Artifical Intellegence and the Classical Guitar: An Experiment

The idea behind websites like Pandora is to help music lovers use technology to take more control of their listening experiences. One inputs the name of a favorite artist and the service then plays music that fits what appeals to someone who listens to that group or musician. This, one would assume, comes in the form of other music in the same genre. In other words, if I input Earl Scruggs, I don't expect to get Run DMC or Kathleen Battle. Also, the "station" is supposed to "learn" from the listeners preferences. Don't like a song you hear? You can click or tap a button and you should not hear it anymore. Love something? You can click or tap something else to make sure music like that gets played more often. (You can also find a link to purchase said music, but that isn't what this discussion is about.)

I have three apps on my phone for this purpose, from three services that can be accessed from the Internet: Slacker, Myxer, and the ever-popular Pandora.

I loved Slacker when I first started using it, particularly because of my interest in jazz. Almost without fail, I hear the music I was hoping for. Surprises came in the form of deep cuts from classic and not so well known albums. Until I was interested in hearing some classical guitar, the only glitch I ran into was when I input Medeski, Martin, and Wood, and an hour later was treated to Jerry Garcia's plodding, achingly long, and horrifyingly dull rendition of "Shining Star."

I figured that if I wanted to hear classical guitar, the best bet would be to input the name of the great Andres Segovia. What came out was all fine music, but not what I wanted. After a piece played by the Spanish master, I go something from John Williams -- the composer, not the guitarist. Then there was a tune by Michael Hedges. Over the next few minutes I heard from only one other classical guitar player, Christopher Parkening. Tunes came from Django Reinhardt, Paco de Lucia, Leo Kottke, Al Di Meola, Yo Yo Ma, and Itzhak Perlman. At least some of it was classical.

I was drawn to Myxer because I liked the idea of creating a "room" where I could invite friend to enjoy the music I was listening to. The rooms allow one to list up to five artists, which would, one would presume, increase the odds of getting one's desired listening experience.

Alas, it is not to be. The jazz "rooms" were okay, but often went into eras and sub genres I was not expecting. Not always bad stuff, but sometimes this made for a jarring moments and annoying interruptions to my routine. But it was worse when I input the names of Mr. Segovia and others of his ilk.

The only classical guitarists I heard in the next hour were Segovia and Pepe Romero. Perhaps one could say Paco de Lucia plays classical, but none of the pieces I heard were. Again, Django Reinhardt came up, but so did Ottmar Liebert, Badi Assad, Lee Ritenour, and folk musician John Renboum. The biggest surprise came when the sounds of Spanish metal band Epilogo came through my speakers.

Pandora, which was painfully awful when I first tried them out years ago, was the best of the bunch. After several hours of listening, the only non-classical music I heard was an acoustic piece by Al Di Meola. There was great variety, from different periods and different albums, some solo work and some with ensembles, but only the one cut was not from a classical guitar. Songs segued with each other easily and there was a minimal amount of commercials (I'm too cheap to, as of yet, pay for the non-commercial versions of these). Yet after awhile, or perhaps because my body was beginning to reject the experiment, things started to sound the same.

Of course, by Sunday afternoon, I was ready to listen to something else, and I don't know that anything significant came of my little experiment, except I added to my list of life's little disappointments. Perhaps I learned not so much about the services themselves as about the expectations of a lover of great music. We want surprises, something new or something old performed in a fresh way. But we want things to fall into certain parameters, even when we are, as I am, eclectic in our tastes, and those parameters are not always the same each time we make listening choices. So if I cannot completely choose myself material which fits both needs when I create a playlist from my own collection in something like Winamp, then how can I fully expect it from those services with more extensive libraries than I can possibly own?

That I cannot quite answer that question won't keep me from complaining however.

Meditation VI -- Belief

"having the eyes of your hearts enlightened, that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you."

"these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name"

Perhaps because Jesus was a teacher and because he continues to teach us, we think of belief as something that can be learned as one learns a formula or a process. Yet life itself instructs us that this is not so. Even math can get messy, but we are (at least I am) so hard headed and hard hearted as to expect belief to be simple where it is complicated and difficult where it is simple.

We forget the role of grace in belief. Paul prayed for the Ephesians, not that they learn their Sunday School lessons, but that their spiritual eyes be opened to the hope of God. John's Gospel tells us that the story of Jesus has been told that we might believe not only "that Jesus is the Christ" -- a fact we are given no logical progression for -- but also that we "may have life in his name."

What a magnificent leap! I confess there are concepts which are not fully clear to me. But I have hope I did not once have. I have life I could not otherwise attain or even aspire toward, believing in Jesus. This I can testify to.

Bookmarks -- Anna Karenina

When I received my Nook, I promised myself that I would use it and other devices (now my phone and an iPad) to read a number of classic works that have, for one reason or another, passed me by. The most recently completed of these, read almost entirely on my iPhone, is Tolstoy's Anna Karenina.

One reason I think I waited so long to read Anna Karenina is because it is a story about adultery. Or so I thought. Adultery is fine for subject matter, but I don't like that with even many supposedly great works, the reader is manipulated into feeling sorry for the woman who has cheated on her husband (who is often portrayed, in varying ways, as a louse). Anna's husband is not all that good a person, but he has his moments where he tries to be. In the end, he proves too weak-willed, ironically, to strive toward goodness, but one can see his side from time to time.

Anna may seem like a strong, sometimes courageous woman. But on the whole, she is a nut-dog with crazy relish. I can't say what makes her insane, but by the time she throws herself under a train (knowing this fact should not ruin the novel for you), she has isolated herself from everyone and proven to have no love or loyalty, not for her lover, her children, or any high ideas. She might love herself.

Her story is interesting, but the story that captured my attention is that of Levin, the philosophical farmer, whose love and courtship of Kitty baffles him as it gives purpose to his life, as his vocation and his attempts to better the world around him have not. Levin tries to revolutionize the agrarian system, and finds himself attracted and repulsed by the peasants whose lives he is trying to improve. He is more comfortable with his books and farm, but desperate to win approval for the book he writes, expecting his ideas to set the world on its head. He doesn't believe in God, thinking himself too intelligent for such things, but is moved by the faith of his young wife and others he encounters. In the end, he is strong enough to be what others might see as weak, but he comes to his proclamation of faith honestly, after deep struggle.

This is a thrilling, fascinating book of parallel stories (The draft title was Two Marriages.). It took sometime to finish it, but I am very glad I took the time to do it.

Music Notes – Guitar Man

George Benson’s latest album is called Guitar Man,  and it is a typical mix of Benson’s excellent playing  and his smooth singing on a couple of numbers.

"Tenderly" opens the album with some gorgeous interplay of chords and melody. May be a little mellow for some, but I liked it quite a bit. The Coltrane standard "Naima" gets the same treatment, and I wonder if I might have liked the project more, if it had been there were more songs arranged and performed as solo pieces, or as this eventually becomes, a trio effort. The solo guitar on "Danny Boy" is gorgeous, bringing a sense of joy to what is typically a sad tune. This is one of the best pieces on the album.

