It's certainly not the 2/3 majority needed in both Houses of Congress to propose a constitutional amendment, and it's nowhere near the 3/4 majority needed for ratification.

Perhaps this is because at least half the country values the Constitution a bit more than our current president does and recognizes that it is a legal document based on the lofty ideals of justice and equality, and that to write discrimination into that lofty legal document would be just a wee bit contrary to what the Founders had in mind. Or perhaps that 50% realizes the existing 27 amendments to our Constitution were written -- for the most part -- to keep the government out of our personal lives, and that the one time we attempted to bring about social change by amending our Constitution (Amendment XVIII: Prohibition), we decided 14 years later that it was a pretty dumb idea (Amendment XXI: Repeal of Prohibition).

But nevermind that. Here's what Bush, Inc. knows: 1) their constituent base of right wing conservative fundamentalists doesn't like gay marriage, 2) liberals and moderates pretty much do, 3) almost everyone is pissed off about the war (hence the 31% approval rating), 4) a bipartisan anti-Bush movement is not good, 5) same-sex marriage is an issue they can easily manipulate to divide Americans and distract us from the real issues that might cause us to notice what a shitty president we have.

Personally, I think it's a pretty big gamble. Because here's what Bush, Inc. doesn't know: My mom supports same-sex marriage. My mom -- a devout Catholic who has never voted Democrat in her life, who thinks homosexuality is kind of "icky" -- is totally opposed to a ban on same-sex marriage on the grounds that "it's not very nice." And if Bush, Inc. can't get her on board, I think it's safe to assume it can't get 75% of the American public on board.

That doesn't mean I'm not going fight this potential same-sex marriage ban tooth and nail -- believe me, my senators will be hearing from me -- but it does mean that I have more faith in what Senator Jefferson Smith (in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington) called "a little bit of plain, ordinary, everyday kindness -- and a little lookin' out for the other fella, too" than in the smoke and mirrors of today's Republican party. Because after all, that everyday kindness -- in the form of justice and equality -- is "the blood and bone and sinew of this democracy," according to the idealistic and endearing Mr. Smith.

People With Whom I Am Currently Irritated

My department chair: Months ago I asked you if I could teach something next year that I'd taught before (US Government -- my passion -- or US History) in addition to what I'm currently teaching (Human Geography) so that I could have at least one period a day where I felt like I knew what the hell I was doing. Instead, you have me teaching World History, a subject I've never taught before. You've made my job harder, not easier.

A cute guy at the grocery store: I thought you were attractive until I noticed you were wearing a Bush-Cheney t-shirt. Are you serious with yourself? There are like ten people on the planet who still like Bush, Inc. enough to admit it, and you're wearing their fucking t-shirt?! In this town?

That guy at the beach today who warned his family to "watch out for the faggots": Are you aware that the f-word is akin to the n-word? Or that just because men are flamboyant doesn't mean they're gay? Or that you're teaching your children to hate people based solely on their sexual orientation? Or that homosexuality is not a communicable disease?

Sigh Of Relief

On behalf of the internets I'd like to welcome my little brother back to the blogosphere, which he abandoned (along with speaking to me) about two weeks ago after we had an argument about baseball, of all things. Little bro' insisted baseball was for pansies and that he (and anyone with two arms) could play major league ball. Big sis, who fucking loves baseball, asked if perhaps little bro' had grown a wee bit too angry and pointed out that he wasn't much fun to be around anymore.

My brother was less than receptive (to put it mildly), but I'm kind of the teacherish motherish make-everything-better type and I love him more than just about anything else in the world -- way more than baseball -- so I persisted, encouraging him to have hope for the future and to see the humor even in bad situations, even though I knew he didn't want to hear it. (And he didn't: "I'm gonna go now because I really have to pee," he said to me. "No you don't, you just don't want to talk to me anymore," I countered. "That's true," he acknowledged, "but I'm gonna go anyway.")

That was two weeks ago, and I've spent most of the last two weeks worrying about him (worrying about shit is my thing). But at long last my brother called me this afternoon just to chat, and then this evening he emailed me the link to his new blog, where I discovered this:

I'll just try to find some kind of humor or hope in all of it 'cause I'm really not that guy that's constantly complaining and bringing everyone down and what not and I think hope is an important thing to hang onto. . . .I'm gonna try and look for some kind of light somewhere and try to not get bogged down along the way.

And that just makes me smile.

There's Nothing Cute About Oppression

Last week one of my colleagues lent me a very cool (from an educational perspective) artifact to use in class: a burqa. My students and I had learned about religous fundamentalism in general -- and its effect on women in particular -- earlier in the year, so the burqa thing was not news to them. As a teacher, I was pretty excited about the burqa, but as a woman it totally creeped me out, and if I thought about it for more than a few seconds that burqa made me angry. Even after seven years of teaching, I still forget that your average high school student is not nearly as nerdy or indignant as I am, so I mistakenly expected my students to feel pretty much the same way upon seeing the burqa.

"You look silly," one kid said. "Is it hot under there?," a bunch of kids asked. "Oooh, take a picture," another kid urged. "You should go knock on Mr. E's door and see what he does," suggested one of my favorite girls, as if it were Halloween. The closest they came to righteous indignation was arriving at this consensus: "Wow, that must suck."

Um, yeah, I think living under a regime that thought so little of you that it attempted to render you invisible by forcing you to cover yourself from head to fingertip to toe, made it illegal for you to receive an education, forbade you from leaving your home unless escorted by a close male relative, stoned you if it thought you'd had sex outside of marriage, and outlawed laughter would be pretty fucking "sucky."

Troubled? Really? That's All You Could Come Up With?

The current president is reportedly "troubled" by the possibility that a group of Marines in Iraq murdered about 24 unarmed civilians in Haditha and then lied about the incident to cover up the massacre. Bush assures us that those involved in the murders will be punished. You know, kind of like the people responsible for torturing prisoners at Abu Ghraib or for leaking Valerie Plame's name were punished.

Oh wait.

I'm pretty fucking troubled myself: troubled that this asshole hasn't been impeached yet.

That's My Girl

My best friend since we were 13 is in town this week visiting her parents, who still live out in Virginia Beach where we grew up. I've been taking advantage of her proximity by basically spending every possible minute with her (and her husband and her kids). This evening she called around 8:00 (after dinner with her mother-in-law) to give me directions to her sister's house (also in VB), and it was clear from the suckiness of those directions that she was already wasted. But I didn't realize just how wasted until I arrived and found her rocking out to the Muppet Movie soundtrack. On vinyl.

She was so wasted that her husband finally said, "Honey if you don't stop I'm gonna chain you to something. And I'm not kidding." (He was kidding.)

This would be the same bff whose baby peed on me yesterday. She totally deserves a little rocking out. But, um, the Muppets are an odd choice.

Tempting, But No

I am not a baby person. I mean, I like babies well enough, but they don't really do much and I generally like to give them back to their parents once I've grown bored with them. I am not one of those women who gets all goofy and emotional around babies. I have never experienced what I call baby fever -- an intense yearning for a baby of one's own brought on by the mere sight of someone else's baby.

Today, though, I came very very close. I spent the afternoon cuddling my best friend's adorable 10 week old son. I really enjoyed this experience: he was so sweet and cuddly and soft, and he smelled so good and babyish. His little baby hands kept grasping mine and he kept nuzzling his little baby face into my neck. I wouldn't let anyone else hold him or let his mom put him down for a nap. I started to feel the faintest tickings of my own biological clock. Then he peed on me, and I thought, "You know, cats are nice."

And PS, yes, that is a beer in my non-baby-holding hand. A girl has to have her priorities.

Has Anyone Seen My Brother?

