My Interview with Sarah Palin Part III

Click here for the first dumb part | Click here for the second even dumber part

Again, all quotes taken from Palin's "book." Dramamine, necessary for a first reading, can be purchased at most drug stores.

ME: Ms. Palin, since we spoke last, you've given a rousing speech at the first National Tea Party Convention, where you made fun of our president for being a law professor at the lectern, and your foreign policy suggestion boils down to basically: "Reagan rocked. I say we win like he did." This is a pretty good sedgway to your own mind and how it works. You took some heat for not having enough of an intellect to tackle the job. You want to clear that up now?

SP: “[My qualifications go] beyond common sense conservatism and traditional values to the fact that [Todd and I] are everyday Americans. We know what it’s like to have to make payroll and take care of employees. We know what it’s like to be on a tight budget and wonder how we’re going to pay for our own health care, let alone college tuition. We know what it’s like to work union jobs, to be blue-collar, white-collar, to have our kids in public schools.” (221)

ME: That makes about 300 million Americans qualified for the job. Isn’t this democracy thing great? Still, I understand Katie Couric was a little dubious about your grasp of current events?

SP: “Over the past several months… I had been interviewed on energy and security issues by numerous national media outlets, including her hometown newspaper, the New York Times, for whom I had also penned an op-ed earlier in the year on another issue. Had she read those, I wondered?” (277)

ME: Probably not. But then, she was asking what you read, not what you wrote. Right?

SP: Yes. (44)

ME: Speaking of writing, there are some real gems of composition in your book. What was it you said about running that one time?

SP: “As the soles of my shoes hit the soft ground, I pushed past the tall cottonwood trees in a euphoric cadence, and meandered through willow branches that the moose munched on.” (102)

ME: [Pause] Ms. Palin, that is beautiful. I wish my kids could write shit like that. What else you got?

SP: “If God had not intended for us to eat animals, how come He made them out of meat?” (133)

ME: And if God had not intended for men to marry other men, why did He give them penises!

SP: …

ME: You want to see my penis?

SP: …no… (16)

ME: Okay. Too soon. Sorry. Let’s talk about your family.

SP: “Let’s debate ideas. Let’s argue about legislation and policy. Let’s talk about political philosophy. But leave my children alone.” (372)

ME: Right. Apologies.

SP: “It was reported nationally that a New York judge . . . blasted me for bringing Trig onstage during the campaign. . . No one told me that running for office means a woman candidate has to switch off her maternal instincts and hide her children from view. If that’s required, then count me out.”(372)

ME: But I thought you wanted to leave them out. Then why did you bring him…

SP: “Gossipmongers had been] spreading lies that Todd and I were divorcing…Dang, I thought. Divorce Todd? Have you seen Todd?” (352)

ME: I have, actually. Does he swing?

SP: Yes. (44)

ME: Excellent. [Makes note] But when did all this gossip happen happen?

SP: “A group of left-wing bloggers had been yakking about porn pictures and videos of me that they threatened would soon be released to the public.” (348)

ME: Okay, Ms. Palin. This is getting seriously hot. But if you don’t want to bring up your family, why do you keep bringing up your family?

SP: “[Being] married to Todd, I was also accused of literally being ‘in bed’ with the oil industry.

ME: Ah. Like with TransCanada Alaska.

SP: I had to explain that as a blue-collar union hand, a production operator wearing a hard hat and steel-toed boots, Todd wasn’t calling the shots for the corporate bosses in London. In fact, I told Alaskans, ‘Todd’s not in management. He actually works.’” (95)

ME: If he’s swinging with you, I guess he does. Any other family members you don’t want to talk about?

SP: “Lena [Palin, Ms. Palin’s grandmother-in-law] is a tough frontier woman. How many American women do you know who can weave a grass basket; sew squirrel skins into a garment and adorn it with intricate beadwork; haul a thousand salmon out of the ocean, get them to market in a sailboat, then take some home, fillet them, and serve them for dinner?” (119)

ME: [Pause] What the fuck are you talking about?

SP: “We felt our very normalcy, our status as ordinary Americans, could be a much-needed fresh breeze blowing into Washington D.C.” (221)

ME: Ah. I see. [awkward pause] You’re yanking my chain, right?

SP: “I hope you get a good laugh as well!” (405)

ME: I totally did! I actually took you seriously for a minute there! Ms. Palin, you realize you’re contradictory, shallow, full of party rhetoric that you barely understand the basics of and not even competent enough to helm a rowboat across the river. But you know what? I think this book, your grandstanding with the Tea Partiers and your Fox News schtick will actually do your political career some good. And that scares hell out of me.

SP: “[I am] so Alaska. I had to share. (405)

ME: And I’m forever glad you did. You sure you don’t want to see my penis?

SP: “God didn’t give me natural athleticism.” (30)

ME: That’s a very considerate turndown. By the way, your pipeline you’re always crowing about? The one you say is helping the economy already? It hasn’t been built yet. You knew that?

SP: “Oh. My. Gosh.” (51)

ME: Well, these mistakes will happen.

SP: “Dang, I must be getting old.” (401)

ME: Not old enough, unfortunately. Good night, Ms. Palin. And good night, America.

Fin

from politicalhumor.about.com. Sorry. Too lazy to do one myself.

My Interview with Sarah Palin Part II

Quotes taken from Going Rogue, just like always. Hey, I read the damned thing. Might as well make some use of it.

Click here for Part I.

ME: All right, Ms. Palin, I’ve had a chance to calm down and you’ve had a chance to Google economics, so we should be ready to start again, right? I’d like to get more into your tenure as governor. Now, what about this China bid thing? I understand you had an offer from them on the pipeline?

SP: “The bid, by Sinopec, bothered me. There was little doubt that the company could muster the manpower, technology, and funding necessary to do the job, but this proposal skated on the razor’s edge between the free-market and national sovereignty. An energy-thirsty Communist nation controlling Alaska’s natural gas reserves was not in the best interests of the state or our country.” (205)

ME: Unlike, say, oil deals with Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. So why didn’t you give them the deal? I guess you would have had to have an ostensible reason.
SP: “It turned out Sinopec’s application was incomplete anyway. (205)

ME: Yeah, the Chinese are notorious for being lazy s.o.b.’s when it comes to paperwork. So who got the deal after all?

SP: “[The] Calgary-based TransCanada-Alaska, a firm that had not only met every single enforceable requirement of AGIA but exceeded them.” (205)

ME: Wow, that company with all those ties to your administration? The one you all but solicited, according to the AP? That’s a pretty sweet deal.

SP: “[National media is] too lazy to sift fact from fiction.” (203)

ME: Bastards.

SP: “It was one lie after another—from rape kits to Bridges to Nowhere. All easy enough to disprove if the press had done its job.” (237)

ME: Hey, what about that bridge? I understand there was some confusion as to whether or not you took federal money for it? And that the record states that you did?

SP: …

ME: Hmm. Well, we’ll chalk that issue up for a possible sequel. Let’s change gears a bit here: Matt Damon lambasted you for believing that dinosaurs were around two thousand years ago and that science is bogus. So to get the record straight: What’s your stance on evolution?

SP: “’[Science] proves parts of evolution…But I believe that God created us and also that He can create an evolutionary process that allows species to change and adapt.’”(217)

ME: [Lighting a cigarette] Makes sense.

SP: “And, by the way, I saw nothing wrong with students debating the merits of evolution in the classroom. If William F. Buckley—a devout Catholic and a world-class intellectual—could believe in the divine origins of man, why couldn’t I?” (219)

ME: Off the top of my head, because he wasn’t teaching a high school science course, and you’re not a world-class intellectual.

SP: “God says in Scripture, ‘Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. Test me in this, says the LORD Almighty, ‘and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of Heaven and pour out so much blessing that you will not have room enough for it.’” (22-23)

ME: That socialist prick! Sounds a lot like our current president, taking what we all have and distributing it to the poor.

SP: “I considered the Obama administration’s panicky effort to stimulate the economy by spending enormous amounts of borrowed money shortsighted and ill conceived.

ME: But doesn’t Jesus say, through Scripture, “If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me”?

SP: [The bailout] defied the lessons of history and common sense.

