In a scripted segue that requires Ms. McCain to refer to her notes (thankfully, they were not written on her hand — the horror! [/sarcasm]), she says:

McCain: Congressman Tancredo went on TV and he was the first opening speaker and he said, ‘People who could not even spell the word vote or say it in English put a committed socialist ideologue in the White House whose name is Barack Hussein Obama.’ And then he went on to say that people at the convention should have to pass literacy tests in order to be able to vote in this country, which is the same thing that happened in the 50’s to prevent African Americans from voting. It’s innate racism and I think it’s why young people are turned off by this movement. And I’m sorry, but revolutions start with young people, not with 65-year-old people talking about literacy tests and people who can’t say the word ‘vote’ in English.

Granted, in his speech, Tancredo took some potshots at John McCain, so Meghan was probably pissed off about that. Still, I’m glad to finally see someone within the conservative ranks calling out the Tea Party for what it is: a seclusionist, isolationist, xenophobic, racist, nationalistic movement motivated by fear — not pride or patriotism — and the desire for status quo. Frankly, I hope the producers of The View hire her and jettison that other blond host whose only contributions are talking points from O’Reilly’s show that aired the night before.

*

(I fear that my post-football depression is going to manifest itself in more political rants. Great.)

Given these layers of bureaucracy, it’s no wonder that last week there was a wee skirmish, about which I will say no more. But…bureaucracy!*

*In other news, the punctuation gods have tasked me with desiging and angry exclamation point design. I’m working on it. Here’s my prototype:

The word Fascism has now no meaning except in so far as it signifies “something not desirable.” The words democracy, socialism, freedom, patriotic, realistic, justice have each of them several different meanings which cannot be reconciled with one another. In the case of a word like democracy, not only is there no agreed definition, but the attempt to make one is resisted from all sides. It is almost universally felt that when we call a country democratic we are praising it: consequently the defenders of every regime claim that it is a democracy, and fear that they might have to stop using the word if it were tied down to any one meaning. Words of this kind are often used in a consciously dishonest way. That is, the person who uses them has his own private definition, but allows his hearer to think he means something quite different.

From “Politics and the English Language,” 1946 — but really timeless.

Hell.

Teaching three writing classes is not doable, or at least not for me. The only way I have a single nostril above water right now is because my research writing class is in the research phase; even that is slated to end this week as the annotated bibliographies come in. Of course part of the stress is teaching two new classes, where I have to devise new lesson plans (oddly, it’s the daily grammar lessons that are sapping my will to live…hmm, tangent:

I learned this teaching ESL learners: if you don’t teach grammar, students complain that they don’t learn grammar. If you do teach grammar, students either don’t apply what you’ve learned (because writing is more complicated that sample sentences on an overhead projector), or they don’t care, or they believe they are the exceptions who may abuse grammar because they think they know better. Which they don’t. In my experience, the only way to learn grammar is to use grammar, and revise until you learn how to use it correctly. I don’t know how to teach this effectively.).

Anyway. This is week five, I think, so we’re nearly halfway through. That does not, however, in any way help me get started on what needs to be done this week. It’s a strangely paralytic feeling, knowing how much needs to be done and not being able to actually summon the strength to do it, then stressing about the mounting stress, then imagining my dad saying, “Quit fiddling around and get started,” which only further stymies my will to live.

And the water, I can feel it seeping into that last remaining nostril.

###

Edit: five hours later, I have more or less gotten my shit together, have quit feeling quite so sorry for myself, and am … er, don’t remember how this sentence was going to end, as I’m not fixated on whether “gotten” is a word. Okay, it is. Life can go on.

###

Edit No. 2: six hours later, I am finished; better yet, the last few papers were great!

Thanks a lot. You’re a real credit to your organization.

Anyway, I gladly accepted the gift. My grandparents enjoyed collecting the finer things in life: gems and crystals, pottery, jewelry (which of course they never wore, being staunch E.G. White-thumping Adventists), and I assumed that this teapot was a treasure they had picked up on one of their many travels, perhaps in China or, given the design of the pot, England. So today, as I beheld the pile of grading ahead of me, I decided the only way through this involved tea.