There are three vocal tracks on Guitar Man. The first is a nice rendition of the Stevie Wonder classic, “My Cherie Amour.” It isn’t particularly special despite Benson’s usually distinctive voice, but it is enjoyable nonetheless. The others are “Since I Fell For You” and “My One and Only Love.” Both sound really good, especially with the stripped down sound. And I love the piano work of Joe Sample on “My One and Only Love,” but I would hope an album called Guitar Man" might feature Benson’s main instrument. “Since I Fell For You” has a couple nice guitar runs, but too few for me.

Benson plays a swinging rendition of the classic tune, "Tequila."  The full band clearly is having a lot of fun. "Don't Know Why," which follows, is nice, but sounds much like every other smooth jazz version of the song. "The Lady In My Life" is pretty good, spoiled only by the string sound that makes it too close to smooth jazz and too far from the beautiful melody making that Benson can manage on his own.

One thing Benson does very well is scat along with his lead lines. However, the only song we get much of that is "Fingerloo." At first, I thought it a poor choice to end the album, but after repeated listenings, I am pleased to see the project close with the sort of sounds I associate with this great guitarist and fine singer.

The album has many terrific moments and I sometimes wished I could get a whole disc of pieces like “Fingerloo” or “Danny Boy.” It is still a good listening experience, and I do not think Benson fans are going to be disappointed. But I also think he is better than this outing shows.

Meditation V -- Not a Map

"And you know the way to where I am going."

Thomas, ever faithful, but perhaps over-literal, asks Jesus, "How can we know the way?" For Thomas, like so many of us, is expecting a map, perhaps a formula, to get to Heaven. but if Christ had come to give us a map, he'd be no better than those who sought His demise; He would be less than even the prophets who told of his coming; He would not have needed to die.

For Jesus is not a map, and He brought no formula for salvation. He said He is the way. There is no rule except to look on Him and follow.

Later in this conversation with His disciples, Jesus would tell them, "If you love me, you will keep my commandments." But these are not rules or a path to Heaven. In context, we see that this is what Jesus gives us in order for our relationships to God to grow and bear the fruit of peace and joy.

He does not say, "Do this and you will be saved from fire." He does not promise an end to pain or oppression (as the world sees them). He promises peace and he promises joy. He promises the Holy Spirit who will "teach [us] all things and bring to remembrance all that [Jesus has] said to [us]."

Help me, Lord, to rejoice in my troubles as I look on you and find peace and joy.

Bookmarks -- What It Used To Be Like

In piecing together the life of one of my literary heroes, one thing was always missing: a specific picture of Raymond Carver's first marriage, when poverty and alcoholism coincided (or perhaps collided) with his rising reputation. What It Used To Be Like begins to fill in this gap.

Raymond Carver's first wife clearly loved and supported him long past the point he deserved it. Maryann Carver is honest about their troubled marriage. At the height of her husband's drinking, he was physically abusive and unfaithful, and often was unrepentant about his actions. Several times, when life began to get better for them, Carver would uproot the family.

Maryann Carver's portrait is also tender. Even through most of the rough times, she remembered the sometimes generous and thoughtful boy she fell in love with. She played the part -- to a fault -- of a devoted wife who sacrifices her own ambitions and dreams so that the great writer could fulfill his. And while in some passages she unsuccessfully suppresses her bitterness and disappointment, in others she is happy to give everything to the man she fell in love with when she was fifteen and never stopped, even after they had been divorced for years.

There are parts of the book, sentences here and there, which are not well written, and some that are poorly edited. Some prose reads like a freshman composition, and not like what one would expect from someone as intelligent and well-read. The section on the 1970s (the book is divided by decades) seems to go back and forth when the rest of the memoir is chronological.

Overall, What It Used To Be Like provides a fine picture of the seriously flawed man who also was the genius writer. But it also gives the reader an insight into codependency as well as a changing culture from the perspective of one who was too busy holding her family together to do more than watch the country that seemed to be falling apart. And yet Raymond Carver's life, short as it was, might well be a kind of trope for an America wrestling with its demons while finding its greatness.

Meditation IV -- Weakness

You told Paul, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Am I weak enough, Lord?

We may not always seek pleasure, but we avoid pain as quickly as possible. I have heard, "No pain, no gain." When is it no longer pain or suffering for our own good (sacrifice), but oppression and/or self-mortification? Most would rather stay as they are, satisfied that they are as good as they will be, and consequently as good as they need be. Some will sacrifice everything for a goal that brings nothing substantial.

Perhaps I digress. We do not need to seek weakness or suffering. It finds us, whether or not we desire holiness. And if we desire holiness -- and every Christian should examine her/his heart to determine if she/he really does -- then we need not desire suffering, but learn to recognize God's grace in these difficult moments.

I say "moments" knowing that our troubles do not last a short time. Perhaps if they were short, they would not trouble us. No. Sometimes our pain lasts a lifetime. However, we must work in the faith that in comparison to eternity this time will be briefer than thought.

I have digressed again. Paul tells us, "when I am weak, then I am strong." Often, I believe, we confuse this sentence to mean that the strength comes from us. With exercise, we tear the muscle fibers, and they are rebuilt stronger. We might think our exercise increased us, made us spiritually stronger. But it is God who created the body to work in such a way. It is not our strength which powers us after weakness, but God's strength which sustains and powers us during and through weakness.

Lord, you gave Paul a thorn to sustain his humility. Help us to recognize your grace in our trials and in this painful life, and to rest in your mercy and joy. Amen.

Meditation III -- Hearing

The works that I do in my Father's name bear witness about me.

Not long after saying this, Jesus would ask, "I have show you many good works from the Father; for which of them are you going to stone me?" But the words (not deeds) that convicted them in their eyes were, "I and the Father are one." For Christ had already been charged and found guilty by those who did not want Him or support Him. They only wanted some words to pull from out of context -- out of the context of this speech and out of the context of all Scripture -- to serve their purpose in condemning Him.

He had been drawing a distinction between himself and those who would lead his sheep astray. Could they see the connection that not only was Jesus the True Shepherd, but that they were thieves, who come "to steal and kill and destroy"? For we belong to no one but Christ.

We deceive ourselves when we listen to the voices of the world and the voice of the flesh which tell us everything we like to hear, which tells us that we do belong to God, but to ourselves. His Voice is hard to hear with so many noises in the way. Mammon is quite loud. Christ whispers comfort to our hearts, and even when he shouts to our souls, we do not recognize Him. The world, as the poet says, is too much with us.

We are lost without You, Lord. Help us to know Your Voice.

Meditation II -- Wisdom

Be not wise in your own eyes;
  fear the Lord, and turn away from evil.
It will be healing to your flesh
  and refreshment to your bones.

Blessed is the one who finds wisdom,
  and the one who gets understanding,
for the gain from her is better than gain from silver
  and her profit better than gold.