ME: So much for theologic/political consistency, folks.

SP: [Obama’s] nearly $1 trillion stimulus package was patently unfair both to future generations who will inherit our wasteful debt and to the everyday Americans who work very hard to pay the taxes that the administration seeks to spend at breakneck speed.” (357)

ME: Well, to be fair, President Bush did the exact same thing. He cut taxes and raised spending. And Senator McCain supported this, and so did you, if I’m not mistaken. That’s one reason the Democrats took the House and Senate in 2006, and another reason you guys lost.

SP: [Rahm Emanuel], now President Obama’ chief of staff, … crafted and executed the ruthless 2006 campaign strategy that won back Congress for the Democrats…” (370)

ME: Oh. I see. It had nothing to do with two wars, Hurricane Katrina, failure to find WMDs…cutting taxes on the wealthy and increasing deficit spending to fight overseas for dubious causes?

SP: “Servicing the $1.5 trillion debt is a huge annual expenditure in the federal budget. . . Our overspending today could destroy our children’s future.” (389)

ME: That must be why Senator McCain voted with the Republicans seven times to raise the debt ceiling. Gotcha. By the way, according to the Chicago Tribune, the bailout is a fraction of a fraction of the deficit. Just so you know.

SP: “That’s not entirely true.” (87)

ME: No, it is true. You can look it up on the Treasury page itself. Look at the figures on the wars, if you want to talk high spending.

SP: “Today our sons and daughters are fighting in distant countries to protect our freedoms and to nurture freedom for others. I understand that many Americans are war-weary…

ME: Nah. We love wars.

SP: “… but we do have a responsibility to complete our missions in these countries so that we can keep our homeland safe. America must remain the strongest nation in the world in order to remain free. And our goal in the War on Terror must be the same as Reagan’s: ‘We won. They lost.’” (393)

ME: Boy, if Reagan were around today, this whole mess would be gone. All he’d have to do would be to tell Karzai, “Mister President, get rid of those terrorists.”

SP: “I was in high school the day Reagan took the oath of office. On the same day, minutes after he was sworn in, a band of Iranian militants released fifty-two Americans, after having held them—and our national pride—hostage for 444 days. I had followed the Iran hostage crisis and remember wondering why President Jimmy Carter didn’t act more decisively.

ME: I think his retrieval operation was pretty decisive. Even if it sucked.

SP: From my high schooler’s perspective, I thought the question was, Why did he allow America to be humiliated and pushed around?

ME: And your adult perspective has led you to think…?

SP: “The new president being sworn in radiated confidence and optimism. The enemies of freedom took notice. In years to come, people would ask, what did he have that Carter didn’t? To me, the answer was obvious. He had a steel spine.” (46)

ME: I think that, if you’re going to exchange arms for hostages and fund contras, not to mention orchestrate campaigns that result in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Latin Americans, you have to have a steel spine. That pansy Carter would have been running off to weep at Stockholm at word of the first dead nine-year-old El Salvadoran refugee. Right?

SP: “…no…” (16)

ME: Well, maybe not. Let’s take a short break while readers look up our contradictory assertions and come to the inevitable conclusion that I’m right. Sound good?

SP: “I [don’t] put much stock in fickle polls.” (6)

ME: And I don’t put much stock in fickle minds. So let’s give each other one more shot.

Interruption in interview here. Palin heads to library, and the interviewer heads to a neighborhood Wasilla bar and gets the snot beat out of him for playing The Dixie Chicks on the jukebox.

Next week: The exciting conclusion!

My Interview with Sarah Palin

All Palin dialogue taken from her book Going Rogue: An American Life, available anywhere fine hardcover memoirs are sold.

Handsome, young, budding and incredibly talented reporter walks up to a rustic cabin surrounded by rustic folks field-dressing moose and saluting the flag as only rustic people can do. He knocks on the door and Sarah Palin answers.

ME: Ms. Palin, I want to thank you for your time. I know that, being an ex-governor, you probably have tons of it, but still, holla. [Fist bumps galore here.]

SARAH PALIN: “That’s not entirely true.” (87)

ME: And you’re not entirely Ms. Frontier Woman of the New Millenium either, so let’s call it even.

They enter Palin’s living room.

ME: Okay. Let’s start with the basics. Now, I read Going Rogue, and I checked out your Facebook page…

SP: “Isn’t Facebook a terrific illustration of the power of American ingenuity?” (400)

ME: And by the way, your Mafia Wars score is un-frickin’-believable. But I think we ought to begin at the beginning. Start fresh. So. Tell me how you got to where you are today?

SP: “’Before I became governor…I was mayor of my hometown. I guess a small-town mayor is sort of like a ‘community organizer,’ except that you have actual responsibilities.’” (242)

ME: Ha ha! Take that, Martin Luther King, Jr.!

SP: “[An] individual’s commitment to his or her own business and family—that is significantly more important than any community leadership role.” (243)

ME: And take that, Jesus Christ!

SP: “[Government] experience doesn’t necessarily count for much.” (84)

ME: Well that leaves you in the clear all right. Now, you had a lot of people telling you you couldn’t be a mom and run for office, right?

SP: [Alaska Governor] Mukowski [when interviewing me for a Senate seat] …launched into a soliloquy on how tough it was on a family to serve in the Senate. It seemed to me that though he thought me competent enough to make his short list, the father in him felt compelled to protect me from the storm that is national politics.” (98)

ME: That sucks. Hell, you can prioritize, right? But then why didn’t you go for the Senate later, in 2006?

SP: “[Who would] be [my son’s] hockey manager?”

ME: But I thought you said…

SP: At that point in [my son Track’s] life, having an involved mom was more important to him—and to me—than having a mom with a powerful position in Washington, D.C.” (341)

ME: So a mom can do it, except when a mom can’t. Now, I understand these non-qualification qualifications didn’t really get the attention you felt they deserved? Particularly with the Katie Couric interview?

SP: “There was so much I could and should have said [to Katie Couric regarding foreign policy]…For instance that Alaska’s geographic position makes our relations with Pacific Rom countries of great strategic import, and that we’re the air crossroads of the world…

ME: Well, she was asking about experience, right? Not just situations, but your actual actions and decisions.

SP: That Russian bombers often play cat and mouse with our Air Force near Alaska’s airspace…

ME: Did you deal with that directly? What did you actually do?

SP: That I dealt with Canadian officials on a weekly basis and have signed agreements concerning everything from security to salmon fishing…

ME: Okay, you signed stuff. But what did you do?

SP: …and that NAFTA has significantly affected our economy…

ME: That’s what NAFTA does. Not you.

SP: That melting polar sea ice has created new trade routes but has also created security threats to North America…

ME: Look, I don’t think we’re communicating here…

SP: That Alaska takes on Japanese and Russian fishing trawlers that want to ravage the ocean floor…

ME: Goddamnit…

SP: That Chinese and Russian energy companies had both sought access to (and possible control of) our natural gas resources. That these and other countries were staking their own resource claims in Arctic waters while the U.S. sat on its hands.” (275)

ME: [Whining] Come on! In your years as governor, what did you actually do?

SP: “[The Governor’s mansion] came with a personal chef, but I unbudgeted the position. … The chef seemed so darned bored because the kids didn’t want anything fancy to eat.” (133)

ME: Ms. Palin, give me something specific or I’m hitting your baby.

SP: …

ME: Christ. Fine. Why don’t we take a break so people can check your non-rebuttal rebuttal out? And where are those little darlings of yours, anyway?

Click here for Part II of this completely idiotic thing.

From the entertainment wires: Natalie Portman refuses to bare all. The actress recently said she wouldn't do any more nude scenes after her Full Monty in Hotel Chevalier had Internet pervs doing still frame screensaver shots of it and throwing the images all over the Internet. Shame. Uh...anyone got a copy? My PrintScreen key seems to be working just fine...

Comments I returned to my sophomores today after spending agonizing hours reading their final essay exams.

What I Said on the assignment and in person the day I gave them the prompt…
MLA headings go in the top left-hand corner of the first page.
What They Must Have Heard...
“Left, right, what’s the difference? I won’t stand for petty politics in this classroom.”

