Monday, September 25, 2006
Hitting The Skids
Further proof that U2 remains one of the coolest bands ever...
I listened to the pregame festivities for Monday Night Football tonight and heard the band and Green Day do a medley of songs featuring "When September Ends," "Beautiful Day" and a song I had never heard before.
Further proof that the internet is a godsend to music fans -- I came home, punched in the only lyrics I could understand on the radio broadcast and found the following lyrics from a band called The Skids:The Saints Are ComingGreat stuff, what with the reopening of the New Orleans Superdome and all. Interesting credit on the music. 80's music fans will remember Stuart Adamson as the late lead singer of the band Big Country.I cried to my daddy on the telephone
how long now
Until the clouds unroll and you come home
the line went
But the shadows still remain since your descent
your descentThe saints are coming, the saints are coming
No matter how I try, I realise there’s no reply
The saints are coming, the saints are comingA drowning sorrow floods the deepest grief
How long now
Until a weather change condemns belief
The stone says
This paternal guide once had his day
Once had his dayThe saints are coming, the saints are coming
No matter how I try, I realise there’s no reply
The saints are coming, the saints are comingWords: Richard Jobson
Music: Stuart Adamson
Sunday, September 24, 2006
TAG! You're It
Thanks, Megan, for tagging me. As soon as The Mayor gets his HUGE jank online, I’ll tag him, too. Perhaps the correspondent will correspond, too.
Here goes:
A Book That Has Changed Your Life: The Death and Burial of Poor Cock Robin by H. L. Stephens
When one is about 5 years old and hasn’t seen many books, or at least read them on his own, picking one up at the elementary school library and seeing a picture of a dead bird with an arrow sticking out of its chest, it makes an impression.
Looking back on it, my main question is: What kind of sick animal snuff comic book is this? At the time, though, I couldn’t put it down. I can’t recall a prior instance of such graphic imagery in my reading life. That could be because I don’t recall much of anything before that point.
Bonus points for the trippy artwork elsewhere in the book. There’s something creepy about anthropomorphized animals.
A Book That You Have Read More Than Once: (tie) The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald/The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
I read these two in high school, like a lot of other high-schoolers, but it wasn’t until I read them in a grad-school lit. class that I really understood them.
I think for one to really get Gatsby, they must have loved and lost. Who can really say that in high school? But among adults, who can’t? Guys, who hasn’t gone to great lengths to get a girl or anything else for that matter, only to find out the thing/person you wanted wasn’t what you thought it would be? In Gatsby’s case, his quest ends with him floating around in his fabulous pool with a bullet hole in his head. How’s that for an indictment of the American Dream?
I didn’t feel Hemingway in high school, either. Again, surviving hard times creates a deeper understanding of this book. And makes an excellent case for/against alcoholism. Hang in there, Jake Barnes. Maybe that next drink will be the one that makes you feel better. And Romero the bullfighter, who gets his ass beat by Jake’s friend Cohn, still goes out to fight bulls the next day. Sometimes getting back up isn’t the answer.
A Book That Makes You Laugh: The Daily Show with Jon Stewart Presents America (The Book): A Citizen's Guide to Democracy Inaction by Jon Stewart and the writers at The Daily Show
Hauled this one down from the shelf to get the following quote in the introduction by Thomas Jefferson:
“P.S. Is it true
A Book That Makes You Cry: Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
The written word doesn’t usually get me going the way a sad film does (ask my wife. I can’t control myself when I run across Forrest Gump on TV and Forrest comes to visit Jenny and finds little Forrest watching TV in the family room and asks if he’s smart). But the scene where Jane’s little friend dies and she finds her dead in the bed and, grief-stricken, Jane crawls into bed next to her friend kills me.
What can I say? Been listening to too much John Mayer.
A Book You Wish Had Never Been Written: anything by Ann Coulter or Bill O’Reilly
Books You Are Currently
Love this guy, though he doesn’t sexually excite me like he does Charlie Rose
Was JEB Stuart really a fuck-off? Let’s find out!
Imperial Hubris by Anonymous
Am I going to be on a watch list for checking this out at the public library?
The Flags of Our Fathers by James Bradley
A Book You Have Been Meaning To Read: Confederates in the Attic (ever since I moved to
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Famous Inventions Throughout the Ages
1750 -- The first glue patent was issued in Britain for a glue made from fish.
1831 -- Virginia's own Cyrus McCormick invents the first commercially successful reaper
Early-1900s -- Lee Deforest invents AM radio, creating a home for wackos with a phone and no life.
2006 -- A bunch of dudes from the Midwest discover you can make art by shooting cans of Milwaukee's Best Light out of an air cannon at household objects and then filming it.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
If There is a God........
...John Mayer's appearance on CSI tonight will conclude with him on a slab.
"Your body is a wonderland...." ACK!
William Petersen can start at my house when looking for the trigger man.
Suggested headline revision on this picture: John Mayer, Grammy Wiener.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Notes from an Italian Train
Sept. 12, 2005
Sept. 12 and my thoughts are of America. This morning’s Italian papers spoke briefly in front-page articles about remembrances of Sept. 11 at Ground Zero, but the day itself passed in Florence and Rome without a public nod. Why should it?