He's tall, angry, and scruffy with brown hair:

Happy Memorial Day

Um, I know freedom isn't free, but I'm really confused about whose blood is doing what these days. I thought the blood of Jesus Christ had washed away all my sins and that the blood of countless American soldiers was responsible for the many freedoms I enjoy. Now I find out it's been Jesus the whole time? What the fuck?

And PS: someone should say something snarky about those quotation marks, but I'll leave that to The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks.

Sound Travels At The Beach

Ask my brother and sister, or anyone who knew us well during our childhood, and they will tell you this: sound travels at the beach. In an effort to keep us from annoying the neighbors, my parents reminded us of this at least 25 times a day when we were kids living in (then) sparsely populated Corolla, NC.

No, we could not call down from the upper deck to ask a question of someone in the driveway. Why? Sound travels at the beach. No, we could not, instead of using the phone, yell down the street to find out what time our friends' families were going to the beach. Why? Sound travels at the beach. No, we could not take the radio outside onto the deck. Why? Sound travels at the beach, and the neighbors did not want to hear Michael Jackson's Thriller album, nor -- as we got older -- did they want to hear Naked Eyes, some old Zeppelin album, anything by REM, or the latest from The Cure. Standing on the deck chatting with the cute guys building a nearby house? No way: sound travels at the beach and, also, that's trampy.

When we were kids, we found this whole "sound travels at the beach" thing pretty annoying. We used to roll our eyes and mimic our parents as they said this. It became a running joke, but one we internalized. We still spend a lot of time in Corolla, which in the summer months is well beyond sparsely populated. We find ourselves saying to one another indignantly, "Dude, turn down the radio, sound travels at the beach," and bitching about noisy neighbors: "Don't they know sound travels at the beach?" We're startled to discover that we're not kidding. Sound does travel at the beach.

My neighbors for this Memorial Day weekend at the beach clearly did not get the sound travels memo. They have been shouting to (and at) one another since they arrived, not just from their upper deck to their driveway, but from their upper deck to the end of the street and from inside their house to the person in their outdoor shower downstairs. To make matters worse, they sometimes do this as early as 8:00 in the morning. And they have New York accents. Not the endearing Tony Soprano kind of New York accents, but horrible whiny, nasal New York accents.

Since Saturday, their car alarm has gone off four times. You know the last time a car was stolen in Corolla? Yeah, never. I don't even lock the doors to the house, let alone my car, and these jackasses are guarding their Dodge Caravan like it's Blackbeard's treasure.

Isn't there a local ordinance for this one? I'd like to be able to call up the Sheriff's Department: "I have some noisy neighbors. With New York accents," I'd say. "Shit! New York accents?!," they'd reply, "We'll be right there!" and they'd rush over to disable the minivan alarm and inform the obnoxious New Yorkers of what everyone else already knows: sound travels at the beach.

So shut up already.

Sometimes It Pays To Listen To Your Kids

Unlike two of their three children, my parents are staunch conservatives who voted for Bush in both 2000 and 2004 and who resolutely maintain that this was not such a bad move given the alternatives (that loser Gore and that god-awful Kerry, respectively). They are also, like many in their generation, big fans of Bruce Springsteen, so I wasn't surprised when they told me they'd be forgoing this year's traditional Memorial Day weekend at the beach because they had tickets to his concert. And because I think it's good for them to broaden their horizons, I didn't mention that The Boss has grown decidedly more anti-war and anti-Bush of late.

I just talked to my mom, who called to chat before she left for the concert. As we were getting off the phone we had this little conversation:

Me: Well, have fun at the concert.

Mom: Hey, who's Pete Seeger? (this seemed like a non sequitur to me, but we're talking about a woman who once responded to my query of "are we out of beer?" with "we're in the kitchen. . .come on in," so I usually just roll with it.)

Me: He's a folk singer. Why?

Mom: The concert is a Pete Seeger tribute concert.

Me: (uncontrollable laughter)

Mom: What? Why are you laughing?

Me: He sings protest songs, Mom. Militant political protest songs. Remember that Christmas you bought Brian (my militant left-winger of a little brother) the entire Pete Seeger collection?

Mom: Uh-oh.

Me: (still lauging) I'm sure ya'll will have lots of fun. You know Bruce Springsteen hates the president, right?

Mom: (laughing a bit herself now) Stop laughing. Dad said he didn't know what the concert was about when he bought the tickets. He tried to pawn them off on Laura (my sister) and Brian, but they didn't want them. (Laura, no doubt, because she has other plans and Brian because he shares my view that John Mellencamp, not Bruce Springsteen, is the true musical spokesman for America's working class.)

Me: Okay, well have a great time, Mom.

Mom: (unconvincingly) I'm sure it will be fine.

Me: (more laughter)

Mom: I'll call you tomorrow to tell you just how not-fine it was.

So my parents have paid good money (lots of money, I bet) to see Bruce Springsteen sing the protest songs of a movement they actively avoided in their youth and to listen to him criticitize their president.

I think it actually probably will be fine. My brother and I once caught my Dad humming along to a Joan Baez (protest) song. "You like Joan Baez?," we demanded incredulously. "I like her music, but not her politics," my dad replied. My brother and I looked at each other quizzically and then launched into a joint lecture about how her music is her politics, how art is frequently political, and how you can't divorce art from politics. My dad listened politely and finally said, "I just think she has a pretty voice." We shook our heads in exasperation, but it's this attitude that will carry my parents through tonight's Bruce Springsteen concert. They may disagree with the lyrics (okay, they'll definitely disagree with the lyrics), but they'll enjoy the singing and the actual music. And they will certainly never admit it, but I bet they'll even agree with a thing or two The Boss has to say about the mess our current president is making of the world. After all, my parents are not retarded. They just sometimes vote that way.

Update 05.29.06: My mom's review of the concert: "It was totally awesome! I'm going to buy the CD today!" (at Wal-Mart, probably, which will cause poor Pete Seeger to roll over in his grave.)

Better Teaching Through Reggae

I teach a high school course in Human Geography. Yesterday’s class was about how the developed world is fucking the developing world over. This is actually in my curriculum -- they call it Dependency Theory (but they don’t use the f-word). To illustrate this topic, I began class yesterday with a little PowerPoint presentation set to Bob Marley’s “Babylon System.” While this might sound cool to you, the opening notes alone were enough to elicit a chorus of moans and groans from my students, who whined, “Haven’t we already heard this song?”

You have already heard this song, but I like “Babylon System,” okay, kids? And here’s the thing: you do too. Because what I notice whenever I play “Babylon System” (or any other song) in class is that you’re paying attention. Sure, I could stand up and talk about Dependency Theory, but it would sound like this: “blah blah blah IMF, blah blah blah third world debt, blah blah blah corporate colonialism, blah blah blah sweatshops,” and within three minutes your eyes would glaze over and you’d start whispering to the kid next to you or surreptitiously text messaging your friends.

I get it: caring about stuff is so not cool. That became clear to me way back in November when we talked about Female Genital Mutilation (also in my curriculum) and all you had to say was that it’s “pretty wack.” I also get that music is cool, which is why I use it to trick you into learning about stuff you would otherwise pretend not to care about.

So go ahead and complain about having to listen to “Babylon System” again. You're not fooling me: your eyes are glued to the screen, half of you are tapping your feet, and a handful of you are even singing along under your breath. And that, despite your whining smokescreen, is what tells me you might be a little more into this whole learning thing than you like to let on. It's how I know I'm doing my job successfully and what gets me out of bed every morning. These are the moments that constitute the joy of teaching.

So thank you, kids, for yesterday's little moment. It probably seemed like I didn't care whether or not you were engaged, but I was just pretending. You know, kind of like you were pretending you're too cool for school.

PS: For an amusing examination of Bob Marley’s popularity among the frat boy set, click here.