What I Said
“Put your citations in proper punctuation” (Smith 4550).
What They Must Have Heard...
“Ah, guys, in this postmodern world, who’s to really say who said what? It’s all relative.”

What I Said...
“Can be,” “has been,” etc. is passive. Don’t have done this.
What They Must Have Heard...
“Passive voice rules. Because we all want to ‘pass’ this class, right? Who is with me?” (high fives for all)

What I Said...
If I see a fragment. I will fail you.
What They Must Have Heard...
“When writing an essay, you want to stay in the zone. Complete sentences be damned.”

What I Said...
Check the names and facts. Antigone was not a character in Whale Rider. Beowulf was not an Indian."
What They Must Have Heard...
“Most of the stuff we read was written so long ago, nobody knows anything about who wrote it. Consequently, we can pretty much make up whatever names we want.”

What I Said...
The title of a long work like Antigone or Beowulf is in italics. Shorter works like “Rama and Ravana” are in quotation marks.
What They Must Have Heard...
"Font styles are stupid."

What I Said...
“When you paste in quotations and the format is different” it’s really annoying. Don’t do this."
What They Must Have Heard...
“Fonts are limiting. You can’t encompass true writing in Times Roman. We cannot be boxed in, people. We are free thinkers.”

What I Said...
"A thesis must be an argument."
What They Must Have Heard...
“As long as there are words filling up the page, I’m satisfied.”

What I Said...
"A main idea must help prove that argument."
What They Must Have Heard...
“As long as there are words on the page, I’m satisfied. Keep going! You’re doing great.”

What I Said...
"Your topic sentences are main ideas. Not plot. Not the obvious. They help you prove the thesis."
What They Must Have Heard...
“As long as you have pages, I’m satisfied. Remember that paper comes from trees, people.”

What I Said...
"Your links argue how your evidence proves your main idea. No links=no argument. Please, people. You need to have links. Please. I beg of you. Please."
What They Must Have Heard...
“Arguments are tearing this country apart. I want you all to write like civilized people of the greatest nation in the world, and only state the obvious.”

What I Said...
"Which is better? “I think Dante’s particular brand of Catholicism is extreme compared to Catholicism today,” or “Dante’s particular brand of Catholicism is extreme compared to Catholicism today”? Nobody cares what you think. We care about what is said."
What They Must Have Heard...
“How does Dante make you feel like a little miracle? Fill up your essay with that. You can do it! And if you can’t, don’t worry! We’ll figure something out.”

What I Said...
What words should we never “throw” in an essay? What kind of “crap” shouldn’t be in a final exam essay? What “garbage”? What wouldn’t be “cool”? What might be “awesome” to leave out? Or “sweet”?
What They Must Have Heard...
“I think teenaged lingo is going to replace Shakespeare before the end of the decade. Who wants to help me burn your thesaurus?”

What I Said...
Edit and proofread. Or I’ll, you know, have an aneurism.
What They Must Have Heard...
“Bill Gates created Microsoft Word so we’d never have to bother learning spelling. I expect you all to respect his work accordingly.

What I Said...
"Turn it in on time."
What They Must Have Heard...
“You are a wonderful person.”

A Moderate "Engagement Status" suggestion for Facebook

To Whom It May Concern (aka that young jerk who built this site and is worth the price of a small country...)

I have been a Facebook user for about a year now, and I wish to register a complaint. Your "relationship" possibilities are severely limited at best. In truth, they stink. You have "single," "married," "in a relationship with," and "bitterly divorced from." In my current situation, this will not do, as I am planning a wedding with a woman who hates the terms "engaged," "fiancee," and "willing to be seen with him in public."

I have compiled a list of possible relationship statuses I might be able to use, as opposed to the ones you already have. Please consider them as friendly suggestions and not irritable rejoinders to an otherwise shoddy social networking site.

"...is chained in impending matrimony to ..."
This would work well, as "chained in" seems to me a more accurate verbal phrase, connoting duty, fidelity and, yes, the mandatory.

"... is successful in boozing up and weakening the marriage-related resistance of ..."
As it happens, I had to pour about two gallons of Thunderbird down her throat before she would even agree to sit quietly while I spelled out a life together. After that, all she required was mimosas.

"... is temporarily insane regarding legal commitment to ...
What was I thinking? Dear God in Heaven, what was I thinking? I already got her to pick up the tab for dinner; I don't need that again!

"... is pushing his luck concerning commitment with ..."
As she never fails to remind me. Which reminds me. I'm pushing my luck.

Bullets in Madison Emotes at the Empty Bottle

Special to the Flannel Diaries

It's about seven-thirty on a Tuesday night and I'm being dropped off at the Empty Bottle on Western Avenue on the beautiful West Side of Chicago. My girlfriend, the Woman who Holds the Bottle Opener to the Beer That Is My Heart, has an annoyed, peeved look on her face. I get that look a lot. It's a masquerade for true love. Especially for when I make her drive me around the city.

"So...have a good time," she intones, checking her watch and thinking about cookies. "Enjoy the show. Don't stay out too late."

"Decidedly."

"Tell the band I'm sorry I couldn't make it, but I had to, you know, whatever."

"Assuredly."

"And be sure to take out the garbage and walk the dogs when you get home."

"Abso....wait. What?"

Before I can protest that I surely will get back late, that I won't enjoy the show, and that I have no plans to be in any condition to do anything productive upon my return, she speeds away, still holding the keys to the car that I realize, belatedly, I'm supposed to drive home that night. Screams after her are unheeded. Frantic calls to her cell phone remain unanswered.

This sort of shit always happens to me when I'm sent to review a Bullets in Madison concert. Of course, none of it is their fault. I mean, it sort of is when you figure that if they didn't play these dives at these ridiculous hours, and if they would only spring for a press limo to take the reporters like me home...actually, it is all their fault. Bastards. I will make them rue the day they even formed a band. I have that power.

I am a music reviewer. I review music.

And occasionally, I listen to it.

**************************************************

I stalked into the Empty Bottle surly and mean. The place looked like the kind of joint BiM loves to headline: walls and a ceiling. I sidled up to the bar and growled at the guy behind the counter, "Gimmee a whiskey. Double. Leave the bottle."

He casts an eye over me, measuring me for manliness and ability to control strong drink. "I think you might want a nice Lemon Wedge," he offered. "They're tasty and nutritious, and there's nothing like--"

"Whiskey," I growled again. John Wayne doesn't have shit on me, I tell you. "The bottle."

"You're going to be on the floor in twenty minutes."

I ignored him, and eventually he went off to fetch it. It's at this point that somebody comes up to me. "Hey, man. Nice to see you again."

I cast a bleary eye in his direction. "Who the hell are you?"

"Brendan. Brendan Losch."

"Oh, great. But I already ordered my drink, so..." I made hand motions indicating that he could leave me alone.

"No, I'm the guitarist. For the band? We've spoken before. You've interviewed me like twenty times."

"Oh, Bren-DAN Losch. I thought you said BREN-dan." I made a face that I hoped looked friendly. "So. Uh, what are you doing here?"

Brendan made an effort to be patient. "We're doing a show tonight. You're reviewing it, right?"

"Right. Right." I made a mental note to do just that. "But you can't get me free drinks, right?"

Brendan stared at me. "No."

"Oh. Well...good. Got to support the economy, right?"

He eventually stalked off, looking pissed. Man, musicians and their big heads. I made another mental note to make a comment in my review about his shoes or something. However, before I could compose a pithy bon mot, I was interrupted by the bartender, who returned with my whiskey. I downed it in one gulp, just like they do in the tough-guy movies. Blech. It tasted like paint thinner.

"That's bad for you," the bartender remonstrated. "You're going to have the megrims."

I ignored him.

"Sure you don't want that Lemon Wedge?" the bartender offered.

"Go away," I muttered.