Silly, isn’t it, to think anyone here cares? The Italians know from terrorism from the days of the Red Brigade, when the Carabinieri -- the Italian police paramilitary -- was ridiculed as stupid and ineffectual. An Italian friend tells us there were jokes at the time poking fun at the organization when the Red Brigade struck without warning or punishment. I wonder how long it will be – if ever – until there are jokes about the CIA or military intelligence in this country, if there aren’t already and I just don’t know it. Wounds are still too close to the surface for that, I think.
We know the face of fear, if not the faces of our enemies. But even if we don’t know who the attackers will be, they are familiar to us, as the Italians know. They can be us – or the British in London or Spaniards in Madrid or Balinese in Bali or Michiganders in Oklahoma City.
My type of fear is that of a worried traveler on a crowded subway in Rome on Sept. 11, pressing the flesh unwillingly with that seems like a thousand strangers packed into shiny metal boxes in a tube deep in the ground. I wear my backpack on my chest and my money and credit cards in a little cotton pouch against my chest under my shirt.
I feel for hands touching me, but feel none probing for my wallet in what the travel guides call “a city of 24-hour entertainment…restaurants, bars and petty thievery.” Every face is a suspect to me. The fellow by the door was a wandering eye, I notice. The old woman next to me as a light hold on the handrail, ready to let go and fall against me and steal me blind if the train comes to a sudden stop.
I grip my bag tightly against me and pray I’m not victimized when the flood of passengers pouring off the train meets the river flow of bodies trying to get on before the doors close.
Assume you are being stalked, our favorite travel book says. The same one says thieves have taken to disguise themselves as tourists with sport sandals and maps or as businessmen in suits. I look over thoroughly the people around me. Any one of them would be ready to take from me. Any – or none.
I notice that none of them looks at me. Do they notice me at all? Is my fear conspicuous? Does their guilt bring me shame? Do they mean harm? Or are they just silent Americans heading off to the local tourist sites or Romans off to dinner, taking notice of the day? It is hard to know where danger lies, camouflaged in the uniform of everyday clothes; not in the garments of evildoers, but in ourselves.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
This Explains It
So I think this explains why a student hears me "mispronouncing" the name of Jay-Z when I'm talking about N-Sync.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
High/Low Point of the Week
I had to wait until Friday, but the apex and the, um, opposite of the apex, of Week 1 went as follows:
The 10th-graders started on their grammar unit, which began with coordinating conjunctions, which you might remember from 10th-grade English as the conjunctions spelled out in the acronym F.A.N.B.O.Y.S. (for, and, nor, etc.). Well, I constructed this extended (some might say stretched to the point of breaking) metaphor where the FANBOYS were a hot new boy band, complete with a comma as their bodyguard (he always goes in first, just like the comma before the coordinating conjunction). "So," I said, "instead of Justin Timberlake, Lance Bass and J.C. Chasez of N'Sync, remember the FANBOYS."
Then I overhear one of my future Rhodes Scholars say loudly to her neighbor, "Uuuuunh. He doesn't even know how to say his name right."
I pause, but then decide I can't leave this one alone. I'm insulted because it's obvious she didn't heard a thing I said because I beat the FANBOYS horse for a good 10 minutes or so. What she heard was, "Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla J.C. Chasez Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla Bla ." To top it off, she's impugning my limited but concrete knowledge of the boy-band ouvre. I know jack-crap about N'Sync, but for some reason I know the names of these three. So, I pursue it.
What?
----You said his name wrong.
J.C. Chasez?
----Yeah.
How?
----It's pronounced Jay-Z.
Then, on cue, the friend leans over and whispers something in her ear. Suddenly, my critic is quiet. I savor the moment, then move on. Tiny victories.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Starbuck's: Corporate Succubus or Supporter of the Troops?
I know they're horrible rapists of local economies, but I had to pass along the following note of Starbuck's interest. Anytime I can debunk a good urban myth, I generally do it, even if it's to the benefit of a global economic superpower. And this one's right up there with the one about the African-American kids named Lemonjello and Oranjello (I had someone today try to tell me some shit about how their husband had a pair of twins named thusly in a class he taught).
Our friends at Snopes.com took care of the Starbuck's thing here.
Starbucks' Military Employees Get Special Blend of Support
By Samantha L. Quigley
American Forces Press ServiceWASHINGTON, Sept. 7, 2006 – Starbucks didn't just wish then-Army Capt. Matt Parkinson well when he was activated to serve in Iraq as part of the Washington National Guard. Instead, the company went above and beyond what the federal law requires employers do for activated reserve-component personnel, Parkinson said. The company made up the difference between his civilian and military pay and maintained his benefits while he was activated, between November 2003 and February 2005.
He said his supervisors and friends within the company offered him any support he needed, whether it was personal or job related.
"It's not just me," Parkinson, who's now a major in the Army Reserve, said. "That's how they treat any other partner. It's an amazing place.
"Starbucks is a company with soul," he added.
More than 200 of Starbucks' military partners, as employees are called, have been the beneficiaries of that soul since the beginning of the global war on terrorism, Dave Pace, executive vice president of partner resources, said.