I haven't silver or gold or wisdom; thus I am poor indeed. Circumstances befall me, hurts beyond my control. But where am I likely to turn to solve such painful puzzles (which fall on the good and the bad)? To God, who authors the universe and brings peace to the confused? No. Most often, I trust my own feeble and failing brain, my own devices and schemes.

But where is wisdom, and must it always kick me when I'm down? Does it hurt so much because I am stubborn or because there are plenty to play the part of Job's friends, ready to tell me what I should have done after the fact?

I am not righteous, though I desire righteousness. I am not holy, though pursing holiness is my only true peace. I am not wise. I am not wise.

We are stupid and foolish without You, O Lord. Help us to turn away from evil. Help us to recognize it and turn away. Heal us completely: flesh, bones, mind, and heart.

Behold, you delight in truth in the inmost being,
  and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart. 

How can I, born and living in iniquity, be taught wisdom in my heart, where so much darkness lives? Lord, we are always dark until Your Light shines in us. I must open myself for God's light, allow it to burn the dark gunk, the dross away, and trust my Teacher. I cannot rely on merely saying true words, but allow the transformation of my being.

He shall come to the place in the heart that no one knows. I do not even know this heart. But Christ knows it. It is the place where my true being resides and what my outer core is subject to. For wisdom is not in smart or right words, but in practice.

Practice. This means we do not always get it right. But we keep trying, going back to our teacher as many times as necessary until our thick skulls are penetrated by the Holy Light.

Bookmarks -- Uncle Melvin

Just re‑read a favorite story by Daniel Pinkawater called Uncle Melvin. I say it is a story, but there really is no narrative. The book is a sketch of a mental patient told through the eyes of a child. For me, it is beautiful and heartbreaking.

I know that many who are mentally ill are not as docile or lively or as interesting as Melvin is. But here is a tender portrait of a gentle man with "theories" who talks to birds and wears a bowler hat to keep his ideas in until he's through with them.

Pinkwater's book tells us as much about Melvin's family as it does Melvin. Melvin is allowed to help the family care for the child, and is given space to work the garden or fix things in the basement. The boy's father his son. "I have never thought of Melvin as crazy. In many ways he is the least crazy person I know. He has his ideas ‑‑ that's all."

Pinkwater's illustrations are full of color and don't overwhelm the story. The pictures hint at being impressionistic, but are never fuzzy where details are needed.

For me, this is a sweet story. Yes, a story in that it tells a great deal about readers, building into our imaginations, and leaving us to fill in what is needed.

Hunger: A Meditation

So you, by the help of your God, return,
hold fast to love and justice,
and wait continually for your God.

After railing against the unfaithful Israelites -- and by extension all of us who have been unfaithful to God, we are told this. God lets them off easy and also puts tough burdens on them (us). These are not so much rules and impossible formulas to salvation or righteousness. "Hold fast," God says. That is all. Cling like the dependent children we are. But can we allow ourselves such child-like holding?

And to what are we to hold fast to? Love and justice. Oh how easy and how hard! "God is love and God is just," we may well believe (though that faith waxes and wanes). Can we trust His love? Can we wait for His justice? We are commanded "and wait continually for your God."

and he died for all, that those who live might no longer live for themselves but for him who for their sake died and was raised.

 
We are not to live for ourselves, but for Him who died for all. But my self is all I can control, all I can trust to appreciate my sacrifices. Who said anything about being appreciated? We do not need appreciation or acknowledgement or anything but the Love of God, which has already been and is continually given to us.

Do not labor for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life.

Oh how I worry, Lord! About my car, my house, my family. About food (despite my gross obesity!). And labor is not only for the money to by food and keep safe and well that we need to live. Work itself is good for my soul and mind and body.

But all these things pass away. They die.

How many hungers I have, O Lord! How I wish for them to die, satiated by your living bread!

How hard it is to work for what we cannot see, for what we know -- even with faith as tiny as mine -- what is the better part. Often we cannot tell the difference between hunger and craving. And I wonder why I try to put myself in charge of such knowledge. Even at this age, I need a Father who can guide me to understand the difference and teach me in a place deeper than my mind and stronger than my body.

Music Notes -- Light the Night & Jazz Praise

As a young man, I ran across these two albums in a phase of life when I wanted to listen to anything recorded by and for Christians. Some time ago they were re-released as a single disc set. I ran across them recently through Slacker Radio, and was pleasantly surprised. While perhaps a little too slick and too close to smooth jazz (what I call safe jazz), for many, I think these projects still hold up as well as anything put together by Spiro Gyra or the Yellowjackets.

The projects were recorded under the names of John Mehler and Kenneth Nash, first rate musicians in their own right. However, it took the talents of a number of then barely known players, like John Patitucci (bass) and Wayne Brasil (guitar), to pull it off.

When I first came across these albums, I was new to Christian music, and so a number of the songs were unfamiliar to me. I got to know them through recordings like these even before I learned the tunes had words. This is the power not only of the terrific playing, warm production, masterful arrangements and electric improvisations, but of the music itself. Thus, even for the non-believing listener, I think hearing these seventeen songs can be an edifying experience. For an "older" believer like me, this is quite rewarding.

Is this a witness?

Recently a Facebook friend not only complained about the slowness of some people, but deleted my response that for a few of us slow people there isn’t much worth rushing for. I don’t know what was offensive about my remark, but what made the incident even more interesting to me is that this person kept the post that made fun of the “abnormally obese” people who, I presume, are also slow, and horribly inconvenient.

Normally the posts of this first person are cheery, and encouraging. I don’t know the person really well – we met through a mutual acquaintance. But I believe the person is a Christian, and that most of the time, the heart is in the right place.

And who am I to complain about complaining? After all, I use my Facebook and my blog to multiply my whining to a world mostly uninterested. People can go back and look at my status updates and tweets and see that I am not always charitable or Christ-like in what I write, and those who have to endure me in person know that I do not always edify with my words. So who am I to talk?

Well, I’ll tell you. I’m a person who doesn’t understand how a Christian can delete a post, that is not an attack or criticism, but can keep the post of someone who vilifies the overweight. Can’t help but take that personally, since I’m the one whose input was deleted and also one of many who are, in no uncertain terms, fat.

A lot of talk these days seems to be about the idea that “words hurt.” But it is like some sort of abstract concept that a bunch of people come up with to protect their feelings, and avoid actual concern over (let alone interaction with) what Jesus called “the least of these.” Okay, maybe I’m taking that phrase out of context, but didn’t Jesus say that what we did not only for, but to, “them” we did to Him?

Here’s the thing: I’ll get over this. No one is perfect, and I would like to believe that the two people involved have no personal ill feelings for me or want to hurt others. I suspect most of us would be mortified if we knew the real results of some of our supposedly “harmless” acts. But will the next person “get over it”? Will the next person they carelessly harm or ignore, someone God is foolish enough to love as much as them, will that be the one who is a believer with problems bigger than a minor inconvenience, something that takes longer to write about than to adjust to? Will the next person be someone on the cusp of faith, who only needs an encouraging word or a deleted response to push them to a critical decision about Christ? About life in general?