Three or four more whiskeys later, the house lights came on and the crowd started cheering. The show was apparently starting. And I was ready to review the show. After all, I am a Music Reviewer, right? It's what I came here to do, yes? So here's the body of my article, compiled straight from my painstaking notes during the performance:

Bullets in Madison rocked the joint. They really did. We Became Your Family When You Died is one hell of an album, I tell you. Full of...meaning and...vibrancy...junk like that. Man, my head is killing me...That trumpet thing they do? Woo. Powerful stuff...Don't know about all the bugs on the wall, though...This band, they've got rhythm...they've got music...who could ask for anything more? Ha. What is with the moving walls, though? Now they're moving and they've got bugs on them. Crap. Why didn't that jackass bartender just give me a Lemon Wedge? I hear those are good. Well...oh, man, I love this song! "Wiiiild thing...You make my heart..." ...wait...that's the jukebox...show must be over. What did I miss? Damnit. Oh well. I'll get some stuff about them from Wikipedia or something. Maybe I can go get some after-show interviews right now...Ugh. Floor won't stay steady.

Unfortunately, before I could corral any of them for additional comments, the band had sped off in a hired limo, champagne and caviar practically flying out the windows, Losch tossing a few oyster crackers in my direction and laughing as I scrabbled on the pavement for something to eat.

After a moment, they were gone, the last remnants of their esoteric performance ringing in my ears.

I was alone in Chicago. No review written. No car. No money. And a seventy dollar bar tab with a smug bartender waiting for me inside.

The perfect setting for a closing paragraph:

In a top single from their new album, "Sarah is a State of Mind," vocalist John Morton sings, "You slam the door shut to break it through / No one hears you." That may apply to Sarah, whoever she is. But BiM has slammed the door shut, doublebolted it, and set fire to it, which makes their breaking through it all the more impressive. Not to mention the fact that it is impossible not to hear them.

WBYFWYD is an album that pulses with a heartbeat never heard before in the Chicago indy rock scene, and a melody that grabs you by the lapels and throws you off your seat. The more BiM tours and gets this music out there, the better.

There. That should do it.

Now...where's a hotel?

This new phone is a total time suck. I waste more time on stupid crap than I ever did and I'm reading less than ever in my life. However, the voice blogging is pretty cool.

MY GOLDEN APPLE MOMENTS OF 2009

These accounts are not invented. They are written here verbatim. Especially #3301.
These are my students.
I am their teacher.
We are all so screwed.

Teaching Moment #1826

ME: Okay, open your books to page 23.
KID: What page?
ME: Twenty-three.
OTHER KID: Okay. Wait, what page?
ME: I quit.

Teaching Moment #1827

ME: Some of you forgot to put title pages on your papers.
KID: You didn’t tell us to.
ME: It says so right there on the assignment.
KID: But you didn’t read the directions to us.
ME: So I need to type up the directions and read them to you?
KID: We’d definitely do better.
ME: I quit.

Teaching Moment #1894

ME: You understand that the transition in this paragraph doesn’t apply to--
KID: Doorknob!
ME: What?
KID: What? I didn’t say anything.
ME: I think you just said…doorknob.
KID: (sarcastically) Sorry!
ME: That’s it. I quit.

Teaching Moment #2002

KID: Is it true Shakespeare was a fag?
ME: I quit.

Teaching Moment #2003

ME: All right, let’s open our books to—
KID: Is it true you’re a fag?

Teaching Moment #2157

ME: Now, for film criticism. We have to be analytic. So what did you guys think of the film Zombieland that just came out?
KID: It sucked!
ME: (writes “It sucked” on board) What else?
KID: You fucking suck!
ME: I couldn’t have been as bad as Zombieland. Let’s not say things we can’t take back.
KID: Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.

Teaching Moment #2897

KID: I’m sorry, but I just don’t like cops.
ME: Why not?
KID: They hassle you. Even when you’re not doing anything wrong.
ME: So you’re basing your opinion of an entire group on the actions of a few? Sounds to me like what racists say about blacks.
KID: Yeah…Yeah, you know what? I think I changed my mind. I don’t hate cops.
ME: Good for you.
KID: What?
ME: Kid, it’s a beautiful thing to be able to change your mind. As the poet Taylor Mali once said, “changing your mind is one of the best ways of finding out whether or not you still have one.”
KID: Mali? He’s a fag.
ME: That’s it. This time, I really quit.

Teaching Moment #3010

ME: Movies don't deliver as much info as texts. In fact...
STUDENT: Yeah they do. I was watching Dodgeball, and--
ME: No. No no no. You did not just deputize a Ben Stiller movie into your argument.
STUDENT: It rocked. And it had a deus ex machina in it.
ME: So what is a deus ex machina?
STUDENT: The deus ex machina, man! It was…it…
ME: Yes?
STUDENT: Forget it. I quit.

Teaching Moment #3194

KID IN HALL: (to friend) Hey there, bitch.
ME: Ahem.
KID: Oh…sorry…I meant, ‘Hey there, ho.’
ME: I quit.

Teaching Moment #3209

Kid: What are we doing today?
Me: It’s on the syllabus. And the board.
Kid: Man, you always say that!
Me: And it’s always true, right?
Kid: But still!
Me: Yes? You have some further point to make?
Kid: That’s it. I quit.
Me: No no…I’ll race you to the door.

Teaching Moment #3301

ME: So in the Ninth Circle, Satan is gnawing on the heads of the three worst sinners in existence, right?
HONORS CLASS: Yeah, yeah…(writes this down in notes)
ME: And what might Dante be implying with this particular choice of sinners?
HONORS KID: He’s telling us…it’s wrong…to eat people?
HONORS CLASS: Yeah, yeah…(writes this down in notes)

Teaching Moment #3307

KID: What’s this word supposed to mean?
ME: “Anecdotal,” right? It means hearsay.
KID: What’s hearsay?
ME: You heard it through someone else’s account.
KID: What’s an account?
ME: It’s a telling of…wait a minute, why are you not looking this up yourself?
KID: Look it up where?
ME: …
KID: You just quit again, right?
ME: Shut up.

Ode to Jackson, MI

Overture

The night is wrapped like a woolen blanket
About a pair of irritated feet.
Three a.m.
The women in doorways beckon to their men,
One hand behind the back
While shoving them through the door.
I have seen them all before
In some dimly lit, half-forgotten place.
I have heard the story
Of forgotten glory
And a newly remembered face,
But this is a book I couldn't complete
Before its return-by date
And a movie I couldn't finish
Because it was a school night
And I couldn't stay up that late.

Doug, from MTV's "The State." True teenaged angst.

The State - MTV Shows

Andrew Hicks is back! Check out the reposted A Year in the Life of a Nerd. He's no Jay Pinkerton, but he's good for a chuckle.

Dinner at John's

SOUTH SIDE, CHICAGO--John had the nerve to complain that I don't write enough in here. So, here goes:

I'm at John's place now. And guess what? The service here is terrible. I waited ten minutes for a slice of pizza and had to bring my own beer. Babies crying all over the place. Moms crying about their lot in life being married to John. DCFS constantly popping by for "social visits." Please. You people make me sick.

Or, to explain it in verse:

The cries of the innocent fill this house
But the cries of the parents outweigh them
First- and second-born children dumped in my lap
Like a bag of laundry, except the laundry is washed
Occasionally.
With plaintive voice and outstretched hands they protest their innocence to the world
But the world knows better

How you like them apples, John?

It had to happen sooner or later.

I caved in. I sold out.

I went against my values and beliefs. Oh, the "right" path is not always easy, but there are times when it's at least clearly defined. Discernible. At one's feet.

And I turned my back on it. Because it was convenient. Because of the cheap thrill.

God, I feel dirty. Cheap. Hypocritical. I'm not who I'd planned on being in my adult life after all.

I did it and I have to admit it. Or it'll eat me up inside.

I got an iPhone.

I'm typing this lying on my back.

I downloaded chess and history trivia apps like a junkie haunts a street corner.

I downloaded a library of pics of my dogs and threw together ring tones featuring The Black Keys.

It's all so trite and stupid. Normally I'd be reading or grading. Not looking for free movie clips. Dumb. Dumb.

But it feels so @right.@

Famous Tweets in History

"Jury done deliberating. Should be out in no time. Having a cool refreshing drink of…wait…oh shit."

From Sock-rock-tes at 5:32 p.m. 399 B.C.