That soul, along with morale-boosting shipments of coffee and mugs to his unit in Iraq, also prompted Parkinson to nominate Starbucks for a Secretary of Defense Employer Support Freedom Award. The company is one of 15 employers to receive the award, given by the National Committee for Employer Support of the Guard and Reserve, a Defense Department agency.
Pace said the company is thrilled with the award and appreciates the recognition, but doesn't help its military employees for the recognition.
"We do this with our military partners, but it really goes to who we are as a company," he said. "Our whole philosophy is, 'How do we take care of our people?' Because we're confident that if we do the right thing for our people that it'll build loyalty and it'll build commitment."
Parkinson said he's come to know during his seven-year tenure with the company that it does the right thing just because it's the right thing. "For example, (Starbucks) provides health care benefits to part-time workers," he noted. "That's something that in no way benefits me directly. However, it definitely is something that gives me tremendous loyalty to this company.
"It's very soothing to your conscience, going to work every day knowing that you're part of a truly great organization," he said.
For Pace, whose brother is a Marine Corps major and served in Iraq, the award has special, personal meaning, he said. "It was important for me to (support) our guys here," he said. "It was a way for me to indirectly support my brother and his colleagues."
Starbucks will receive its award during a ceremony in Washington on Sept. 21.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
An Existential Moment
Having an existential moment today: I'm on the South Beach Diet and longing for Cogan's Thursday (and its attendant pizza and beer), which isn't until tomorrow evening. I guess the comraderie there means that that longing isn't totally without meaning. Looks like another round of Diet Coke and a chicken salad for me!
The first two days of school have been a challenge. Mostly because I'm not used to working for 7 hours straight through (mostly). During the summer it was work at one thing or another for an hour or so -- cleaning or doing laundry, etc. -- then take a leisurely hour-long break with warmed-over coffee and Regis and Kellie. That hour would sometimes stretch into two or three, then I'd have lunch and run errands. This may only embolden the halfwits who say teachers don't work hard year-round, and they're right to a degree. But the thing about the profession I've come to realize is that it's not as tough as diggin' a ditch, but the pace is a killer. Going again from a life of leisure to riding herd over 125 16-18-year-olds has been a shock, indeed.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
If I Didn't Laugh, I'd Cry
Saturday, September 02, 2006
It's That Time of Year.........
Today I spent one of my last free weekend afternoons the way such a beautiful day should be spent...watching a high school football game. School begins Tuesday and soon there will be papers, tests and quizzes to grade, lesson plans to write, assinine paperwork to complete. For the record, the home team (my school) was defeated by a team from the other side of the harbor, 25-17, though our boys were in the game most of the first three quarters.
It is quite something to attend a game at which one knows many of the players. Our varsity football lineup is like a veritable English 10/11 all-star team from my classes last year. To have been through a year with them and struggled, at times, along with them through various academic difficulties forms a sort of bond of which I was not aware until today. Truth be told, I never thought I had a great relationship with the football kids. Save for a couple, they were among the most challenging students I had in classes. Not coincidentally, they also came the most challenging backgrounds. One kid, who I saw returning punts today, had his father die during the 05-06 school year. He and his buddy, who starts in the defensive backfield, were always problematic in my sixth-bell class. No surprises there, I guess.
But it was definitely fun to sit up there and cheer on players whose names I heard announced from the press box. And for those who play football, I can say from the one game I attended last year, they seem to appreciate the support. And I came to appreciate having something in common with them after enduring their eye-rolling when I tried to engage them for the umpteenth time about James Bond films.
Though it's hard to get poetically romantic about colorful leaves, cheerleaders, marching bands, etc., at any football game at which one gets sunburned, it made made me think about how different h.s. football is in Virginia, compared to "back home" in Greater Cincinnati. Fewer people in the stands here; more, shall we say "theatrical" marching band performances here; about twice as many players on the field here, compared to the small high school I attended in Erlanger, Ky.
But I couldn't help think about the most beautiful football poem I know, which reflects on the Ohio h.s. football thing, which isn't that different from the Kentucky football thing. Only difference: The Ohio teams always kill the Kentucky teams when they play. But seriously, the damned thing gives me chills every time I read it. It speaks to the intersection of football and life in a small town, which I don't think this area has. Besides the football parents, I don't know anyone in our city who lives and dies with the local high school football teams.
I give you.....
Autumn Begins In Martins Ferry, Ohio
By James Wright
In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.
All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.
Therefore,
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Meet the Big Macaca
Here's a picture of Virginia Sen. George Allen, whose name you might have seen in the news recently. He's the simian (maybe he DOES have a shot at the presidency!) ass-clown in the center of the frame, next to a certain AP correspondent. Speaking to the media throng is former N.Y.C. Mayor Rudy Giuliani. The two politicos were in town to discuss security at the port of Hampton Roads.
No, in this picture, Allen has not just grabbed my wife's behind, though you'd never know from the s--t-eating grin on his stupid mug.
You've Got to Be a Football Hero...
One of my sisters in the Pacific Northwest sent this article about her son, the football/track wiz. Yes, there is some athletic talent in our family.