01.20.09

On my walk home from school this afternoon, I swung by my favorite local independent bookstore to pick up the copy of Not Buying It: My Year Without Shopping they'd special ordered for me. By the register was a nice little stack of these stickers:

So, even though I was there specifically to purchase a book about defying the culture of consumerism, I bought one. I mean, it was only $3. How could I pass that up?

I couldn't. And you shouldn't either. Click here to get one of your very own. As it turns out, a portion of the proceeds are donated to groups like Amnesty International, the Sierra Club, MoveOn, and Rock the Vote, so it doesn't even count as vapid consumerism.

Somebody's Sure Crazy For These Crackers, Cuzzin

I just discovered this on the back of my box of Harris Teeter brand Wheat Snack Crackers:

What wonderful things crackers are! Unequaled in the kitchen, crackers are a stalwart worker. They are a dedicated palate to hold an imagination's worth of delectable toppings. . .they are a tool to excavate hearty dips and spreads. . .they are willingly drowned in our soups and crushed on our casseroles. All in the name of better taste. With this honorable service in mind, our traders created a line of the finest crackers available. . .each ready and eager to be served. Enjoy!

You know, I like crackers as much as the next guy, but I don't know that I'd go so far as to describe them as stalwart workers. I mean, they're crackers, for the love of god. And you're going to have a really tough time convincing me that these crackers are eager to be served. What, they're just dying for an opportunity to excavate one of my hearty dips? Puh-leaze.

Somebody actually gets paid good money to write these odes to crackers, probably better money than I get paid to teach the children. But I can sleep at night.

Lamest Protest Ever

According to an article in today's Virginian Pilot, about 50 people turned out yesterday to protest The Da Vinci Code:

(photo credit)

The article says that most of the protesters recognize the DVC is a work of fiction and they just wanted to "encourage people to study the Bible to learn the truth." While I agree that the DVC itself is a fictional story, the religious part of it -- the part that people are so pissed about -- is probably not any more fictional than, say, the Bible.

The best part of yesterday's DVC protest? The original plan was to spell out "Jesus is Truth," but, um, not enough people showed up. And there was a heckler.

My Guardian Angel Is Hotter Than Yours

About two years ago, I left my fiancé six weeks before our wedding and five days after we'd moved in together. This was one of the more difficult things I've done in my life, and it probably goes without saying that I agonized over the decision. However, I'm confident that it was the right decision, and it's not one I've regretted for so much as a split second since I made it. On occasion, though, I do think about how close I came to a marriage that would have made me miserable, and I breathe a little sigh of relief while thanking my lucky stars for my friend DH.

It was DH who -- exactly eight weeks before my wedding, on the very day I'd mailed the invitations -- was the first to give voice to the doubts I'd been harboring for at least a month when he studied me carefully and finally said, "I don't think you should get married."

This turns out to have been a view shared by a surprising number of my friends, not because they didn't like my fiancé (because everybody likes him) but because they could tell I wasn't happy. There's a lot of gray area between support and enabling, and I'm grateful that my friends chose collectively to lean toward the supportive side despite their concerns. I am equally grateful for the insight of DH, who admittedly had little to lose and probably enjoyed playing my knight in shining armor simply for the ego boost, but who forced me to examine my relationship and evaluate my future.

Although my friends give me more credit, I maintain there's a 99% chance I'd be married to the wrong guy right now if not for DH. Molly tends to agree with me: she once described DH in all seriousness as "a gift from God." And while she still carries his business card around in her wallet because she thinks DH is hot (and his picture is on his card), she was not referring to his appearance.

I'm not much on God, but I have been known to refer half-jokingly to DH as my guardian angel. And really, if you compare DH to Clarence, George Bailey's guardian angel in It's a Wonderful Life, you have to admit DH is a little easier on the eyes.

Okay, Who's In?

This was being passed around school today:

Apparently a "jump off" is a party. I didn't know this -- I had to ask my students. I strolled in to class waving the flyer as the bell rang and said, "Hey, what's a jump off?" The kids looked a little startled. One girl said sheepishly, "Um, it's like a trashy girl." "No, no," I said, "what if I were going to a jump off?" "Oh, that's like a party," they responded, relieved.

Even though ladies get in free (I like how that bit is in quotes -- like, is "ladies free, niggas $2" some sort of catch phrase I'm just not familiar with? What are those quotation marks for?!), and I'll be able to find the jump off simply by following the music, I don't think I'll be going. Why? Well, I'm not much of a dancer, and the flyer specifically states, "If you ain't gone dance don't bring yo ass!!!" That's three exclamation points, so I think he means business.

But if you want to go, feel free to hit Omar up. As long as you have him on the phone, tell him the dollar signs go before the numbers.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. . .

This is my little brother. Needless to say, he's got "angry" down. Note his proximity to both beer and attractive women. Nevermind the fact that he's at a cheesy sports bar and that the women are practically his sisters -- there's beer and there's chicks, and therefore there's no excuse for that grumpy face. And the middle finger. . .my god!

The thing is, angry is my brother's natural state. Being pissed about everything is like his version of happy. If he's not scowling and giving you the finger and calling someone a douchebag, something's not quite right in his world.

I have a secret though: he's not really that angry. He just pretends. Oh sure, he's fired up about Darfur and religious fanaticism and the erosion of our constitutional rights and all that, but he's not one of those people you hate to be around because they're so negative and they never stop bitching. He's more like a funny guy whose bitching makes you laugh. Sometimes even he has a hard time not laughing at his own angry act.

Occasionally though, he walks a pretty fine line. Referring to him as "Dad" is usually enough to make him snap out of it in a hurry, which is good because really my brother is this guy -- the happy one with a smile on his face and his middle finger being used only to grasp a can of Bud.

I like funny angry little bro' an awful lot, but it's funny happy little bro' I really love.

Sunday News Round-Up

Prominently featured on the front page of today's New York Times : 1) a story about the most recently negotiated cease-fire in Darfur being just as meaningless as every previous cease-fire, as evidenced by Thursday's attack in which one woman was killed and 15 were raped by janjaweed militiamen; 2) an account of Southeast Asia's successful efforts to combat the avian flu; and 3) a story about post-9/11 conflicts between the NSA and VP Cheney over the constitutionality of intercepting domestic phone calls without warrants to do so (crazy-ass Cheney, as one might expect, contends that there's nothing in the Constitution to suggest this might not be permissible).

Prominently featured on the front page of today's Washington Post: 1) a story about the US Border Patrol's ineffective "catch-and-release" approach to curbing non-Mexican illegal immigration, and 2) a touching compilation of interviews with Iraq war veterans that details the difficulty of readjusting to life at home in the face of our indifference. (This story brought tears to my eyes. Read it!)

Prominently featured on the front page of today's Virginian Pilot: a story about the film version of The Da Vinci Code coming out on Friday, and how some religious people won't touch it with a ten foot pole while others are pleased that it provides them with an opportunity to promote traditional Christian beliefs in the face of such blasphemy. You know, just in case you hadn't heard about that yet. Thanks, Virginian Pilot, for that bit of hard-hitting reporting on a topic of such global importance.

To be fair, the Pilot is an excellent local paper, and it did run the NYT's Darfur story on page A3, their avian flu story on page A22, and the Post's immigration story on page A11. But The Da Vinci Code as front page Sunday news?! Come on.

The Da Vinci Code, by the way, is complete crap as far as literature goes. The writing is terrible and the plot is even worse. What makes The Da Vinci Code interesting (and what I suspect explains its 159 weeks on the bestseller list) is its exploration of the historical suppression of the divine feminine. There's a whole body of reputable nonfiction on this fascinating subject, starting with Holy Blood, Holy Grail, the authors of which sued Dan Brown (and lost) for plagiarizing their work. For those interested in the religious aspects of The Da Vinci Code, I offer. . .