Socrates

"Wait'll my dad hears about what this Pilate guy pulled. He's gonna *crucify* him."

From NumberOneSon at 7: 41 p.m. April 3 CE 40.

JChrist

"Totally lost. Better name this place Hispaniola and rape all the women or school children five hundred years from now won't get a day off."

From CC_Globetrotter_3 at 3:01 p.m. Oct 12 1492.

ChrisColumbus

"Suck It @King George: Don't Fucking Tread On Me!"

Colonizzy#17 at 5:00 a.m. July 4 1776.

JohnHancock

"Hey @Johnny, thanks for taking care of those urder-may arges-chay. Barbeque tonight?"

From BigDog at 8:15 p.m. Oct 3 1995.

OrenthoJamesSimpson

"Are you shitting me? U'd better be shitting me."

From GoreGalore_2000 at 11:14 p.m. Nov 29 2000

"Are you shitting me? U'd better be fucking shitting me."

From JohnMcCainforPrez at 11:14 p.m. Nov. 4 2008

JohnMcCain

"Just take a short trip, they said. The judge'll have forgotten *all* about it, they said. Pricks."

From romanpolan at 10:01 p.m. September 29.

RPolanksi

"This is stupid. It'll never catch on."

From diggerblue at 2:45 p.m. September 12 2007

He whose opinion matters most here

My Most Inspirational Teacher Nomination from Last Year

He didn't get it. But he should have. For posterity:

My most inspirational teacher was

…Gustaf Van Cromphout. I had him for Early American and Romantic Literature. He spoke five languages. Threw gobbets around the way I would Simpsons quotes. Could trace a word’s etymology two millennia back without breaking a sweat. But all of this was secondary to his real tool: passion. He made you care. And he cared about his students. He remembered me almost a decade after I had him as an undergraduate. Van Cromphout died three years ago, but before he did, he’d made it clear that death was the only thing that would keep him from teaching.

From today's paper

The History of the Death Panels. Ought to be required reading for town hall and tea party idiot protesters.

Teachers Sell Lesson Plans. Personally, I don't see it for myself (I can't even give mine away sometimes), but if we're going to be held accountable like people who work "real jobs," then we ought to be able to sink our thumbs into the free market like, say, investment bankers, mortgage brokers and the like.

Megan Fox talks about being an actress. For some reason, the people offscreen aren't laughing hysterically. P.S. Take your top off, Ms. Fox.

TV Pilot Script: The D.C. Guys

A co-worker and I whipped this up last spring in a desperate attempt to cash in on the addled tastes of whoever picks shows for television and escape our humdrum jobs, not to mention avoid work. So...yeah. We avoided work, all right. For about ten minutes.

VOICEOVER: In 2009, a couple of disgruntled, possibly-loaded-on-the-job high school teachers packed up and went to Washington, D.C. Their mission: to expose any elements remaining of the evils of the Bush administration, and to get a cushy job in Legislative Affairs. Whatever the hell that is.

Today, they're living on the fringe in the nation's capital, watching, investigating, and racking up debt. They're currently wanted by a government that refuses to acknowledge their existence, and their savings are almost gone. If you have a problem, and no one else can help, and if you can find them...maybe you should hire...the D.C. Guys.

OPENING MONTAGE: Magnum PI ripoff music. Scenic shots of D.C. The Capitol Building. The White House. The Lincoln Memorial. A homeless guy pissing in a dumpster.

CHARACTERS:GREGG STUDLYBUFF, tall, ripped, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and two days' worth of beard. And sunglasses! Mirrored, aviator sunglasses. He leaps out the door of his Potomac-bank trailer wearing his mirrored, aviator sunglasses and spends an exciting minute and a half parallel parking his Dodge.

ADAM ACHIN', medium build, conservatively dressed, smoking a cigarette and staring arrogantly out the window of his swank, three-bedroom apartment. Behind him, a trio of Senegalese men implore him to come back to bed. Adam resolutely ignores them.

Gregg finally gets his car parallel parked. He steps out. Through the reflection of his bitchin' aviator mirrored sunglasses, we see the Capitol Building. Gregg smirks confidently, pulls out a cell phone and calls Achin'.

CUT TO: ACHIN'S SWANK APARTMENT. Achin answers the phone.

ACHIN: "Yeah."

SENEGALESE MAN/BOY #2 (from the bed): "Revenu au lit, le grand homme. Les heures sont peu."

ACHIN: "Quiet, lover. Daddy's working."

GREGG: "Achin'. I'm at the Capitol."

ACHIN: "And?"

GREGG: "Uh, they still won't let me in. The restraining order paperwork went through."

ACHIN': "Damn."

GREGG: "Yeah. So, what do you want for lunch?"

PREVIEW NEXT WEEK'S EPISODE: Club sandwich special! And a quick trip to the doctor's office for penicillin.

ROLL CREDITS

Fox News Isn't Even Pretending Any More [to be objective], from Salon.com.

How I Dealt With a Crazy Pregnazoid This Morning.

Truth be told, I work with a lot of women. There are men in my department, I don't deny it, but I see little of them. Whether that's because they're too busy doing their jobs or shaking down hallway toughs for soda machine change is a speculation I will absent myself from for the moment. At any rate, their illegal shenanigans leave me plenty of time to listen to complaints from my female coworkers instead.

Not all of them. Not even half of them. Most of the women I work with are just that: women I work with. They do their jobs and then some. And then they disappear into the vastness of whatever lives they've managed to carve out for themselves: with husbands, volleyball teams, Peace Corps volunteering or taking care of elderly family members. They smile and say hi in the hallways; they occasionally vent, while I provide a shoulder to cry on or a convenient hand with which to spank their pilate-toned asses. I'm nothing if not sympathetic.

No, my spleen is reserved today for the more vocal women in my department. There's about two or three of these harpies, and they have their Greatest Hits of complaints, which all boil down to one of a few possibilities:

1) They're pregnant.
2) They have kids to take care of.
3) They're pregnant and have kids to take care of.

And that's pretty much it. These are trump cards, the likes of which an unattached, freewheeling suburban playboy like myself cannot possibly hope to contend with. If I so much as hint that I'm tired from an evening of misbehavior, I'm immediately reminded that, well, it must be fun to be able to leave the house without carrying diapers and toys for the infant. Or it must be nice to not worry about little Jimmy's soccer practice. Or whatever. Confronted with such assaults on my lack of responsibilities, I usually slink off to some remote corner to work, ruminating on the unfairness of a world where they have to drive kids to the mall and I get to watch reruns of Baywatch instead.

I know, right? I've got it made.

Consider Emily's ambush this morning, after a curriculum meeting (Emily, by the way, is bursting-at-the-scenes, shit-crazy pregnant, and her husband, who works in the building next door, seems to find lots of places to be besides at her side)

EMILY: How are you this morning?
ME: Oh, you know. I'm hanging in there.
EMILY: Yeah. Try being pregnant some time.
ME: ...

And for the record, no, I am not exaggerating that conversation. Word. For fucking. Word.

Well, I don't need Miss Manners to tell me, Relax, she's hormonal, she's going through chemical spikes that would put twelve monkeys on anyone's backs for life. Besides, what possible responses do I have, anyway?

#1
EMILY: Try being pregnant some time.
ME: I'm really sorry to hear it's been tough. It'll be better soon. Trust me.

That would work. But this conversation happened at 6:45 a.m., when I'm legally stupid. Besides, come on, if I'm going to be that diplomatic, I'd better be getting a piece of tail afterwards. And since these particular gardens have already been seeded, and are about to yield their harvest, there's not much incentive for me to plant a shovel in there...yeah, you get the idea. So:

#2
EMILY: Try being pregnant some time.
ME: That's a biological impossibility for me, Emily. But maybe in my next life, I'll be able to experience the miracle of birth like you.

Eh. It would work, provided I could say it in a tone completely free of sarcasm. So we'd better stick to likely possibilities.

#3
EMILY: Try being pregnant some time.
ME: Fuck off.

That one's probably the most realistic. As long as it's muttered under the breath. Which I would forget to do.