I lifted down the pot and took awhile to examine it. It is ceramic and cream-colored, with a wicker-like texture (the kind you may have seen in wedding cakes frosted back in the 1980s). On its front are a few pink, nondescript flowers clearly envisioned by a ceramic artist who spent most of his time indoors. I would hazard that the flowers are something of a cross between roses and camelias, with perhaps the stamen of hibiscus thrown in for artiness.

I am very careful whenever I handle this teapot, as it has an elegant spout that pours well (something that can not be said for every other teapot I’ve owned) and I don’t want to chip any part of the squat little thing. Yet today, as I rinsed it carefully in the sink, when I turned it over I noticed the following inscription on the bottom:

So much for a family heirloom. Now instead of the spirit of my dearly departed grandmother inspiring me to finish grading, all I can think about is how overpriced and ugly nearly every Teleflora arrangment is that I’ve seen. And given the date on the stamp — 1985 — this was probably sent as a gift to my grandmother just after she’d been diagnosed with incurable breast cancer. Thanks a lot, fate.

Substantially, the post is really the sweetest on this notable topic. I agree with your conclusions and will thirstily look forward to your forthcoming updates. Just saying thanks will not just be sufficient, for the fantasti c* clarity in your writing. I will right away grab your rss feed to stay abreast of any updates. Pleasant work and much success in your business efforts!

*[ironic sic]

p.s. it was in response to the snuggie haiku poetry. shiny!

Well, that may be, but I don’t think so. I’m beginning to see climate science not as a science with a defined (or definable) truth, but rather as a developing and evolving truth, much like a wiki. To take that metaphor further, imagine that the “climate change” Wikipedia article is just beginning to be written, and there are an awful lot of smart people involved. But, like all people, they have biases, beliefs, and politics that come into play, even though most strive to leave them at the door. The point we’re at is the nasty editing wars where accusations are hurled here and there, where people feel the dichotomous pull to one side or the other, even though there is a large and poorly defined area in the middle. There is not Truth, not yet, even though we’re working on it. Some of us feel we can dimly see where it’s leading, and others boldly plunge down that path, blind to obstacles and Reason and so forth. Others dig in their heels and refuse to budge. You see where this mangled metaphor is headed.

Remember when J Harlen Bretz thought the Pacific Northwest had been formed by catastrophic floods and everyone laughed at him? Truth wins out, if given time and energy. We’re just not to the point where we can quite see what that will be.

NFL playoffs
Cursing Chargers and Cowboys
Snuggie me closer

Until, oh, about 6:53 a.m. this morning I thought the class was from 7:30 to 9 a.m. Fortunately, I guess, it’s always been a nightmare of mine, missing the first day of class as a teacher, so after sleeping in a bit, making a cup of coffee at 6:45, and sitting down to print off a roster, I happened to notice the class time: 7 to 8:20 a.m.

WTF.

I said some bad words and there was a great flurry of coats and scarves and keys and papers and running, and it is very fortunate that we live on this side of town. I made it with about a minute to spare.

Always good to start things off on the right foot, I say.

Well, I probably will make it: I’ll probably meet the challenge, if barely, because that’s what I do: when I was taking three graduate school classes and teaching two and commuting from here to there, I managed. But last quarter, teaching only one class — it almost kicked my butt. Not because it was hard, but because it was so different, and I had to start anew on so much pedagogy. This quarter is the first time in my entire three-year teaching career where I’m finally teaching the same class twice in a row, and I hope to reach the point where my class prep is at an absolute minimum — reusable assignments made ahead of time — and I can instead focus on my students and their writing.