Five Books to Read Instead of The (Stupid) Da Vinci Code:

1. Holy Blood, Holy Grail by Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh, and Henry Lincoln
2. The Chalice and the Blade by Riane Eisler
3. The Woman with the Alabaster Jar by Margaret Starbird
4. The Gnostic Gospels by Elaine Pagels
5. The Gospels of Mary by Marvin Meyer

Or, if you like crap, just wait a few days and go see the movie.

Honey, He Is The Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy

It seems Hillary Clinton and Rupert Murdoch have more in common than having both been recently mentioned on my blog: Murdoch, who owns a significant chunk of the mainstream media -- including that beacon of fair and balanced reporting, Fox News -- will be hosting a re-election fundraiser for Clinton this July.

Not that Hillary is at the top of my "politicians I respect and admire" list (it's a short list), but is there anyone in politics who will not sell his or her soul to stay in politics? I mean, this is the guy whose network led the charge against Hillary's lying cheating husband. When she centered her ridiculous "stand by your man" routine around a "vast right-wing conspiracy," she was talking about Rupert Murdoch. But hey, if he can raise a few bucks on behalf of her campaign, I don't see why she can't overlook a little thing like completely biased pseudo-reporting that squelches any sort of meaningful political discourse.

A Song From The Darkest Hour

If there's a happier song than "Sit Down" by James, I damn sure haven't heard it.

Why I Don't Watch 24

Another Monday night, another exciting episode of 24. I know, everyone loves this show. Steve spends each Monday sternly reminding everyone he encounters that it's Jack Bauer Appreciation Day. I spend a small portion of my class time (my instructional time) on Mondays trying to get my students to stop talking about what's going to happen on 24, and a much larger chunk of that class time on Tuesdays trying to get the kids to shut up about what did happen on 24. Every Monday they ask me, "Are you gonna watch 24 tonight?" and every Monday I tell them, "A) I don't own a television and B) I want no part of 24." Every Tuesday they ask me, "Did you see 24 last night?" and every Tuesday some kid who actually pays attention in class says, "Dude, she doesn't have a TV!" and some other kid adds, "Yeah, and she doesn't even like that show."

The thing is, I used to. Like everyone else, I used to love 24. I was a devoted fan throughout seasons 1-3. I've spent more than a few Tuesday mornings at the proverbial water cooler animatedly discussing the events of the previous night's episode of 24 as if it bore some resemblance to real life and the characters were actually my close personal friends. I've even attended a season finale party or two. I see the appeal: the gripping suspense, those bad guys you love to hate, the fate of the world hanging in the balance, that hottie Keifer Sutherland. But in season 4 something changed for me. . .24 began to seem irresponsible.

I became more and more concerned about how expendable people are on 24, not just bad guys but good guys too. I started to keep a running body count. A lot of people died in each episode, most of them not-so-nicely. And we're talking episodes that are only supposed to represent an hour of real-life time.

Then there's the torture thing. The good guys frequently torture the bad guys to get information out of them, which I guess is supposed to be okay because the good guys need that information in order to save everyone from the bad guys. This is a serious moral question that deserves serious attention and contemplation. Instead, 24 portrays each instance of torture as if it's some sort of Machiavellian necessity not worth dwelling on.

And there's, of course, the stereotyping. Almost all the terrorists on 24 (at least in seasons 1-4) are Muslims who hate America simply because they are crazy Muslims. Nothing new here. Likewise, those who don't hate the terrorists must by definition hate America and therefore be on the side of the enemies. Hell, in season 4 the Secretary of State had his own son tortured because he had maybe gone home with some chick who knew some guy who had maybe been involved with planning season 4's attack.

I know it's only a TV show, but is this sort of thing really constructive? Do we really need to glorify such callous disregard for human life and fan the flames of bigotry and intolerance? See, there's no gray area on 24. There's good guys and there's bad guys and it's us against them. You are, as our simpleton of a president once said, "either with us, or you are with the terrorists." This is an incredibly dangerous mentality, which is why I've sworn off 24 and why I attempt to convince anyone who will listen (which, frankly, isn't a very large group) that 24 is perhaps more harmful than all of Rupert Murdoch's other enterprises combined.

To be honest, I haven't made much headway, but I'm hoping I'll win a few converts now that Tom Tomorrow's come out in support of me:

(From Working for Change)

On Protesting (Or Not)

A few weekends ago my brother and I had talked about going up to NYC. UFPJ had organized a protest against the current war on Iraq, the impending war on Iran, and the war-mongering Bush administration in general. My brother and I both felt a sort of moral obligation to add our voices to the protest, but we also didn't feel like going to New York, and we doubted that any amount of protesting would change BushCo's approach to foreign policy.

I firmly believe that every single American citizen could be in the streets protesting and Dubya would merely pause to shake his head in condescending pity for our stupidity, and would then return to the business of fucking everything up. This is because the man actually believes that God talks to him:

2000: "I've heard the call. I believe God wants me to run for president. . . .I can't explain it, but I sense my country is going to need me. Something is going to happen... I know it won't be easy on me or my family, but God wants me to do it."

2003: "God told me to strike at al Qaeda and I struck them, and then He instructed me to strike at Saddam, which I did, and now I am determined to solve the problem in the Middle East." (By striking somebody, probably. Or maybe smiting.)

2004: "I trust God speaks through me. Without that, I couldn’t do my job."

Bush and his administration have demonstrated repeatedly that they don't really give a shit what the American people think. Why should they when they're doing God's work? 55% of Americans think BushCo deliberately misled the public into war and 60% of Americans believe that war has not been worth fighting. Big deal. 100% of Supreme Beings (of which there is, of course, only one) think Bush is doing a bang-up job.

This, however, is no reason not to protest, and I've felt guilty ever since I skipped the NYC protest. I felt especially guilty this morning when I read Melissa's lovely post, which reminded me that it's important to stand up for what you believe in, even when it seems that doing so is unlikely to change anything. Despite the fact that BushCo is impervious to dissent, there are lots of good reasons to protest, namely that it is the right thing to do regardless of the outcome. As Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter," and as Ghandi said, "Whatever you do may seem insignificant to you, but it is most important that you do it." And as Elle Woods said in Legally Blonde 2, "One honest voice can be louder than a crowd's."

This is (or used to be) essentially my whole m.o. as a person, and especially as a teacher. If my students learned nothing else, I hoped they would leave my class believing that they could make the world a better place. When the hell did I stop believing we could make the world a better place? I didn't go to a protest because it wouldn't do any good and New York was too far?! Yikes. When's the next protest? I'm so there.

I'm Not A Shrieking Hateful Harpy, But I Play One On TV

Confession: I've recently exchanged an email or two with my ex-fiancé.

This is how he came to know that I have a blog on which he could post Thursday's witty "there she blows" comment, and also how I came to know that he has a blog on which he refers to me as a "shrieking, hateful harpy."

(So Steve, yesterday when I said I had no idea how the comment got there, I was kind of lying. Sorry. I'm totally coming clean now.)

At first I was really pissed about this whole harpy thing. In my head I compiled a long list of evidence that conclusively proves I am not a shrieking, hateful harpy (for example: I rarely even raise my voice, so "shrieking" is, you know, a bit of a stretch). But then I realized I am merely a literary device. Referring to your ex-fiancé as a shrieking, hateful harpy is funny, whereas referring to her as "probably the most sensitive person I have ever met" (as he recently wrote to me) is not. So I've decided to be a good sport about this. Hell, every blog needs a shrieking, hateful harpy.