I hope I remember all this when I find myself in the same position. (And sure as God is God, I will!) Because it really isn’t about our feelings. It is about who and what we represent. And if what we are about isn’t bigger than ourselves, then not much really matters.

Bookmarks – Saint With a Gun

Some months ago, my friend Glenn decided to retire and not take home all of the books he had in his office. And I’m glad he picked this one for me. The book is old in the sense that it covers the private eye subset of the mystery genre only to its publication in 1974. However, what William Ruehlman has to say here speaks to not only to books and movies in the United States, but to our culture of violence and our emphasis on retribution and “justice.” And in that sense, little has changed.

The book may seem a bit scholarly to some, but it really is a good read, even for those not inclined toward the academic. I wish Ruehlman had included a bit more in the way of counterargument, but he knows his subject well, and his point seems reasonable despite this little problem.
It does seems that this book is sometimes hard to find. But I suspect for most people, it is well worth the search.

Reading Response (of sorts) – Of hating an idol

I don’t know why I let myself get sucked into these things. They never end well. But once again, I got caught up in a lengthy debate on Facebook over the worth of person . And once again, I wasted my time.
It started with Sportsnation posting a question on Facebook about Cam Newton’s stellar first game. Anyone who knows me knows I do not like Mr. Newton. I believe he has cheated his way to the top and cut corners at most every turn. He is a very good, talented athlete, and in his first game he was amazing (by all accounts; I didn’t watch it).
But I fell into the trap when I posted “negative” comments about Mr. Newton to Sportsnation’s question: “Do you LIKE what you saw from the #1 pick in week 1?” Silly me.
You see, people don’t like it when you don’t write about how wonderful their favorite athletes are. They say things like “He’s doing really well for himself, unlike you” and “Id like to see u try to do what cam did. Jus sayin” and “Go eat a cheeseburger.” (Yes, these are direct quotes. I didn’t want them to come back and accuse me of misquoting them.)
A couple people, initially, tried to defend Mr. Newton, tried to tell me that he doesn’t have a history of cheating, despite the facts to the contrary. Some were somewhat reasonable, though they did not share my belief that the NCAA allowed Mr. Newton’s to play in the Sugar Bowl, not because of his innocence, but that they couldn’t bear to lose the revenue a Newton-less game would bring.
But then it had to get personal.
Clearly several of these “defenders” had to accuse me of being at “hater.” By their definition, I guess I am. But a hater really is anyone who isn’t gaga over someone you think is wonderful. And if Newton is rolling up the yards and touchdowns, well, I guess any mention of his lack of character is, well, moronic. At least I got called a moron for not praising the almighty Newton.
Some said I was just “jealous” that Auburn “won” the national championship. (One accused me of being an Alabama fan.) Not really. I think pretty much all of NCAA Division I is corrupt. Auburn is just the one that got the big football cookie. This season another so called “school” will get it.
Then several of these “fans” decided that instead of attacking my argument, they should attack me. A few stalked my Facebook page and saw that I was a teacher. So they made brilliant comments about that. I suppose that not “doing well for myself” means that I make less than Mr. Newton or that I do not have the media attention he has. And I’m a loser for being a teacher.
One guy said, “U must be one perfect man whose never made a mistake in your life. Very typical of people like u.” No sir, not perfect at all. But my mistakes are my own and I try to own up to them. Mr. Newton doesn’t admit to making a mistake. He actually continues to defend his actions and the actions of his family. And lots of people actually think that since he is a good athlete, he must not have done anything wrong. When I disagreed with that notion, I was told my logic was off.
Some of the really bright ones decided to attack my weight. Yes, kids, I am fat. Not a little overweight. Really, really fat. And what these geniuses helped me to see is that since I am obese, I obviously don’t know what I’m talking about. I sure am glad nobody told my the college I attended (WHERE I WENT TO MY FUCKING CLASSES AND DIDN’T CHEAT ON MY FUCKING TESTS) about my weight problem. I would never have gotten that Master’s degree.
The thing is I never attacked Newton as an athlete. He is a good football player. He had a great career at Auburn and Florida and Blinn College. What Cam Newton showed us in his college career is that 1) he is a very good quarterback and 2) he has NO respect for education.
I do have respect for education. I cannot praise a man who used his ability to pursue his athletic goals while mocking the ideals of education. I will continue to question the character of a person who has become the poster child for what is wrong with the NCAA, an emblem of their hypocrisy. If that makes me a loser, then so be it.
But I guess I should stop arguing with these “winners” on Facebook. When will I learn about pearls before swine?

Reading Response: Of Insanity and Religion

Mr. Hitchens, in his Slate article “Rick Perry’s God,” is correct in saying that it is believers who should question Rick Perry’s religious statements, and I am surprised that they do not. I also understand and agree that Perry is only doing the prudent thing in getting himself elected by appealing to religion. It sickens me, but it is what he must do to appeal to those on his side of the political stripper pole.
Of course this appropriation of religion -- MY  RELIGION --, is one of the main reasons why I do not support Perry or any other candidate of his ilk. They use the language of religion to manipulate  an easier and easier to dupe mass of constituents. I do not know if Rick Perry actually believes what he is saying. Concerning the salvation of his soul, it might matter. Concerning the running of the country, it does not. Perry’s track record is the antithesis of practical, practicing Christianity. It seems that many American Christians honestly think that proving one is a Christian consists in the public use of certain words or membership in a particular party. Those believers are deceived, not only by the rhetoric machine, but by Satan. (I’ll leave it to theologians to decipher the difference, if one exists.)
What I take issue with is Hitchens’ typical bombastic name calling which is supposed to be argument. For example, in noting that Perry believes that “those who did not accept Jesus Christ as their personal savior would be going to hell,” Hitchens called the assertion “sheer wickedness and stupidity.” Many atheists have dismissed all claims from religious people (even those having nothing to do with religion) based on the idea that if one is religious, then one is “stupid;” therefore, no other ideas should be considered seriously from that person. But Hitchens goes so far as to say that the religious person is “wicked.”
Many people remind me of how smart Mr. Hitchens is. I don’t doubt it. But his logic in this case is worthy of, well, a politician.
While addressing what would have been one logical fallacy – the post hoc connection between Perry’s public prayers and precipitation in Texas (or a lack thereof) -- Hitchens resorts to another: ad hominem. He then doesn’t have work very hard to convince his audience that any religious person running for office is crazy and should be ignored. That reasoning works only for those who share his puny view of humanity.
Sadly, Mr. Hitchens argues well, in the same article, that Perry is sanest of the religious candidates on the right. That he might be right about this should scare the hell out of us.
But he is wrong about faith, and real people of faith.

Could we at least get a score?

