Making "excellence predictable"

A great piece about Spoon from a list of the top 10 bands of the 2000s ... they're #3


Mr. Kyle Sparks, author of the brief review, writes:
That deceptively cookie-cutter persona is predicated on the fact that Spoon emotes a different kind of reflection. They don’t treat their music as catharsis, but rather as a document of their cathartic behavior. On one of the decade’s most perfect songs, Girls Can Tell’s “Anything You Want,” lead singer Britt Daniel whimpers, “If there’s anything you want, come on back ’cause it’s all still here / I’ll be in the back room drinking my half of the beer.” What follows is the kind of resolution/retreat that is ostensibly happening in Daniel’s back room, bouncing from optimism to fatalism with inebriated indecision.

And while the deep subject matter might seem compromising to their airy pop, it actually gets right to the heart of Spoon’s definitive tone of masculinized romanticism. Their minimalism allows them to be one degree removed from everything, an isolated third party that can objectively weigh in on its own affairs. Daniel and Co. are merely vessels for romanticism, not attached directly enough to be considered emo, but close enough to the action to be able to dictate it accurately.


p.s. Last May, I had to drive to Brenham to attend spring graduation. I listened to "Anything You Want" all the way there and all the way back. It's 50 miles away. That's a lotta plays. Weird, yes, but it's a great song. I was trying to memorize it, and now I do have it memorized. It's a great starting place for the novice Spoon fan.

p.p.s. I wish I was attending the Spoon show in La Jolla, California this weekend. With a name like "Holiday Hootenanny," I expect nothing less than total fun.

Knock out

Annie's loose tooth has been lingering for months. I may be imagining this but I think it was starting to loosen back in September. We've tugged and pulled without success. I offered to tie it to a doorknob (hoping all the while that she wouldn't accept that form of help), but Annie preferred to wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. Still, nothing. I looked in her mouth on Sunday morning and was horrified to see her adult tooth halfway grown. It looked like a broken picket 3 millimeters behind the loose baby tooth. "That tooth needs to come out today," I said.

Fast forward to Sunday evening. Annie and Graham were playing their usual Sunday Night Crazy Game wherein they get totally worked up and have enormous difficulty settling back down in time for bedtime, and I was reading something. SNCG is amusing, yes, but worrisome too, so I kept an eye on the frenzy level.

"Ow, Graham punched me," Annie squealed.
"It was just for fun," Graham said, "But I think I just felt her tooth fall out."
"What?" she squealed again. "My tooth is out?"
Sure enough, a thorough tongue check revealed a bloody hole. Where could that tooth be? Graham got down on his hands and knees to find the tooth. It was under the couch resting creepily next to a toy mouse the kitten chases.

Annie was thrilled with the blood and the hole and the tooth. She wrapped up the tooth in scotch tape then carefully cut away the scotch tape a few moments later. She decided to put the tooth in a ziploc bag for safekeeping under the pillow and then spent several minutes arranging and rearranging its placement. Then she decided she had to do a "silly picture" (our family-favorite Mac app) with her missing tooth. Graham and  Knight joined the picture, and we all agreed that our cat looks like a feline freak in this image!

"Do I write a note to the tooth fairy?" she asked hopefully.

"Usually the tooth fairy just senses the tooth's whereabouts," I told her.

Later that night, I checked my purse, glad that I had withdrawn some cash on Friday, and realized that I only had $5s and $10s. Usually our tooth fairy leaves $1. Would a higher amount set a pricey precedent?  A little note explaining that a child's First Tooth is worth more and that subsequent teeth would fetch $1 each neatly solved that problem.

"Is that your handwriting?" asked Graham in the morning as he pored over the note like some kind of professional handwriting specialist.

"Who wants ice cream on his oatmeal?" I sang out and he dashed to the kitchen.

Leaving on a jet plane

I am doing so much better with flying. On my Thanksgiving flights, I only felt nervous when we hit turbulence. The take-offs didn't bother me much, especially on the flight from IAH to MSP - it was as smooth as buttah. I didn't cry once. (A new record!) On the return flight, the assigned plane was much much smaller, and having to crawl back to my seat on my hands-and-knees did give me a little pause. Smaller planes fly at a lower altitude and often experience higher levels of turbulence because of it. Instead of three seats on either side of aisle, there were two. Also the overhead compartments were toddler sized. Those compartments were so small that no one could carry on their carry-ons. We had to leave them outside the plane, a last minute graveyard of pink-tagged black bags. I had the foresight to grab my laptop and magazine before they wrenched the bag from my hands. Turns out I wouldn't need either item. Turns out I wouldn't have the chance to look at either item. Instead, I spent most of the ... make that ... all of the flight talking to Doug*.