For those close friends and family members who were present for years and years of the Megan & Bryce rollercoaster and who are now thinking, "Uh-oh. Emails? Here we go again.," rest assured, we are not going there again. For starters, Bryce and I now live several hundred miles apart, so to go there again would be impractical. Secondly, he steadfastly refuses to put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and you know I'm not havin' that. Lastly, he is madly in love (and good for him, really) with a girl he refers to as Baby, which is a term of endearment that literally makes me cringe.

I have never allowed anyone to call me "baby." "Shrieking, hateful harpy"? Sure, knock yourself out. But "baby"? No fucking way.

It's Hard To Be In A Bad Mood When You're Wearing Whale Pants

It's even harder when you're also wearing whale underpants. (no picture of that)

This uncharacteristically preppie look is what's going to get me through the day. That and the fact that it's Cogan's Thursday.

Come November 4th, 2008, I Will Be $100 Richer

My dad, die-hard Republican and defense contractor extraordinaire, is in town overnight for a briefing tomorrow. He took me to dinner this evening and we got to talking about politics (imagine that). This is a topic that usually does not end well for us (see the die-hard Republican bit above). However, this discussion of politics was oddly civilized. At one point my dad even said, "You may have a point there," which is a phrase I don't think I've ever heard him utter before. The most heated portion of our chat involved a discussion of whether the Democrats will regain control of Congress in the midterm elections (um, hellooooo, we're talking 32% approval ratings here. . .of course the Democrats are going to regain control of Congress) and what will happen in the 2008 election.

Here's where the $100 comes in:

Dad: And you think that momentum will continue right up until we get stuck with Hillary?

Me: (laughing incredulously through a mouth full of beer) Hillary?! I don't even think Hillary can get the nomination.

Dad: Huh?

Me: Well, for starters, she's a woman. And also, the Democrats have this strategy of running only namby-pamby, pandering to the middle wuss-bags, which Hillary actually is, but conservatives hate her so much there's no way the Dems would nominate her.

Dad: She's exactly like her husband. Everything she does is politically motivated. She has no conscience.

Me: I don't exactly think Bush has a conscience.

Dad: He does, you just don't like it. I think Hillary will run, and I think she'll win.

Me: You mean the election? The presidency?!

Dad: Yes.

Me: No way. There is no way we're electing a female president. Not anytime soon.

Dad: In 2008.

Me: Care to put some money on that?

So the bet is for $100. I asked my dad if we were betting on the nomination or the election. He said it didn't matter, he'd be happy to take my money either way.

Dad, honey, Hillary's a girl. You are so gonna owe me $100.

Although I Have T-Shirts Attesting To The Sexiness of Both, I Can't Decide Which Is Sexier: Reading or Voting

Today was Election Day in the City of Norfolk (as well as throughout the rest of Tidewater). We elected new city council members and a new mayor. Well, actually, I suspect we elected the same old city council members and the same old mayor, but my point is that those were the offices in question.

So anyway, since democracy is not a spectator sport, I voted this evening. And what's more. . .I walked to the polling place. It's 0.4 miles from my house! I know I've lived in the city for almost a year now, but I still can't get over the number of places I'm able to walk to. Work, for starters. Plus numerous restaurants/bars (including Cogan's!), two wine shops, the movie theater, the video store, two coffee shops (one of which is Starbucks and therefore doesn't count since I'd never go in there anyway), the hospital, the bookstore, the health food store, two grocery stores, and lots of cute little shops I've never even been in.

I think we ought to add "walking" to my list of things that are sexy. It might even be sexier than voting.

Although. . .I noticed a seriously attractive guy (a "very nice boy my age") at the polling place this evening. Sadly, he drove away in an SUV, so I guess the sexiness of voting (and being hot) gets kind of cancelled out by the non-sexiness of driving an SUV. That's the trouble with boys these days. . .

Fun With Anagrams

Last night I went to O'Sullivan's to see everyone's favorite local cover band, Lovesick Cousin. When I arrived, the O'Sullivan's marquee (yes, it's the kind of dive with a marquee) was advertising its nightly specials -- porterhouse & tilapia -- on one side and Lovesick Cousin on the other side.

I'm not sure about the porterhouse or the tilapia, but I enjoyed Lovesick Cousin for a good hour and a half before Steve looked out the window and noticed that those specials had been replaced with

Now, personally I would have gone with "hot ass pooter," but, you know, that's just me. We all had a good laugh about the change, including our twenties-ish waitress who claimed she A) was soooooo embarrased and B) had never seen anything like that before.

About an hour later we noticed some furtive movement on the other side of the marquee and witnessed the sign-changers in the act. Guess who. . .yep, our soooooo embarrassed waitress (and two of her pals). When they came back inside we sent Jay out to see what the sign said. He laughed all the way back to our table and reported that he didn't think he could repeat it "in mixed company." Then Steve went to check it out and came back still laughing. "So what does it say?," I asked. Steve just shook his head and said, "You just gotta go see it." So I did:

I bet that's not bringing in a whole lot of business.

PS: Click here to download Lovesick Cousin tunes, including an original that's especially fun if you've recently been dumped by an idiot you never should have been with in the first place who hopes you can still be friends (which I have).

We're Not Leaving You Behind, We're Just Making Sure You Get Lost In The Shuffle

Students at Stephen H. Clarke Academy, an elementary school over in Portsmouth, don't score very well on the state's standardized tests. Fortunately, the Superintendent of Portsmouth Public Schools has a plan to address this problem: close the school and send those kids to some other school. That should do the trick. Said the Superintendent, "If you have a school that's not functioning, you close it."

Um, you do? You don't want to, maybe, look into why the school's not functioning and, I don't know, do something about it? It makes more sense to just ship the struggling kids off to other schools and hope the change of scenery will somehow magically improve their test scores?

Actually, this is exactly what schools are encouraged to do under No Child Left Behind. Students at schools that don't make "adequate yearly progress" (as measured by standardized test scores) are given the option of transferring to a school that does. Ultimately, "failing" schools must shut down or face privatization.

Implicit in this approach is the idea that poor teachers or schools -- rather than the myriad of issues most struggling students face -- are responsible for low test scores. In reality, it's probably a combination of the two factors, heavily weighted to the student baggage side.

Any idea how easy it is to learn when the only meal you get each day is your federally subsidized school lunch? Or when your parents never read to you at home? Or when you have to miss class frequently to take care of your younger brothers and sisters? Or when you work over 40 hours a week to support your family?

There's a reason we don't find failing schools in affluent areas: affluence makes it pretty easy to focus on school. But shifting struggling students to more successful schools in more affluent areas doesn't change the fact that they are struggling, and it does nothing to address the issues that interfere with their ability to learn.

Clarke is located next to a public housing project. Almost 75% of its students live below the poverty line and therefore qualify for either free or reduced-price lunches. Sending them to a different school will not change that.

It will, however, make it fairly easy to trick us all into thinking you're looking out for their best interests and that you don't want them to get "left behind." After all, in your benevolence, you've rescued them from a "bad" school, swung them up into the saddle of your white horse, and transported them to a "good" school where all of their troubles will melt away.

No Child Left Behind, like many of BushCo's policy initiatives, is cleverly marketed bullshit. If you really want to ensure that public education does not fail a single American student you adequately fund public schools, for starters. If you're serious about not leaving any children behind, you do something to address the problems that make it difficult for them to succeed in school rather than shifting them to a school where their problems are less visible in the aggregate. But BushCo doesn't really want to ensure that public education not fail a single American student. BushCo wants to ensure that public education itself fails. That is why, if you visit the NCLB website, you'll find a lot of talk about "school choice."