Alright, so it’s very likely that even among die hard fans of FC Dallas, I am in the minority of people who stayed up late Wednesday night to see if rain and lightening would let up in Toronto so that the Champions League game could resume, and I’m  likely in a smaller minority of fans that spent Thursday morning watching the replay of the washed out game via the internet. Okay, I get it. I love a team in a sport that some think is really just played by their under 12 kids. And my obsession might be greater than those that actually know that Dallas has a professional team.
But I am consistently disappointed that ESPN radio in Dallas cannot find space in their Sportscenter updates to provide a brief story or even the score of matches, even the most important ones. As I drove in to work after the game yesterday, I noticed that the bulk of the update was filled with dialogue and filler concerning the beating that the Texas Rangers took at the hands of the Boston Red Sox. Then there was Dallas Cowboy news, something about a guy getting signed for five years and several million dollars, which I’m sure never happens in the world of football.
Look, I know that soccer is less popular than football, basketball, and baseball, and maybe a few other games that are not really sports (don’t get me started on auto racing). And I know that there is a very limited window of time for providing these scores and news headlines. But so much of these “updates” contain material that probably is best left to the shows ESPN broadcasts or just left out altogether. Come on! If the Rangers get beat by more than 10 runs, do we really need to hear Ron Washington tell the world “Well, we got beat. That’s all there is to it.”?
I thought things would change when ESPN started broadcasting Bobby Rhine’s Soccer Today show on Saturday mornings. But no. The link on the website doesn’t even take you to a page with information about the show. I should have known. Last year, when FC Dallas made it to MLS Championship, neither ESPN radio nor the local television news teams could find a minute to mention it.
ESPN needs to quit dismissing the game of soccer, and remember that there are plenty of fans out there that love the game and want to hear about their team. I’m don’t expect the beefheads on the ramble-around-and-say-the-same-thing-for-three-hours commentary shows to cover a soccer story. When soccer is mentioned, it is usually with derision. But how about a score every now and then? How about acknowledgement that Dallas has one of the top teams in the country? Did anyone there notice we were the first U.S. team to win a game on Mexican soil? Did they hear that two of our players were named to the U.S. National team? (Well there is a story about the latter on the website , but I heard no mention of it on the air.)
For now, I’d like to just see some much needed editing in these “updates,” and inclusion of game’s final score.

With Hate Like This, Who Needs Hope?

You told me that I had wasted my vote by casting my ballot for the person I actually believed was best able to run the country. Because that person wasn’t from one of the two political parties, I had, you said, only helped someone else win. A little research proved you were right. So I stopped believing, stopped seeing a reason to vote.
Before that I looked to political leaders who shared my religious ideals and values. Turns out that they didn’t believe in the same Jesus as me, and that if they really did stand for what I stood for (and I have my doubts), they couldn’t really do much about it. But the Jesus they believed in turns its back on the poor, denies education for anyone not in his fraternity, and says that killing foreigners is God’s work. We quote the same Bible, but my Jesus isn’t in theirs.
So after you told me I was wasting my time, I quit voting. Any energy put toward politics was spent in proving that both sides were the same devil in different suits. I believed that there were good people in the world, people who made a difference in their neighborhoods, but that none of these people could serve in government, because no one in governments served the people without expecting a hundredfold return on their investment.
And then a few came along who caused me to question. Just when I thought all was lost, that it was only a matter of time before I had to learn the language of those who conquered our land, a handful came across the sea of fear with a boat. A freaking boat. Your guys had boats, but they were throwing anchors to the drowning and life jackets to those already on their yachts. Some of your guys stood on the shore, told the crowd to get baptized in the sea of fear while their deacons held hoses making sure that sea stayed full.
While politicians were dismantling education, you called me a fool for having an education and supporting someone many other educated people supported. Education has not only been hurt by lack of funding and poor policy and broken promises from all sides of the political spectrum. It has been demonized.
And so I’m back to wondering why I should bother. You see, hate starts all the conversations now. Hate doesn’t disagree or engage in debate. It spews itself violently and dares anyone to stand up against its bile. I’ve spoken out, but having ideas only leads to me be accused of not loving my country. You’ll never know, in fact, how much I do love America. But I for now, I can no longer stand up to the bullies. It’s futile. Keep your damn playground. Nobody plays there anymore.
Take Hope too. You are going to need it.

A Conversation about F Words

My other self said, “You shouldn’t use the F word so much.”
My regular self asked, “Which F word? Fuck? Why not? It is a perfectly fine and useful word.”
Other Self made a face and said, “There are other words you can use. Words that are not so offensive.”
“There are other words,” Regular Self replied. “But what is offensive may be in the ear of the listener. I am offended, for example, at the use of some words that others see as perfectly fit.”
“For example?”
“For example, the way some people use the word freedom. Funny it is an F-word too.”
The eyes of Other Self went wide in dismay. “The word freedom offends you.”
“No. The word does not offend me.”
“But you just said—“
“That the use of the word offends me.”
Other Self pretended to look confused. “You mean you feel just fine about the word, as long as someone doesn’t use it?”
“Sometimes you are a dufus,” I told my other self.
“As are you,” he replied.
“As am I. But more to the point, I am offended when the word is used improperly. Well, that is not true. It rankles when it is used improperly. It offends me when the word is used to manipulate others, often to coerce, through fear –“
“Another F word.”
Regular Self sighed, “Yes, another F word. And often the misuse of the word freedom involves the misuse of the word fear. Shall I continue, or do we plan to interrupt all day?”
“Do go on,” Other Self said.
“The word freedom is often bandied about wildly and used to take away freedom. Actual freedom.”
“And this offends you?” Other Self asked.
“It does,” Regular Self said. “Does it not offend you?”
“The word does not offend me. But I can see how using it this way would offend you, and perhaps, I should be offended also, loving language as I do, and wishing it to be used well and wisely.”
Regular Self knew the Other Self would not give in so easily. He crossed his arms and waited for the next play.
After a moment, Other Self asked: “Would you then agree that many times the word fuck is used improperly, probably most times?”
“Yes. The word is used way too much.”
“By you?”
“By me and others. On the other hand, could it be that the word fuck has many uses?”
“I cannot see that it has any use at all, except to offend.”
“That is a use. And I contend that it is offensive mostly because it is vulgar, and for that reason may be the right word in some occasions. Perhaps you assume that people should not, from time to time, be offended.”
“Why should people be offended?” Other Self asked, bristling at the thought.
“They should not be offended just for offense sake. It seems silly to just throw fucks everywhere in conversation and in dialogue if all you want to do is piss people off. If one gets nothing but a kick out of vexing others, then that person is sick.”
“I think I can agree with that. But I still do not seen why or when people need to be offended.”
“We are offended when we hear or see something distasteful to use, or which insults something about who we are or what we stand for. Hence my offense at the use of freedom to manipulate me into giving up my freedoms. But we are often offended when we hear or see something that goes against even the bad parts of ourselves or the world we live it, and we are made to see that bad in all its ugliness and filth.”
Other Self asked for an example.
“The Bible,” Regular Self said, “states that the cross of Christ is an offense to those who are perishing.”
“To those who do not believe, the crucifixion may be distasteful, offensive,” Other Self responded, trying to take in the idea.
“And go further. The idea of that redemption, that first of all people need to be redeemed, is offensive to some. Second, that it takes the act of God Himself doing all the work, instead of people figuring it out for themselves and doing it themselves, well that is offensive to many as well.”
Other Self smiled. “Alright. I can, sort of, understand this. But the word, fuck, just sounds wrong on the ear.”
“And that may be one reason it should not be used as often as it is. But that the word doesn’t ‘sound right’ or makes polite people uncomfortable is not sufficient reason to say it should never be used.”
“But you are a Christian,” Other Self stated. “Don’t you think that other Christians are due consideration and should not have to hear a word they do not want to hear?”
“No more than others. I do not condone the use of the word in church, in general, because saying fuck in church is not likely to accomplish much. But maybe it could. But this is all beside the point. You beg the question when you imply that once a person is redeemed that she or he has no need, from time to time, to be offended so that they are turned abruptly toward the truth.”
“You know,” Other Self chided, “People won’t say fuck in Heaven.”
Regular Self smiled, “In Heaven no one will be fucked out of their freedom or forced to live in a fearful, fucked up world.”