Let it rest, I tell myself. Emily will come around. We're old friends. Okay, we're friends. Okay, we're vague acquaintances, but we'll be capable of neutral discourse again some time. Your ire will subside. You'll forget about it in a year or two, and when she's got her kids actually on her hands, you can laugh at her and text pictures of the bottles of beer you'll have consumed instead of chasing after diapered maniacs and watching reruns of Elmo.

These remonstrations work for a while. Until I round the hall...and meet Crazy Pregnant Lady #2! Immediately, my mind goes preemptive and my Sensitivity Valve is turned to Full Blast!

MARTHA: How's it going for you?
ME: Oh, you know. I'm hanging in there. But at least I'm not pregnant, right? Ha ha!
MARTHA: Ha ha ha! Good one, Gregg!
ME and MARTHA: Ha ha ha!

And suddenly I'm in the sun again. I am a Man Who Understands. I Put On No Airs. I'm a Good Catch for Aspiring Mothers (or would be, if these nice young pregnant ladies weren't already married--except for Cassandra in Accounting, that filthy whore). And all I had to do was totally debase myself. Which is still sticking in my craw, even these many hours later.

Look, for the record, I don't want to be a woman. Ever. I can't believe the shit they put up with, not excepting assholes like me. And childbirth...blech. I can't even survive an episode of NOVA if there's a hint they're going to show the baby enter the world. So I've got nothing to complain about.

But Emily, really. You're pregnant. You're not exactly carrying a cross to Golgotha.

And besides, admit it: it was fun getting that thing in there, right?

Anyway, you'll have to excuse me. I have to go and not be pregnant andy busy with kids.

Pages Ripped from my Old Notebooks: Spring Break 1996

Setting: Cumberland Island, Georgia, on a weeklong camping trip

Todd had been missing for two days, and when we finally found him, he was huddled next to a tree, covering himself with mulch to stay warm. “You could have just slept in the tent last night, you know,” Tso told him.

“Yeah, you’d like that,” Todd hissed through shivering teeth. “I don’t trust you. You’re too handsey when it’s dark. Now get me back to camp before I freeze to death.”

“Fine,” said Tso, pouting over the prospect of a sleeping bag alone. “But now you’re on kitchen duty for the rest of the trip.”

Todd cursed and tried to crawl away so he could freeze to death peacefully instead, but Tso hoisted him up on his back and carried him back. Todd fought valiantly, but when he realized he was stuck doing pots and pans, he gave up and wept bitterly.

I myself had managed to put together a rather impressive still in the woods, and after we imbibed a few pints of my home brew (made from rubbing alcohol, toadstools and flavored lemonade stolen from the trip leaders), I proposed a hiking trip through the wetlands. For much of the journey, I amused myself pummeling Tso in the back of the head with rocks I'd picked up along the way. Tso rolled cigarettes, and Todd smoked and rolled more cigarettes. I threw rocks. Tso threatened me, which hurt my feelings, so I cried and threw more rocks at him. Ah, sweet bird of youth. Nothing like your early friendships.

Ten minutes down the path, we spotted an alligator lying ahead of us. Todd immediately squealed like a six-year-old told she just got free tickets to a Hanson concert and jumped into Tso’s arms. Tso tried not to look pleased at this.

“Maybe we should go around it,” Tso said. “You don't mess with those things.”

I laughed at him since he was an idiot and continued pelting him with rocks. “Nah, if we throw something sharp at it and yell in its ear, the dumb thing will run away and leave us alone. Just watch where you step around him.”

“No kidding, genius,” snarled Todd, stomping off, tripping over the alligator’s tail and breaking three of his teeth. Tso, upon seeing the great beast lift its head, shrieked like a six-year-old girl finding out that the Hanson concert had actually been cancelled because they’d all married a seven-year-old rival, sprawled to the ground and began covering himself with leaves.

(Meanwhile, 1,114 miles away, Dale Carlson sat up on his couch, watching illegally downloaded pornography. “I’m getting a feeling my friends are in danger,” he said to himself. “Like they’re going to get eaten ... Eating. That reminds me. I'm hungry.”)

Having the Sex Talk with Your Kids

A How-to Guide

Have you had the talk with your kids yet? Dr. Digger Blue (PhD, University of Phoenix Online) explains why it's more important than ever to start a conversation about sex with your kids.

From The Oprah Winfrey Show, "How to Talk to Your Kids About Sex with a complete stranger and Oprah Winfrey."



When your child asks where babies come from, do you break a sweat and blame it on the stork? When your kid wants to know what a rim job is, do you immediately turn them to a back copy of “Car and Driver”? Dr. Blue, a trained family therapist certified through hours of watching “Full House” and "Family Matters" in his teens, says not to bring it up yourself is a big mistake.

“This is the information age we live in,” he said. “Your kids are two clicks away from finding out all about the Kama Sutra. If you don’t act first, you’re at a large disadvantage, and God knows, if you’re an average parent these days, you’ve got just about all the disadvantages you can stand: laziness, average intelligence, bad eating habits, kleptomania and that nagging gambling problem you haven’t had the moxy to tell the wife about.”

In his new book, “Let’s Talk About Sex, Not Baseball: A Modern Parent’s Guide to Raising Screwed-Up Children,” you get a few tips on how to prepare your child for the inevitable Next Sexual Revolution:

Make them listen to you. Don’t take no for an answer. Have your daughter put away the Barbi dolls; have your son ditch the baseball glove. Or vice versa. No time like the present: dive right into the subject. What’s your kid doing right now, for example? Playing with his friends? Mom, nothing will bring you closer to that kid right now than sticking your head out the window and yelling, “Hey Jimmy, we need to talk about genital hygiene.” Go ahead. Try it.

Euphemisms can work. Not so much for the kid: they’ve heard it all on the playground. But you might need to take baby steps in this direction, which is absolutely fine as long as you get the phrases straight and consistent. Appendix III of my book has a lexicon you can feel free to adapt for any purpose whatsoever. Just make sure to keep the noun-forms and verb-forms parallel with each other; I can’t tell you how embarrassing it is to say “Uff her from the bow-wow, son, but remember that the hoo-hah won’t go through without a little slick-juice” without including a proper direct object.

Dramatizations and demonstrations can work! Who cares what Freud thought? Or the AMA, or APA, or any of those Philistine tongue-cluckers! Why, with just a few action figures and the proper sound effects--Free excerpt ends here

Want more? Up yours: buy it here and bring me some moola!

Another stinking trip to the doctor...

It's like going to Confession. I'm not Catholic. Never have been. But I watch a lot of Hitchcock, so I have an idea of what goes on in the confession booth. And I really don't see the difference:

SETTING: Closed, windowless room. I am wearing a smock, which rhymes uncomfortably close with "frock." I'm shivering in the cold, fluorescent light. I feel exposed. I feel dirty. I feel imperfect. I feel, in short, like a devout Catholic.

DOCTOR: (entering) Well, what seems to be the problem?
ME: Well, see, I've got this back problem. It, uh, it has been many years since my last physical.
DOC: How long?
ME: About four years.
DOC: And you're only coming in now?
ME: No, see, I've been to other doctors. But they couldn't help me.
DOC: What did they diagnose you with?
ME: I...can't really remember.
DOC: Well, good thing we've got it on computer file. (Looks it up.) They diagnosed you with atrophied muscles and a poor overall physical condition. What have you been doing about it?
ME: Why, everything they've told me to, sir.
DOC: Don't lie to me, boy. You'll tempt the wrath of medical science. You been stretching like they told you to?
ME: (raising my arms like a Chicken Dance) Woo. See?
DOC: Cutting down on the drinking?
ME: Yep. Frigging bar closes a half hour earlier Monday nights, so...
DOC: Vegetables? Fiber? Vitamins?
ME: Those are all things you can buy at the supermarket, I'm told.
DOC: I'm going to diagnose you with imbecility. Your penance is six Hail Marys and a swift kick in the ass.
ME: But I'm getting prescription painkillers, right?
DOC: God yes. A whole bucketful.
ME: (assuming the position) I knew there was a reason choir boys keep going back for more...