The real goal of NCLB is to replace our current education system with a voucher system in which parents shop for schools just as they might shop for a car or a pair of tennis shoes. This sounds very democratic on the surface of things, but the reality is that school choice runs contrary to the democratic notions underlying public education. Students and their families are not consumers of a service called education. The primary mission of public education is to create citizens who will actively participate in our democratic system, and who will work for the common good. Essentially, public schools create the public. It is a public, community mission which cannot be accomplished by the private sector.

It all, of course, goes back to Thomas Jefferson, who drafted a "Bill for the More General Diffusion of Knowledge" in 1779 and by 1786 believed that bill was "by far the most important bill in our whole code." Of it he wrote, "No other sure foundation can be devised for the preservation of freedom and happiness. . . .The tax which will be paid for this purpose is not more than the thousandth part of what will be paid to kings, priests and nobles who will rise up among us if we leave the people in ignorance." In 1787 he urged his fellow politicians to "educate and inform the whole mass of the people. Enable them to see that it is their interest to preserve peace and order, and they will preserve them. And it requires no very high degree of education to convince them of this. They are the only sure reliance for the preservation of our liberty." In 1806, as President, Jefferson declared that "education is here placed among the articles of public care" and added that "a public institution can alone supply those sciences which, though rarely called for, are yet necessary to complete the circle, all the parts of which contribute to the improvement of the country, and some of them to its preservation."

So. . .public education is good for democracy. No wonder BushCo is intent on destroying it.

Wait, Is McCain Just Trying To Trick Us?

Jonathan Chait of the LA Times thinks so. Read all about it.

This Can't Be Good

I keep having this dream in which I am very meticulously removing slivers of glass -- I mean little tiny slivers -- from my feet with tweezers as I weep in pain. In the dream the soles of my feet are covered with these slivers of glass and I feel like I will never get them all out no matter how long I tweeze. Then (thankfully) I wake up and pet the cat, who is (as always) curled around my head, and I discover that my feet are sliver-free.

Unfortunately, this is not covered in my dream interpretation book, so I'm not entirely clear on what it means. I'm pretty sure it's bad though.

At Some Point You Have To Let Go

My brother and I have been talking about going up to the UFPJ protest in NYC on Saturday. This is apparently a source of great consternation for our die-hard Republican parents, both of whom grew up in the NYC area, my mom in Brooklyn and my dad in New Jersey just outside the city. I think it's the location of the protest rather than the protest itself that has them so worked up. They claim New York is scary and dangerous, despite not having been there in the last 25 years or so. Said my appalled authoritarian father to my fairly permissive mother, "You're not going to let them ride the subway, are you?!"

Hey Dad, maybe you didn't get the memo, but I'm thirty years old. You are not the boss of me!

Why I Love Living In Norfolk, Part 8012

Four words: Ocean View Community Beach.



Today was the kind of day that's so beautiful you feel guilty being inside. So around 12:30 this afternoon I threw a towel, some suncreen and a book in my bag, glanced at a map, and hopped in the car. Within 15 minutes I was wiggling my toes in the sand along the shore of the Chesapeake Bay (so really Ocean View Community Beach would be more appropriately named Bay View Community Beach, but whatever). This is a little park maintained by the City of Norfolk. There's not much to it except, you know, the beach, which is kinda what I went for.

Plus, there was bonus police activity! Late in the afternoon I was compelled to look up from my book by a woman screaming, "There's kids here! And you're doing this! Do you fucking understand that?!" (I guess screaming the f-word around kids is okay, while doing whatever "this" was is not.) I'd noticed a trio of scantily clad teenagers (I know everyone's "scantily clad" at the beach, but these kids were wearing clothes, not swimsuits, and they were the kind of clothes one associates with hookers rather than with beachgoers) staging some sort of sexy amateur photo-shoot earlier in the day, but I'd ignored them because, well, it was weird and I was reading. When I heard Screaming Lady, I wondered if the sexy photo-shoot might be the "this" she was screaming about, and indeed it was. Shortly after the screaming, two police officers showed up, chatted with all parties involved, and escorted the youngsters off the beach. I'm not sure what law they were breaking, but I sort of have to agree with Screaming Lady that if you'd like to take pictures of yourself on your hands and knees with your (scantily clad) ass in the air, or being felt up by another young lady, or practically humping a signpost, this is probably best done in the privacy of your own home.

The city actually maintains a much nicer, and therefore more crowded, beach park (Ocean View Beach Park) a few blocks down the street, but I think I'll stick with the Community Beach for its odd combination of solitude and the potential for drama. However, I'll have to hire myself a sunscreen boy lest I return from the beach looking like this again:

An Etymology Of Slang

On Friday, my students taught me a new word and I taught them a new word. Turns out they were basically the same word.

During my lunch-block class, I overheard a few of my students "frying" a girl about the neighborhood she lives in. They kept telling her, "Your neighborhood is so boozhy (boozh'ee)," a description that seemed to make her fairly uncomfortable. I'd never heard this boozhy term before, but this is a young lady whose father is a heart surgeon and who rarely wears the same outfit twice, so it's probably safe to assume she lives in a "nice" neighborhood, while the kids teasing her had just been describing a block party in their neighborhood where all the adults had simply tuned their car radios to the same station and hung out on the sidewalk. (By the way, the kids were working on an assignment throughout the discussion-- this generation can multitask like nobody's business.) Anyway, my powers of deduction being what they are, I figured I had a pretty good handle on "boozhy" based on context clues, but I was curious about the word, so I asked the kids.

Me: What's boozhy?

Kids: You don't know boozhy?!

Me: Nope, I've never heard boozhy before.

Kids: Boozhy's like preppie people. Yeah, you know those fancy people who think they're better than you? That's boozhy.

Me: Hmmmm. . .(writing "bourgeoisie" on the board). . .anybody know this word?

Kids: Oh yeah, some French thing.

So I talked briefly about the bourgeoisie within the context of the French Revolution and then within the context of Marxist theory (I like to keep it real on a Friday). And then. . .

Kids: Well that's just like boozhy.

Me: Mmm-hmm.

Kids: That's probably where boozhy comes from.

Me: Pretty cool, huh?

Then I went on (and on and on, apparently) about how interesting it is to study where words come from and how cool language is until one student said, "Dude, you get way too excited about words," at which point I told them they were all "wack" and retreated to my desk to contemplate etymology in silence.

Addendum 05-03-06: Josh, a madras-wearin' Jay-Z fan, has informed me that "boozhy" is actually spelled "boozy." I defer to his mad knowledge of gansta rap.

Welcome To The Long Emergency

This morning I read an article in my local paper about shortages at area gas stations. Shortly thereafter I received a forwarded email that detailed a master plan for consumers to lower the price of gas. The plan made sense -- instead of everyone boycotting gas stations on a particular day, which doesn't do much good since Exxon knows you'll eventually have to give in, this email recommended that everyone boycott a specific company (Exxon-Mobil) entirely until it's forced to lower its prices to attract business. This, in turn, will force the other gasoline companies to lower their prices in order to compete with Exxon-Mobil, and we will have successfully lowered the price of gasoline. Great.

Except the real problem is not that gas is nearly $3 a gallon, but that we are running out of oil. Given that even the best estimates place us (and I mean the global "us") at the peak of Hubbert's peak, wouldn't now be a pretty good time to start thinking seriously, I mean really seriously, about alternative sources of energy? Answer: no, several decades ago would have been a good time to start thinking about that. Now would be what we call imperative. Unless, of course, you kind of enjoyed the Great Depression.