Bachman Lake

Newly married and newly employed, I once came here to pray, to strum my guitar, to find a bit of peace to start the day, to start what was my new life. The sun was usually just getting up and I was alone except for the joggers on the path behind me or the fishermen minding their business yards away.
Sure there were cars not far away, with unhappy people going down Northwest Highway toward dreaded jobs. I was putting off going to mine. Yes, there were planes going over every few minutes, drowning out the honking ducks, squawking grackles, and the occasional flopping fish.
They all had somewhere to be. I was trying to be somewhere.
Here began my fear of the juxtaposition of nature and the city, or perhaps my fascination with the construction of a kind of nature in the city.
Some twenty-five years later, I’m at Bachman Lake again, killing time. Trying to enjoy the quiet. I read a little at a picnic table, sipping ice tea as young mothers and fathers enjoyed their children at a playground situated between my seat and the parking lot. A squirrel, clearly irritated by my presence, clambered up and down the tree shading me. A duck tried to go under the table. I nervously shooed it away.
I took to a bench near the water’s edge and tried to look at the lake, drink in the peace of its slow movement. I noticed an old Moscovy pretending to hide in the rushes nearby. His red, bumpy face gave him away, but I was not interested in him. I heard young, yellow grasshoppers snapping the short blades behind me and smiled at their play. I heard splashes, but when I turned toward them, all I could see were the ripples.
No doubt there were snakes. Somewhere. Near the bank, in the grass, perhaps on the other side of the tree. I did not see them, and I am glad. I’d like to think God, knowing my fears, would have warned me. That I did not see one of them may mean God protected them.
I tried to look at the water. But I could not keep my eyes away from the houses on the other side, or the businesses, stone silent, but in my mind buzzing and hissing with activity. I couldn’t stop watching the airplanes nosily descend. Sometimes I thought of my father, who worked on planes. Sometimes I thought of my first job at Love Field. I tried, dear Lord, to just look at the lake and not think at all.
I should have talked to You. Or at least made an effort to listen.
After all these years, I’ve still got somewhere (new now) to be. I have still got someone to be.

Class of ‘81

1981 was a long time ago, but I have not forgotten several things. I have not forgotten what it was like to go to high school. I have not forgotten the things that happened to me there.
I have not forgotten the few teachers who dared to make an impact on me. I have tried to forget the rest. I have not forgotten the "counselor" who told me I should not go to college. I have not forgotten not being allowed to join clubs because I wasn't the right religion or because I didn’t play the right sport.
I have not forgotten the friends I made. I have not forgotten the sports I tried to play. I have not forgotten the good times I did have.
I have tried to remember, now that years have past, that everyone feels awkward and out of place in high school, that even those kids that are popular sometimes feel they don't "fit in." Everyone has rough times.
What I cannot remember is what I did or didn't do that would ensure that I would never be invited to a class reunion.

Music Notes – One More Angel

John Patitucci is one of the most gifted and expressive bassists I have ever heard, and lately I’ve been listening to a lot of bass players. In addition to his solo work, Patitucci has played with legends like Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, Michael Brecker and Chick Corea. I recently found One More Angel in the clearance bin, and after listening to it several times, I am happy for the bargain, but sad that such fine music was relegated to a price of two dollars.
Probably my favorite tracks are “Arrival,” “San Michele,” “One More Angel,” and “Snowbound.” On the title piece, the late Michael Brecker plays a such languid, delicious tenor that one might be tempted to forget the overwhelming sadness that informs the tune. Pianist Alan Pasqua and drummer extraordinaire Paul Motian provide timbre for this and everything on the album that is near perfect. There is not one song that failed to make me smile.
The album is also a family affair with Patitucci’s brother on acoustic guitar for two songs and his wife Sachi playing cello on the tender cut “Romance.” Of course it is John Patitucci’s playing and compositions which pull this project together and make it unforgettable. Listen to the solo piece “Sachi’s Eyes” and you should be amazed and delighted.
One More Angel is an intensely personal album. Patitucci writes in his notes about songs which are dedicated to his wife and to two children the couple had lost prior to this project. But though most of the tunes are ballads, none are lethargic or dirge like. There is a good deal of wonder in these songs, and more hope and joy than I have found on even the most recent vocal albums I have listened to lately.

July 4th: A Reflection

I’m sure several of you out there are going to see me as anti-patriotic, and if so, so be it. However, I think something about what we say and what we do on Independence Day, a very important holiday, needs to be reconsidered.
I keep wondering when July Fourth became a holiday to celebrate and honor only those who served in our military. I am not saying we should not honor them, should not be grateful for what they have done, should not ruminate on what it means to have men and women willing to die in our stead. But I do not understand how a holiday about independence became a holiday about the armed forces. That and grilling hot dogs and hamburgers.
Our freedom is unique. However it is not safeguarded only by military might. We should see that it takes a nation of people to make that freedom happen and for that freedom to work.
Consider, for example, that group of men (sorry ladies) we tend to refer to as the Founding Fathers. We have a tendency these days to think of them as a bunch of guys who just sat down and put together the Bill of Rights and Declaration of Independence in one quick, easy draft. But they argued amongst themselves, and worked with and despite many huge differences, to try to forge the documents that would not only define a fledgling nation, but keep that nation from making the mistakes that other countries had made in suppressing freedom. Was the result perfect? No. Did these men have their own agendas? You bet. Did they get it completely right and protect the freedom for all? No, but they helped make it possible for those that did not then have that freedom to eventually obtain it.
And what about the churches, laity and ministers, who work in their communities to help those who have lost a measure of freedom? Sure, there are some zealots out there who have confused the Constitution with the Word of God. But people of faith all over America do a great deal to help feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, and defend those who cannot defend themselves. I believe a great measure of my freedom is protected and ensured by those people, most of whom I will never meet, even though I may not be one of the hungry, homeless, or defenseless. And what about those with no religious affiliation or creed to move them to good works, but who are making the world better by volunteering instead of staying at home watching television, or by working jobs far beneath their ability to earn so that the principles that define this country continue to matter.
Can we also think about the police, firefighters, and medical workers who take care of us, even when we do not know it? When the police catch a criminal, we can certainly see that she/he is protecting my freedom from the “bad guy” who might try to take it away from me or someone I love. But when they do their jobs well, they also help restore faith in the community as a whole, and that faith is a very important component in freedom. When my neighbor’s house is saved from fire or natural disaster, mine is too. When someone is helped by an EMT or paramedic, I am reminded that those who began this nation were fleeing and fighting against the oppression that said you had to be somebody with money or power to be considered worthy of life.
Shouldn’t we also consider teachers as playing an important role in the defense and protection of liberty? While education in the United States does continue to decline, the reasons for that decline are mostly political and financial. It is not as much due to the teachers themselves, most of whom earn a pittance, especially when compared to football coaches, and who often do take their lives in their hands every day in order to bring to the quite unwilling the tools they will need to make democracy work, tools and information that will provide more choices for them in the future. I would say that the promise of those choice is an avenue of freedom worth fighting for. Hopefully, your children are challenged and encouraged to use their brains in ways that go beyond standardized tests and rote answers. It is those kinds of thinkers our country needs for freedom to be worth anything. Otherwise we are training generations of slaves.
These are just a few of the people that come to mind for me today. I’ve left out too many others. And again, I don’t want to give the impression that we should not honor our past and present servicemen and women. But they are not the only ones who are and have been on the front lines for freedom. If they were, we would have been conquered long ago.