Here are my goals for the quarter:

• Minimal daily assignments — less busywork and less for me to grade
• Return to rubrics so students have clear goals and I have a clear framework for assessment
• Delve more deeply into readings
• Focus on pragmatic writing skills, including grammar (oh, I can imagine the gnashing of teeth from some comp people!)
• Convey the idea of research to a population unable to actually conduct research

I say the following honestly: I am often a mediocre teacher, and I want to be a good teacher. I will never be inspirational, I’m sure, because that gene doesn’t grow on my family tree, but if I can provide clear, straightforward instruction and advice that my students use, and if they go on to write well and think clearly, then I will have done my job.

For example, I recently read of a person who died that she was now “sleeping in Jesus.” I get it, but I don’t like it. Looking at that literally, it’s (a.) creepy and (b.) impossible, as if one regressed Benjamin Button-style to reimplant as an embryo on someone’s uterus. The phrase I think was meant was that she was “sleeping in Jesus’ arms,” which to me is a lot more peaceful and sensible (in a metaphorical way, anyway), the way many would like to imagine falling asleep and awakening.

Yet the prepositional disturbance that is “in Jesus” is prevalent in much religious rhetoric: meant to calm and assuage, it instead sounds eery and mindless. Take, for example, the following phrases:

Victory in Jesus: Would you ever say “Victory in Napoleon” or “Victory in George W. Bush”? Probably not, and not just because the latter was a dismal failure. “Victory over death through faith in Jesus” would perhaps be more accurate, so why not say it? Does the shortcut help anyone not already persuaded to understand?

Joy in Jesus: this is just incomplete. Joy in Jesus’…what? Life? Death? Sacrifice? Pick your object. Or better yet, rephrase your sentence: “Jesus gives me joy.”

New life in Jesus: Again, creepy, suggestive of pregnancy. Rephrase.

Of course, the problem with clarifying your rhetoric so that it makes sense grammatically and to a constituency less familiar with traditional religious verbiage is that you may end up making yourself less clear to the constituency that is educated “in Jesus.”

Well, to plagiarize that one singer, no one said it would be easy.

Apple Bran Muffins

1.5 c bran cereal
.5 c whole wheat flour
1 c all-purpose flour
.25 c brown sugar
1 T baking powder
.75 c apple sauce
1 egg
2 apples, peeled, cored, coarsely chopped
Optional: 2 T cinnamon sugar sprinkled on top

Mix dry ingredients. Mix wet ingredients. Combine. Add apples last. Do not overmix. Bake @ 375 for 25-35 minutes.

Vegan option: 1.25 c apple juice instead of apple sauce + egg

Beer Bread

1.5 c all purpose flour
.5 c whole wheat flour
1.25 c rolled oats (not instant oats)
1 t salt
1 T brown sugar
3 T honey
1 12-oz beer*
3 T melted butter

Mix dry ingredients. Add beer. (Beer foamy.) Mix just until same consistency all over. Pour/scoop into greased bread pan. Pour melted butter over top. Bake @ 375 for 25-30 minutes. Bread is done when a toothpick comes out clean.

*Different flavors of beer will change the flavor of the bread. If you like sweet bread, use a really light, watery beer such as Bud Light. If you like a dark and hearty bread, use stout. If you like a bitter bread, use porter.

Apple Streusel

Streusel topping

.5 c brown sugar
.5 c flour
.25 c butter, softened
1 c pecans, chopped

Filling

7-9 apples, peeled, cored, sliced
.25 c sugar
.25 c flour
.25 c apple juice (optional)
2 t cinnamon (or whatever your preference)

Combine filling. Pour into greased pie pan. Combine streusel topping with pastry blender until roughly pea-shaped. Spread topping over apples (try to make it even). Bake @ 350 for 40 minutes (less time if apples finely sliced, more if apples are thicker chunks).

Previously, I have posted my Apple Pancake recipe. Currently, I’m making Dutch Apple Bread. I have no idea how it’ll turn out, but the batter tasted like a caramel apple and somehow I don’t think that can be bad.

Two. There is really no excuse — NONE — for not taking credit or debit cards in this day and age. Sure, I carry $10-15, but I don’t carry $30, so when your service is $30, you should take the damn card.

Three. There is no reason to license a dog every year. What a fucking racket.