Cat Meets Fish

Although Luna is a pretty smart cat, it's taken her nearly six months to discover that we also have a fish. She's spent the last few days trying desperately to figure out how to get the fish -- whether to play with or to eat, I'm not sure -- while I repeatedly explain to her that the fish was here first. See, what Luna doesn't know is that Fish (yes, the Fish's name is Fish, he's a fish for the love of god) has been here all along. Fish came to live with me over a year ago after one of my students and one of A-Rod's students decided that the best way to achieve their goal of getting us to fall in love with each other was to bestow matching fish upon us. While this seems like a foolproof plan to even the least romantic among us, it didn't quite work out that way (and PS, I could have done without all the resulting drama). At least Fish has a new mission in his little fish life, which is to torment my cat with his mere existence. It's actually quite entertaining, especially if you're the sort who doesn't own a television.

I Cannot Live Without Books

Last week at "Cogan's Thursday," which is apparently about to become "Softball Practice Thursday" (note to whoever's in charge: couldn't we practice on Wednesdays? I have Thursdays set aside for drinking), Steve and Josh and I got to chatting about five things we would prefer not to live without (mine: wine, music, books, pets, & the ocean). Since we're nerds (the cool kind, not the nerdy kind), books were on all three of our lists and Josh asked us to name our three favorite books. We were settling our tab at the time -- it was 11:30 on a school night and I was fairly drunk -- so I told Josh I'd get back to him, but not before he'd mentioned that A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is one of his favorites. Now, I know Josh well enough at this point to know that he was not trying to impress anyone with his love of James Joyce, and he knows me well enough to know that a man who claims to dig highly intellectual crap is much more likely to arouse my suspicions than my libido (especially if he went to UVA), so I believe him about Portrait of the Artist.

I'm just surprised a book by James Joyce would make it onto anyone's top three favorite books list. Top three best books, maybe, but favorite books? I've read Portrait of the Artist and I know the writing is phenomenal -- I mean, it's James Joyce. I think I might even have enjoyed the story, but I read it in high school 14 years ago (yikes!) so I can't say for sure. I remember that I liked it, and I had a good English teacher so I felt like I really understood it. But I also remember that it just wasn't my kinda book. And the more I thought about my favorite books vs. Portrait of the Artist, the more I realized something that occurred to me a while ago about my appreciation of the arts: there are a lot of things I recognize as good art that I just don't like. There are all sorts of books, paintings, songs, etc. whose artistic merit I value but that just don't speak to me.

I'm not sure if other people make this distinction, but isn't that the whole point of art? Isn't it cool that A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man speaks to Josh in a way it doesn't to me, and that some other book speaks to me in a way it may not to Josh? And that there is something universal in the other's favorite that allows us to appreciate its goodness without having to fall in love with it?

I've read a lot of books, most of which I've appreciated as quality literature without coming to love them. I've also read a handful of books that are complete crap from a literary perspective, and I've even liked some of them despite their lack of artistic merit. But my favorite books are the books I've read and fallen in love with, books that make me smile while I'm reading them because they're just so good, books that my family sees me reading and asks, "Haven't you already read that book? Like five times?," books that have changed me in some way, books I wouldn't want to be stranded on a deserted island without. There are several more than three of those, but after much consideration I've managed to narrow it down. . .

The River Why by David James Duncan

The River Why is essentially a book about a guy, Gus, who really likes to fish. He moves to a cabin in the woods along a river and devises "the ideal schedule" centered entirely around fishing and notes a few ways to actualize this ideal schedule: "avoid friendships, anglers not excepted (wastes time with gabbing); experiment with caffeine, nicotine, to eliminate excess sleep; do all driving, shopping, gear preparation, research, etc. after dark, saving daylight for fishing only." Gus quickly realizes that his ideal schedule is not bringing him any joy, that he and everyone around him is destroying the natural world, and that what is missing from his life is some sort of spiritual connection with others and with nature. The River Why is a funny but deep study of ecology, spirituality, love, and the connections among the three. It always makes me want to spend some quality time by the water and to learn more about Eastern philosophy.

Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Christopher Moore

You can tell from the title of this book that it's hilarious and irreverent. What you can't tell is that it's so much more than hilarious, and that what appears at first to be mockery is actually a deep respect and admiration for the core teachings of the world's major religions. Lamb chronicles the life of Jesus as a young boy learning to become the Messiah. He travels around the world living with various religious gurus who help him shape his message that "love is not something you think about, it is a state in which you dwell" and that "the kingdom [of God] is open to everyone. Ev-ree-one, get it?" This is a book that makes me laugh out loud while reminding me of the beauty of what Jesus stood for. Every time I read it I come away feeling more enlightened, and sometimes I even find new jokes.

Winter's Tale by Mark Helprin

I don't even like winter and I love this book, which is 673 pages of winter. Winter's Tale is beautifully written and magical. It is a novel of big ideas --love, god, justice, and morality -- set in a fantasy version of New York City. Just reading this book makes me happy to be alive. Hell, just reading the first sentence of this book makes me happy to be alive: "There was a white horse, on a quiet winter morning when snow covered the streets gently and was not deep, and the sky was swept with vibrant stars, except in the east, where dawn was beginning in a light blue flood." My friends have learned not to mention Winter's Tale because they know that within minutes they'll be rolling their eyes and wishing I would shut up about how wonderful it is.

So there's my list of the three books I most adore. To the best of my knowledge, none of them have won any awards. I've never seen any of them on a summer reading list, nor is Oprah considering one of my picks for her next bookclub selection (thank god!). But they're my three favorites because, in addition to being well-written, they just make me happy. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go re-read each of them.

Holy Bad Architecture, Batman!

In the spirit of Jim Kunstler's Eyesore of the Month, I offer these two monstrosities currently under construction near my parents' house (which is not a monstrosity) on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

Exhibit A:

This is a perfect example of what geographers call "maladaptive diffusion" -- otherwise known as "what the fuck is that doing here?!" Note the psuedo-Southwestern stucco and tile roof. Note the corinthian (!) columns. Note the proximity to a large body of water (in this case, the Currituck Sound). Note how the longer you look at it, the more you feel like throwing up.

Exhibit B:

I don't even know what this is. I mean, I know what it is: it's somebody's house; I just don't know what they were thinking. Perhaps the owners have a shit-ton of children and need all those rooms to accomdate their extraordinarily large family. Or maybe they feel most at home in hotels and decided to create a space that just screams "Embassy Suites." Most likely they simply suffer from the fairly common affliction of having oodles and oodles of money but absolutely zero taste.

When construction first began on this monstrosity, I thought they were building condos. Ugly condos, but condos nonetheless. I was pleased that some developer was finally building something that sort of made sense, since most of the working folks who live on the Outer Banks can no longer afford to live on the Outer Banks. But nope, some developer is building yet another ostentatious piece of crap for wealthy northern tourists morons tourons who will probably leave their empty Corona bottles on the beach. The joke's on them though: that place is gonna be a bitch to heat and cool when the oil runs out.

George Allen, You Are No Thomas Jefferson

Dear Senator Allen (R-Virginia),

I read in the paper this morning that in announcing your bid for reelection you described yourself as “a common sense Jeffersonian Conservative.” Since you earned both your History and Law degrees at Jefferson’s own University of Virginia, I'm confident you are well-aware that Jefferson was not a conservative and that you are no Jeffersonian. Perhaps you’re hoping the vast majority of Virginians merely admires Jefferson in the abstract and lacks the critical-thinking skills needed to detect the paradox in describing yourself as Jeffersonian or Jefferson as conservative. Such a hope would not surprise me given your efforts to destroy public education in Virginia during your six years as Governor, but as a Social Studies teacher I can assure you that a host of good teachers continues to produce citizens who can think for themselves and who know that Jefferson’s party was not the party of wealth and privilege.

Thomas Jefferson championed civil liberties and valued those civil liberties over security. He was a staunch advocate of the religious freedom guaranteed by our separation of church and state. Jefferson’s faith in our republic rested squarely on the ability of citizens to criticize their government in speech or in print. He was a steadfast proponent of public education and believed that quality education was the cure for most of society’s ills. As a student of the Enlightenment, Jefferson openly embraced change and hoped that each generation would improve the political system he helped establish. In short, Thomas Jefferson was the antithesis of what you and today’s Republican Party stand for.