Bookmarks – St. John of the Cross: The Poems

I have often been drawn to the poetry of mystics, and my first foray into the world of St. John of the Cross came when I was writing about T.S. Eliot’s “Ash Wednesday” in my long ago undergraduate days. Then I found a handful of poems which were beautiful and nice, but was focused on the “teaching” and “theology” parts, as I was trying to get a paper done.
A few years later, I came across John Michael Talbot’s stark and moving The Lover and the Beloved album. As I was working late shifts during this time, and facing my own “dark nights,” the album and the words brought great comfort and a measure of peace, or at least helped me to focus on the source of that peace.
Recently, I found this book in my local Half Price Books,  and felt it needed to be in my library. I am glad I did.
I know so little Spanish, I feel quite unqualified to speak on the accuracy of Roy Campbell’s translation. I like that this edition is bilingual, so when I do learn more of the poet/mystic’s language, I can read his words as he wrote them.
That said, readers are likely to find the poems speak to the desire for connection with God (or God as one might think of Him, for non-believers) in a way that is accessible and, mostly, artful. Even if the reader is not Catholic, the verses communicate that one’s most significant actions are those in search of and union with the Beloved Lord. The verses, however, are not didactic. We are looking, most often, at what seems deeply personal and universal at the same time.
I do have two criticisms. First, the nine “Romances",” did not do much for me. Perhaps the translation is a bit stale (or too formal). Maybe the poems are too sing-songy. Maybe I didn’t get to these at the right time of my life or in the right frame of mind. But I did not find these nearly as poignant as the other poems. I do think, however, many readers have enjoyed and are going to enjoy these more than I did.
Second, I am not too keen on the titles. P.J. Kavanagh, in his fine and enlightening introduction, notes that one “beautiful poem” is “entitled, unfortunately ‘Verses written after an ecstasy of high exaltation.’ How unlike the humility of the poem is the claim of the title.” I think this might be said for several pieces in the volume.
However, this should not distract from what is, largely, a meaningful collection. It was, and shall be, a stirring read.

Though not from Mr. Campbell’s translation, this link will take you to several of the poet’s best and well known verses.

Music Notes – What’s It All About

Pat Metheny’s One Quiet Night won the Grammy Award for Best New Age album the year it was released. While most people who listen to Metheny’s music, heck, most people who listen to music, would not see him as a New Age performer, I can see why the disc was classified there. The songs were, as many extended extemporary improvisations are, mostly reflective, meditative in mood.

I say this to contrast that project with Metheny’s latest: What’s It All About, the great guitarist and composer’s first album of all “cover tunes.” Here, while the mood and tone may seem to the same to some listeners, this sucker is pure jazz.

Most of the tunes are played with the baritone guitar used on One Quiet Night, but a handful are not. The opening track, Paul Simon’s “The Sound of Silence,” is performed with Metheny’s 42-string Pikkaso, and sounds so good, I keep wanting a whole album of songs devoted just to that instrument. A nylon string guitar is used on what is probably my favorite piece on the album, the Beatles’ classic “And I Love Her.”

What makes this disc so interesting, listen after delicious listen, is that we actually have Metheny’s voice, for lack of a better word, on these classic, mostly pop songs. Tunes like “Rainy Days and Mondays” and “That’s the Way I Always Heard It Should Be” retain the longing and angst of the original melodies, but seem brighter, warmer, like that second cup of coffee. And with songs like “Cherish,” “Alfie,” and “Betcha By Golly, Wow,” Metheny solos so well around the main melody that the listener gets more than the same old sandwich with garnish on the plate to make it seem pretty. These are seasoned tunes made fresh with ingredients that could only be found in Pat Metheny’s musical kitchen.
One disappointment for me is Metheny’s treatment of “Garota de Ipanema” (“The Girl from Ipanema”). I like the idea of taking it out of its traditional bossa nova setting, and I don’t mind putting some space between phrases, but this version is so slow that I barely recognized the tune. That doesn’t keep the result from being pretty and listenable, however.
Those who download the album from iTunes get a couple of bonuses worth noting. First, there is the digital booklet providing some information about the album. Second and more important, one gets two extra songs: “’Round Midnight” and “This Was Nearly Mine.” I was not familiar with the latter, but Metheny’s rendition of the Thelonious Monk classic is one of the most interesting and haunting I have heard in a very long time.
If you come to What’s It All About looking for elevator music or new age versions of some familiar old songs, expect to be pleasantly disappointed. If you are looking for something tasty and cool for your summer listening, this is perhaps the best album for your needs.

Why does it take so long for you to grade my paper, Mr. Morris?

From time to time, I have to answer this question from a student. It isn’t always worded this way. Sometimes the student is more polite; sometimes the student is not. And I do understand the oftentimes crippling desire to know, not whether one has done well or poorly, but just to know the results of a test or a paper.
Few students really want my feedback. Many say they do, but most don’t. They want the score. For some, it is as if they cannot move on with life until they get it.
I say this also knowing that each semester I have a larger percentage of students who do not even bother to look at their scores, much less feedback. But for now, I want to focus on those that want that number. A number that they often read as having some sort of meaning I did not intend. But that problem also is for another time.
Some students are rather, shall we say, self-absorbed, and some students have very little willingness to use actual reasoning. They argue that since I put deadlines on them, I should have a deadline for returning their work. Some of these students, when reminded that I may have as many as 150 students to grade work from, fail to see the relevance to their lives. Again, that feeling that they need to know the score is so strong, that they are blind to rational argument. And math.
I could list the usual reasons that I rarely can return a set of papers the very next class period. But I won’t. It would not be helpful. However, I thought I should list, in no particular order, a few answers to the question that seem to have been added recently.