A Second Look at The Grapes of Wrath

Reread this book as part of Roselle's Banned Books Week and just could not put it down. You've undoubtedly heard of Steinbeck's epic story of the Joads, Oklahoma farmers turned out of the Midwest by the Great Dust Bowl who travel west to California to find work only to face prejudice, low wages, tyranny, starvation and, for some, death. The book won the Pulitzer in 1940 and was made into an acclaimed film starring Henry Fonda. The narrative is on the scale of Moby Dick (some lucky s.o.b. has probably already compared the two works--I'll get to it someday); the style is fluid and engrossing; the allusions abound. As Peter Lisca wrote in 1958, Grapes "was a phenomenon on the scale of a national event. It was publicly banned and burned by citizens, it was debated on national radio hook-ups; but above all, it was read."

Confession: Yes, I gave a copy of this book to Matt in 1999. Yes, I was advocating Marxism. Trust me when I tell you, I'd never read Marx or Lenin or Trotsky, and didn't know I was advocating Marxism. I only thought I was trying to open a pair of eyes to the stark realities of the world's evil: "Look, you dimwit, see what happened in those camps? See how a bunch of farmers starved next to fertile farmland? Acknowledge my wisdom on the subject, shit-for-brains!"

Well, that's over and done with. I have since paid the price for my deeply-held naivete and nascent socialism with many a booze-laced lecture on macroeconomic theory and history in many a Manhattan bar. I have been humbled. I have been given my own copies of Adam Smith and Milton Friedman. And when teaching Grapes, or any other early-twentieth century work of literature, I always preface it with, "Take the politics with a grain of salt."

And yet, shifting away from my own sad story and Matt's desperate attempts to educate me, I think it's a mistake to write off Steinbeck as "socialist," and therefore "unreliable," "biased," or any of those icky, undesirable pejoratives currently applied to anyone on the left who argues for reform. Sure, Steinbeck was a socialist. He hobnobbed with Lincoln Steffens. He networked through Francis Whittaker. He was pro-union. He's not exactly subtle about this, either: Grapes of Wrath gets tiresome sometimes with his preaching the necessity of organization. (I don't mind preachiness, but I prefer when authors don't carry theirs out with a megaphone.)

No question about his political affiliations. But then, he also researched life in the Hoovervilles firsthand. He saw the strikebreaking. He witnessed the starvation, the deprivation, the cruelty. He saw the needs of the poor unacknowledged. If anything, according to most scholars across the ideological spectrum, he downplayed all of it in his novel. For example, in one of his articles on conditions in a migrant camp, he uses imagery and language that couldn't have gone easily past any editor of the time:

"There is more filth here. The tent is full of flies clinging to the apple box that is the dinner table, buzzing about the foul clothes of the children, particularly the baby, who has not been bathed nor cleaned for several days. This family has been on the road longer than the builder of the paper house. There is no toilet here, but there is a clump of willows nearby where human faeces lie exposed to the flies - the same flies that are in the tent."
--"Death in the Dust," available at http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2002/feb/02/johnsteinbeck.socialsciences.

And that's not even getting into the violence and murder against vagrants, organizers and the like. Economic theory and hard-core politics must be considered when contemplating Steinbeck's thesis, but such niceties would hardly register with the Joads. The causes of the Great Depression were complex. But what would that matter to a woman trying to keep the flies in the filth from the weeds off her baby? What would it matter to Ma Joad when she can't get Rose of Sharon milk? Or soap for her kids to keep clean? Finding a place for your family to sleep without drowning is also complex.

So, keeping the clangs of literary Historicism and New Criticism in mind, let me offer my own argument on how to read this book today: Steinbeck is telling us that the people are the answer. Yes, they may organize and form unions (I should point out that I'm a card-carrying member of the NEA myself). Yes, they may strike, they may agitate. But the farmers who come at all close to survival do so by banding together. When one is sick, others pitch in to help. When a child dies, a mountain of coins are left outside the mother's tent to bury her. When children play, they must cooperate with each other, or the game falls apart; when a job becomes available, workers must spread the word, even if it means their own wages and prospects will thin.

In short, we're to think of the group. There's no Orwellian Man Behind the Screen deciding how best to ration jobs, food and drinking water. The people are Big Brother. And I see little in the history of any oppression you can name to contradict the argument that, when the downtrodden function together, they tend to make out better.

Probably, implementing such a system of "be nice to each other" is pure fantasy. I don't believe so, but then, I didn't study political science. My doctor tells me I have to cut down on the red meat; I don't believe it will make me live any longer, but then I remember I didn't go to medical school. Whatever. I am an English teacher though, one who subscribes, however sheepishly, to the notion of Literature as Catharsis. As such, I'm fully capable of drawing a line in the sand between my ideals (things that may or may not be possible, but nevertheless must be strived towards) and reality (John Q. Citizen doesn't like being told he's stupid or oppressing the poor, especially when he's stupid and oppressing the poor, and votes). You cling to your ideals and acknowledge reality. But to scream, "Steinbeck is corrupting his readers!" or "Libelist! Red! Liar!" is reactionary, demagogic, and small-minded in the 21st century.

(Not that people are lining up to urinate on Grapes like they were when it first came out. But just stick your head in a town hall meeting these days and it doesn't take long to see a correlation.)

When asked in a recent intervew by Bill Maher for a new metaphor that would come in handy in today's world, Bill Moyers instantly replied, "We're all in the same boat." That's Steinbeck's novel in a nutshell. It was true then. It's true today. And any book that stumbles on the truth, from whatever direction, deserves our study and attention.

From this month's Utne:

The General Social Survey, a periodic assessment of Americans’ moods and values, shows an 11-point decline from 1976 to 2008 in the number of Americans who believe other people can generally be trusted. Institutions haven’t fared any better. Over the same time period, trust has declined in the press (from 29 to 9 percent), education (38 to 29 percent), banks (41 percent to 20 percent), corporations (23 to 16 percent), and organized religion (33 to 20 percent). Gallup’s 2008 governance survey showed that trust in the government was as low as it was during the Watergate era.

So the media took the biggest bath in the wake of a political scandal (reported on by the media), whereas education comes out just slightly ahead of religion (in the wake of Catholic sex abuse scandals). I don't really know what this reveals about John Q. Citizen and his notions of what's trustworthy or not. I do know it's not reassuring about John Q. Citizen, though.

How to Propose Marriage

Like most financially strapped, psychologically unstable, manic-depressive suburbanites, you're probably contemplating getting hitched. Which means you have to propose to her. (Or propose to him, since, as I've been told, women are now allowed to approach men as equals. Whatever that's about.) Regardless, you now have to ask the woman of your dreams to spend the rest of your life with her in wedded bliss and with a deficit-inducing middle income tax hike. This means you'll have to find the right words with which to deliver your proposal, words that will moisten her eyes, excite her passion and cripple her common sense.

Of course, since you're not me, your proposal is, without question, lame and stupid, with all the romance of a piece of fish left under a car seat overnight. No matter. Select a proposal from one of the following templates, and get ready to enjoy a matrimony which will, based on actuarial tables, weight and true sexual preference, will last 12.3 years before she leaves you for a tax accountant. Congratulations!

#1. Proposal Through Mime

Me: (elaborate pantomime of grace and beauty)

Her: (watching)I'm sorry, I don't understand...you're in a box? You're finding the door? You're choking in the box and you can't get out? A door...in front of me? I don't get it.

Me: That's because you're stupid. Anyway, let's get married.

#2. The Magic of Puppet Theater

Dexter, the Hand-Lover: Hey Kim! It's a real good idea if you marry Gregg!

Her: That's not a puppet. It's just a sock with a mouth painted on it in White-Out.

Me: Yeah, but since I think I've got you cold anyway, I didn't really feel a need to put a lot of effort into this.

#3. The Sublimity of Haiku

Me: The woman of my dreams/ Is off to France as we speak/ How bout you instead?

Her: I'm hungry. What are you making for dinner?

Me: A wedding imminent,/ Or one that is eminent?/ Whatever. Wed me.

Her: Are you getting these off those fortune cookies there?

Me: Hackneyed poetry/ Stirs the intellectual/ But not a dumbass.

#4. Lexical and Syntactic Diagramming of Proposals 101

Me: If 'you' is the object of the verb phrase 'wants to marry you,' then what is the noun phrase that functions as a subject?