Please refrain from insulting him -- and us -- by implying that your beliefs are in any way similar to his.

We Take Politics Seriously Around Here

When I was in the sixth grade, my fourth-grade sister ran for Treasurer of our school’s Student Council Association (SCA). She didn’t win, and it’s all my fault: I didn’t vote for her. I didn’t think she was the best candidate. Sure I was torn, but not because of any loyalty to my sister or any faith in her ability to keep track of money.

As I recall there were three students vying for the envious position of SCA Treasurer: a kid named Melvin who had the hots for my sister, my sister, and the kid who won. Melvin’s campaign speech centered around the dubious statement, “I like to keep money.” Even as an eleven-year-old I knew that treasurers aren’t supposed to keep money, they’re just supposed to count it. So obviously I couldn’t vote for Melvin. I had it narrowed down to two candidates and, well, the other kid’s speech was just a little bit better than my sister’s. He sort of made me feel like he was qualified to do the job in a way that my sister wasn’t. But it wasn’t as easy to reject my sister’s candidacy as it had been with Melvin. I struggled with the decision, and in the end I voted for the candidate I thought would make the best treasurer: the other kid.

I thought I had done the right thing. I remember announcing this at the dinner table shortly after the votes had been counted and my guy had been declared the winner. I got grounded. For like a long time. I distinctly recall my father inquiring as to how I thought President Reagan would feel if his own sister hadn’t voted for him. I distinctly recall trying to explain to my father that if President Reagan’s sister didn’t think he was the right man for the job she shouldn’t vote for him. It didn’t go over well.

In retrospect I should have voted for my sister. She would have made a kick-ass SCA Treasurer. That girl can manage money like nobody’s business. Plus it was freakin’ SCA Treasurer -- how much control would she really have had over the coffers of Fairfield Elementary School?

But you know what? I stand by my decision not to vote for my sister based on the sole qualification of her being my sister. If she ran for public office now there’s no way in hell I’d vote for her. I love my sis, but I can’t think of a single political issue we agree on. She wouldn’t vote for me either. I guess President Reagan would ground us both.

I Bet Nobody Saw THAT Coming

Ah, Plamegate. The mysterious name-leaker has yet to be officially determined, but now that we know Bush told Cheney to tell Libby to leak classified intelligence about Iraq’s efforts (or lack thereof, as it turns out), to procure uranium yellowcake from Nigeria, is it so crazy to think that Bush, Cheney & Co. might have been involved in outing Plame?

Eventually we’ll get to the bottom of this, and eventually Bush will be called upon to fulfill his promise to fire those within his administration who committed a crime in revealing Plame as a CIA operative. I just wonder. . .how does one go about firing oneself?

John McCain, You Lost Me

Senator John McCain (R-Arizona) has long been one of the few politicians I admire and respect. I often don't agree with him but I've always considered him a man of principle and integrity. Despite my leftist views (and they're pretty far left), I voted for him in the Republican primary of 2000 and then wrote him in for president the following November. I'm a firm believer that voting your conscience is not, as many people argue, throwing your vote away. Plus I live in Virginia, which has been successfully gerrymandered to deliver the state to Republican presidential candidates nearly every time. So I felt pretty good about casting my vote for McCain and I slept a little easier at night knowing that I'd voted for someone I believed in.

That was the 2000 McCain. The 2006 McCain is not getting my vote. Not even if he were running for class treasurer (I have a long and controversial history when it comes to voting for class treasurer, but I'll save that story for another time). McCain has recently done two things that call his political integrity into serious question.

In March, he endorsed South Dakota's criminalization of abortion, which doesn't conflict with his anti-choice record but doesn't exactly demonstrate respect for the rule of law. South Dakota's new abortion law is in direct violation of a Supreme Court ruling and, you know, states just can't do that. I guess McCain figures he has a better shot at winning his party's nomination if he follows in Dubya's footsteps and completely disregards the Constitution.

As if that hadn't degraded his political reputation enough, on "Meet the Press" this past Sunday McCain said that he thinks "the Christian right has a major role to play in the Republican Party. . .because they're so active and their followers are." This would be the same Christian right whose leaders McCain described as "agents of intolerance" back in 2000. It's not like these whack-jobs have grown more tolerant over the past six years, nor should the religious beliefs of these (or any) extremists shape public policy. Perhaps the previously principled McCain simply decided that hopping in bed with these agents of intolerance was a small price to pay for the Republican nomination.

Unfortunately, his strategy just might work. But he's lost my vote and my respect.

Despite Its Occasional Difficulty, Honesty Really Is The Best Policy

Do you remember that night right after Thanksgiving when you met me and my brother and sister at Colley Cantina? It was shortly after we began dating and I voiced some concerns that we might not be looking for the same thing. Remember how I told you that I was "the queen of monogamy" and that "I don't do casual"? Remember how you responded to my fears by saying, "Let's try something different: let's be completely open and honest with each other"?

I do. I remember it because I consider openness and honesty to be the foundation of any relationship, and because it was that conversation that made me believe I could trust you.

When did you decide you were no longer bound by that agreement? When did you decide you had so little respect for me that you didn't need to be open and honest with me? When did your desire for casual female companionship become more important than my desire for a meaningful relationship? When did you relinquish responsibility for everything but your own feelings?

A lie of omission is still a lie.

I don't know when you realized you didn't have feelings for me, but I do know it was long before you said so, and I suspect that you wouldn't have even said so if I hadn't asked. Because, really, why would you? Sure, there's that bit about openness and honesty above, but you knew if you told me you weren't into me there'd be no one across from you at the dinner table or underneath you in bed. So you allowed me to believe that the time we spent together meant something, and I bought it because, well, I like to think that people aren't shitty.

All of that was pretty callous, and your approach to the conversation wherein you contemplated aloud why you just weren't "feelin' it" and uttered platitudes like, "I think you're a nice person" was painfully insensitive. However, none of that was quite as damaging as your insulting and unreasonable expectation of continued friendship.

You used me. Why would I want to be your friend?

"Don't Think Twice, It's All Right"

How is it that Dylan always manages to have the exact song you need? Oh yeah, it's because he's a fucking genius.

I Refuse To Allow April To Suck As Much As March Did

Ordinarily, due to my SAD, February is the month that makes me want to kill myself, but this year it was March that really kicked my ass. Mostly I just had a rough month at school, but my job is pretty important to me so I take things like that to heart. If you find yourself near tears at the end of the workday and you start thinking to yourself "well, I suppose I could come in tomorrow and sit at my desk and cry all day or I could take the day off and try to regain my sanity," it's probably time to take a day off. Especially if you are not, by nature, a crier. I know we all have days like that, but most of my March felt that way.

So when April dawned clear and warm and beautiful yesterday (actually, I'm told April dawned kind of drizzly and warm yesterday and only got beautiful later, but, you know, poetic license) I took it as a sign of good things to come. And I'm sure there are good things to come, but first there's this: I had begun to suspect that Dave, who I had pretty much fallen for, was merely killing time with me. When I asked him about this last night he confirmed that while he thinks I'm "a nice person," he's "just not feelin' it." Not kidding. I'm paraphrasing the overall message, but these are words that actually came out of his mouth.

So if it's all right with everyone, I'm just going to ignore the calendar and count last night as part of the suckiness that was March. I may need to count today too, because I plan to do a bit of wallowing (even though Steve has my Eva Cassidy break-up CD, which it's hard to properly wallow without -- I'll have to make do with Jeff Buckley).

And PS, I'm a hell of a lot more than a nice person. Just ask my brother.