• Plagiarism, part I. While I have more tools at my disposal to catch cheaters, I have more people cheating, and I cannot just check the papers of those I suspect of getting unauthorized help. In addition, depending on the course and the circumstances, I need to take different actions with plagiarism, so that I am not just some sort of academic policeman, but still teaching. That means I have to spend time not only checking for plagiarism, but determining whether the incident is a matter of real dishonesty, or a matter of ignorance, or somewhere in between.  Wilful ignorance is a very strong force.
• Plagiarism, part II. As noted before, I have more students cheating. For some assignments, I now need to check every single student in the class, not just those papers that look hinky. At least once a year now, I find a student who has plagiarized that no one would suspect of wrongdoing. In addition, I have found students who cheat on minor assignments as well as major ones. For example, in my American Literature class, I routinely find answers on reading quizzes have been taken from some site on the web, when reading the story might well have been easier. In the past couple of days, I have caught two students who submitted plagiarized posts to online discussion boards, an assignment that requires very little work to pass.
• I have a life too. While many a teacher, years ago, would eat a quick bite at dinner and disappear to a quiet room to grade stacks of papers while the rest of the family relaxed, or would bring a sheaf of tests to soccer practices and ballet rehearsals, many of us teachers have decided to actually be more involved in the lives of our children, and spend a few minutes each day with our spouses. So call me a hypocrite when I lament that the world spends too much time watching television. Some days, the only time I am going to get to sit next to my wife is during an episode of Law and Order, Criminal Intent. And guess what? Many of us go to church, join clubs, play sports, and even hassle our siblings on Facebook.
• We did not go to school to learn how to write numbers in boxes. That means our jobs require more of us than looking through the paper than marking or typing a couple of digits that will inflate your self-esteem (another topic for another time). Especially that paper you spent a whole two hours writing. Most of us do more than ramble stuff you don’t plan to remember for three hours a week. We go to meetings, workshops, and sometimes classes of our own. We talk to others in the profession. We make plans and tweak them so that we can do our jobs even better.
• Plagiarism, part III. When I catch someone cheating, I have to do something about it. Call it an odd tick in my nervous personality. But I actually have to write something to the student involved. I can’t just say, “Here’s an F for cheating. See ya next semester!” For legal reasons, I have to show how I know the material doesn’t belong to the student. I also may have to provide my own boss with something in writing in case that student wishes to take his or her cheating to a high level and go over my head. All that takes time, so the one student who doesn’t write his own paper or who gets her test answers from sources outside the proper channels of study is taking that time from the rest of the class who chose to suck it up and do the best they could with whatever they managed to learn.
• Email. Sometimes I try to convince myself to schedule email reading times, so that it doesn’t interrupt other parts of my job. But since many of my classes are online, and all my courses have some sort of online component, and since it is 2011, not 1911, I feel I must read and answer every email sent to me by every student. That is how we communicate. And I’d say that nine times out of ten it is what I would call “reasonable communication.” A student asks a question or makes a simple request, and I respond, hopefully with something that helps that student. After all, that is what I am here for, right? But that tenth person uses email for a multitude of personal attacks, complaints about the reading or the due dates, arguments about how I can’t really grade an opinion because an opinion can’t be wrong, arguments about how lifting something from Wikipedia is not plagiarism, and so forth and such forth. Some students carry on lengthy, days long conversations with me. And heaven forbid I fail to answer the tenth student quickly enough to suit them.
• Bad writing. Sometimes, even though I do not mark every single error in a paper, the writing is so devastatingly poor that I have to work very hard and long to decipher what is being said. I’ve instituted a five error rule where I stop reading papers with more than five sentence-level mistakes that a student (depending on level) should not make, and then return the essay to be revised before I will grade it. But that has only helped me a little bit (and actually requires a rather long set of instructions to be sent to the student). Much of the poor writing comes in emails. And those cheeky monkeys really want me to respond. Apparently, a note that says, “Your email is incomprehensible. Please rewrite it so that I’ll understand what you mean” is a blow to their self-esteem (another topic for another time).

Okay.  I haven’t listed everything, but enough for now. And sure, I could probably save myself a lot of time (and grief!) if I didn’t have the apparently silly notion that academic dishonesty is bad or if I just read papers and put grades on them (since most students don’t ever read what their teachers write anyway) or if I didn’t take my kids to soccer practice or if I didn’t kiss my wife. I could do that.
But then my students would be out in the workplace, and making babies, and running for office without at least one person telling them that despite their sterling qualities, there is room for improvement. And I’d have to get a job doing something that paid more and gave me time to really help the community: like serving on the school board.

Reading Response – Of Kings, Villains, and Haters

I must take issue with Robert Weintraub and his article “Heat Sensitive: Why I’m rooting for LeBron James – and you should too,” published today at Slate. Mr. Weintraub seems to think he is going against most in America in trying to build a case for liking the Heat and the man most demonized during their run of success. But he’s not. He’s echoing what almost every broadcaster on the ESPN/Disney/ABC network (outside of those in Dallas and possibly Cleveland) says and his argument misses some very key facts.
Weintraub states that he “winced” at James’ The Decision program. Most of us didn’t wince. Real sports fans shuddered that sports had sunk to such a low level as to market and endorse (even after the fact, Mr. Wilbon!) a television show where a single player lifts himself above the sport (with the support of ESPN), and holds the basketball world hostage, all the while trying to portray himself as not merely a great basketball player, but the essence of the game itself. Repeat: we did not wince; we shuddered.
Michael Wilbon and others claim that people either have or will forget The Decision. Some will. I won’t. For me, though, it has been about how Mr. James (a player I very much supported in the past) has handled himself since that point. He calls people who criticized him “haters,” and refuses to admit that the show was childish and self-serving. So LeBron, what is it when you criticize someone’s actions? Loving? Grow up.
But what really gets me riled is when people like Weintraub assume that the criticism LeBron James has received is because of his actual decision to leave the Cavaliers and play in Miami. Weintraub writes, “LeBron put in his time in Cleveland, played out his contract, and chose to go elsewhere, just like millions of other careerists out there. End of story.”
But it isn’t the end of the story. I didn’t hear a lot of noise when Chris Bosh left Toronto. Sure, he’s not the caliber of player of James, but he did it for the same reason: the opportunity to play on a high caliber team and win a championship. The issue, Weintraub and so many miss, is not just in the way James left, but what he has done with himself since then. Had he made the move to Miami, most likely the only people on James’ little “list” would be the people of Cleveland.
Had all this happened when James was still 18 or 19, I think many people would give the guy a pass. Maybe we’d all think, “Hey, he’s just a kid.” But LeBron James isn’t a child star anymore. He’s a grown man, an adult punk.
In a recent column, Rick Reilly gives several reasons fans should root for the Mavericks in these Finals. One of my favorites is this: “Pull for Dallas because Nowitzki stayed with his team, never took his talents anywhere but to the damn gym every day.” Amen to that and Go MAVS!