Her: I have an English degree, you jackass.

Me: What's the subject?

Her: ...Thunder Rod.

Me: And which word is the adjective?

Her: Conjugate this. (obscene gesture)

Me: ...That will be all for today.

#5. Use a Word Problem

Me: Gregg is traveling from Chicago to the Star Trek Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas in a car going 65 mph over a distance of 1,752 miles while Kim is hitchhking from Phoenix, at a distance of 296 miles. Gregg's car is low on oil and in general shoddy condition, which hampers his rate of progress by 15 percent incrementally. Meanwhile, Kim is wearing her 'Love me for my mind' outfit, and so will manage to catch a ride averaging 15 miles from every third passer-by. If Gregg leaves his destination at 10:27 a.m. Wednesday after downing two pints of vodka, and Kim leaves hers at 7 a.m. the preceding day wearing high heels, what time and date will their wedding take place?

Her: That depends. Will there be pie?

Me: I guess...

Her: Right after the pie is gone, then.

More about the Citizen Patriot another day. I'm constantly bemused by their editorials. Yesterday's, for example: Congress wanted to pass a bill lining up successors to House members in case of a full-on attack on the Capitol. The editorial calls this "arcane" and says, "to date, last we checked, this hasn't happened." Sure. Like, on Sept. 10, the Pentagon hadn't been hit by a plane. Archaic. That's a hoot. I must shut up now, or I'll never run out of steam.

Dry Shakespeare

JACKSON, MI--Going to a play by the Bard cold. It's been a while.

Normally, before partaking of the culture that is the Michigan Shakespeare festival, I read the plays beforehand. That is, if I'm not familiar with them/teach them/seen movie versions of them/ bored others to death with my renditions of them. Once, I saw Pericles dry, and had no earthly clue what was going on. Ditto Cymbeline, to a point.

Last night, it was As You Like It. I think I did okay. (It's about two guys in love, right? ...Just kidding.)

The true treat of these plays is in their performance, sure enough. Unless it's something like Hamlet, which, I'm sorry, is impossible to enjoy for a casual theatergoer without an intimate familiarity. Otherwise, why would you care about a single word he says? You'd be shouting from the seats, "Kill the jerk already! My babysitter has to get home at nine!" A fair criticism, to be sure--the comedies, however, in my opinion, are tedious to read. You need a performance to liven things up, to interject feeling and timing into the humor, nuance, facial expressions, physical violence, pratfalls, the scatological, etc. And last night's crew did this to decided success.

The true test of the performance: Do I want to go back and read the play? I do. The Citizen Patriot had a point about the staging and early scenes and music, much though I hate to admit it. But I can forgive such techniques in the face of, off the top of my head, Rosalind's (Jennifer Drew) sheer strength of performance. Watching her snap, "Woo me!" in male guise to the bemused Orlando was worth the price of admission alone.

Lines of poetry written while stuck on the subway en route to Brooklyn at 4 a.m. because I met Wiggo in Williamsburg and am getting back to Bay Ridge where I will sleep on a hardwood floor on shards of broken glass

The city sleeps well
But I, on this coffin car of death
Hate all equally

Fuck you, Mr. Chips.

Fuck you, Mr. Chips. And fuck your fucking life story.

You had it rough, I grant you. New, apple-cheeked, fresh-faced go-getter arriving at a new school, nervous about discipline. You gave a troublemaker 100 lines to copy after misbehaving, and then had no troubles after that. You bemoan the loss of the boys' friendship; it's the only part of the triumvirate of "respect, obedience and love" that you're missing? Fuck you.

You teach Latin grammar? Dead languages? With no standardized tests to worry about? Fuck you.

You get a hot new wife and she teaches you to be loved? And you're an overnight sensation? Fuck you.

You continue teaching, without worrying about administrators breathing down your neck concerning relevance, learning standards and the like? Fuck you.

You retire and live on school premises, with a woman to cook for you and look after you? Fuck you.

You come back as headmaster in reduced capacity? Fuck you.

You die happy? Fuck you.

You wouldn't last ten minutes in today's schools, Mr. Chips. Conjugate those verbs, asshole.

Why I will not go to a bar with half-nude waitresses (more than one or two dozen more times)

Head out to Woodale, and there's not much there. A theater, some overpriced restaurants, a ridiculously small amount of parking, and The Tilted Kilt, a bar trying to pass itself off as Irish the way Hooter's tries to pass itself off as Where-you-can-get-a-good-burger-while-incidentally-ogling-women.

Don't get me wrong--I've got nothing against ogling women. The waitresses at the Kilt wear, for the record, white stockings, short kilts and stomach-less white tops, and I am this close to mandating such a dress code for every outdoor summer festival in town. But even I have my limits. The Kilt, while sporting plentiful eye candy and a variety of Guinness-themed beers, just isn't doing it for me any more. I've only been there a handful of times (like ten or fifty), but like a good soldier, I keep making the half-hour drive out there to see if I can get comfortable with the ambience, the blaring jukebox, the half-tanked fratboys high-fiving each other. And I just can't do it. For reasons I can explain quite succinctly:

The waitresses act like strippers, but they're not strippers. When a scantily-clad woman sits down next to you in a place where alcohol and loud music are prevalent, starts making conversation about your pathetic life, and keeps her eye on the clock, she's either finagling for a tip, trying to elicit a request for a lap dance, or already married to you and enacting some weird role-playing fantasy you cooked up in a weekend marriage seminar. And I'm not good at pretending with stuff like this. When a waitress sat down next to me last weekend and asked how work was going, she visibly flinched when I produced a dollar bill and waved it in her face seductively. That kind of reality I can do without.



The waitresses could be trouble. I'm sure they're legal and everything, but still, young is young, and I don't want to be that Old Guy in the Bar. I'm not that old, but compared to a roomful of undergraduates, I might as well be collecting Social Security. When you can make lewd comments and get away with it, you know it's time to pack it up--only guys who could conceivably carry out such lascivious threats are taken seriously. Besides, you never know these days. The girls could be under eighteen, and I'm a man of values. I wouldn't touch them if they were a day below...twenty-one. Nor would I sit next to them, stroke their legs lightly, yank their hair or drink salted tequila off their flat, toned, tanned stomachs. Not me, sir. No chance.

They don't sell the waitress' outfits. Not that I'd buy one. Or buy one and leave it hanging in the closet. Or feign surprise when the little lady found it. Or feign surprise, get her drunk and dress her up in it. It's just a matter of principle.



There's a reputation that goes with frequenting a place like this. Guilt by association, I'd call it. To paraphrase Ed McBain, if you frequent a whorehouse with a really good magazine rack, you're not going to be known as someone with highbrow literary tastes. You're going to be known as a guy who likes a cheap piece of tail. And if you come out of the Kilt, staggering at two in the morning, they're not going to know about all the historical inaccuracies you pointed out in their menu to anyone who would listen all night ("Braveheart was Scottish, but Michael Collins was Irish and Falstaff was English. What kind of dump is this, anyway?"). They're going to call you a slightly creepy perv. And if they're right, so much the better to give them less to work with.

Today: born one niece of yours truly. Avery Jane (name censored), seven pounds, eleven ounces and 22 inches long. All are healthy. She already rocks. This kid will be the Emily Donelson to my Andrew Jackson. Look up the reference yourselves, dimwits.

Missed my opportunity to do something momentous and trivial today:

When the clock hits 34 minutes and 56 seconds past noon today (7/8/09), the time and date together will be 123456789.
Source: Politico.com

Things Sarah Palin can do now that she's resigned from the office of Alaska governor

Kill something with her big gun

Practice Tina Fey impersonation

Find a mirror to start rehearsing speeches in front of

Learn how to use "Find" function in e-mail (as in, Find: "Hire my husband, damn you"), so she can fork over records for those pesky news agencies

Begin rigorous, impassioned reading of Middle East, Russian and American history.

Find alternative phrases for "you betcha"

Look up Wikiarticles on Adam Smith to find out why she supports free markets

Find Levi and beat him to a pulp

Get her book ghostwritten. Crowd aspiring writers out of the literary marketplace