Doug and I were seated in the last row - Row 20 - and on the side of the aisle that did not have a window. Every other row on this baby jet had a window, but where a window should have been, there was only nubby white plastic and a sort of pushed-out shape that could have held a window but did not. Also, in the back row, seats do not recline. Fine. Double also, in the back row, one's armrest becomes the airplane bathroom waiting area. Not so fine. Several times I found myself squeezed between a rear and a Doug place.

Doug is a large man. Doug's meaty leg was stretched where my leg should have stretched. Instead, I spent most of the flight pressed against the aisle-side armrest. He had gallantly taken the non-window seat, settled into his tight throne and held court in the sky. I mostly listened and wished desperately I could take written notes.

The task of condensing three hours spent with this strange, paradigm-shifting redneck may be beyond my writerly talents. How to capture the essence of Doug? A list? A bulleted list? A lengthy narrative? Snippets of dialogue? How about a mish-mashed combo?

My nose immediately picked up on the smell of beer when I took my seat. It wasn't long before he confirmed his pre-flight drinking. "I'm sorry but I got so wasted on Friday night that I had to have some drinks now just to calm down the headache. I was kinda hoping to catch some of the Vikings game in the airport but it don't start til once we're up in the air. But I had some beers anyway."

Some? Friday night? We flew out on Sunday. The man was practicing some kind of cellular aromatherapy on me. I do not judge, I merely observe, and then I cover my nose a little bit.

"Do you mind if I chew?" he asked me a little while later in a whisper, after leaning all the way over the armrest and seat to my ear. What could I say? (Well, I could have said no, but I didn't want to be rude.)

"Erin, here's the thing. I do not smoke. Well, I don't smoke unless I'm also drinking. That's just my rule. But I do chew a little bit. It's a bad habit. This can here's $5.00. But I do make it last. I will make this thing last a long time." And here I was hoping he'd chew it a bit and then spit it all out. No, he was going to make it last all the way to Texas. And he did.

There was a moment of considered silence after he placed the wad inside his lip, and then he turned to me and said very sincerely and pointedly (Doug has lovely eyes with feminine, lush eyelashes): "I would give all this up if I could marry the right woman."

We chatted about the Vikings. I asked him how he felt about Brett Favre joining the franchise this season. His jaw dropped: "You know who Brett Favre is?" he asked me in a stunned voice. "Seriously? You've heard of Brett Favre?" To Doug, I said yes. To myself, I said, Yeah, I live on earth. How about you?

I considered sharing that snarky thought but then thought better of extending the Favre conversation with Doug. But with you, I share my pet peeve. I HATE the way people say Favre's last name. Not sure about the linguistic roots of this consonant reversal but when people say /FAR vuh/, I cringe. It should be /Fahvr/ or something slightly French-ier.

"I hated Favre as much as the next Vikings fan," Doug intoned. "But man, he's doing great. I think it's cause he got sober. He was so drunk in Green Bay that he drove all over the roads. He's cleaned up though, and I love him."

Doug is from Minnesota but has lived in Texas for 8 years. He has a passion for both states. I suppose this shared connection is what kept me listening to Doug the duration of the flight. I too share a love for both places.

In the new year, he is going to Iraq to work for a giant conglomerate operating heavy machinery. "You've HEARD of Kellogg, Brown & Root?" he asked incredulously. Again, to myself, I said, 'Yeah, I live in Texas. KBR is a big player on the gulf coast. I've also heard of Schlumberger, AirLiquide, Exxon, Chevron, Texaco, Shell, and so forth, Doug.' I suppose that chunk o' petroleum/engineering/refinery knowledge comes from so many trips to Baytown, but still, I was starting to feel like Doug had a low threshold for being impressed. Should I tell him that I breathe through gills in my neck, Kevin-Costner-Waterworld-style?

All this talking about Vikings and beer and DWIs turned into an unlikely missionary discussion too. In Mormon lore, the plane talk is one of those familiar tales. (Remember the story of Gene R. Cook meeting Mick Jagger on a plane?) Somehow I mentioned to Doug that I don't drink alcohol, never have.

"Not even a margarita?" he asked, again incredulous. "Not - even - a - margarita? Not even a margarita? NOT even a margarita?"

(Sir, do you take me for some kind of margarita-swilling TexMex diva? The answer is no.)

"I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints," I told him. "We do not drink alcohol."

"Who?"

"I am a Mormon," I shouted. The last row in a plane is very loud, which is why I shouted. But in the moment I blurted out my religious denomination, the ACs/air units took a breather and it became strangely silent. I'm sure many people heard me in this rare quiet moment and then wondered, "Why is that Mormon shouting her identity by the bathroom door?" Others may have decided to avoid using the plane facilities for fear they might encounter the shouting Mormon.

"Oh! You're the church that doesn't believe in bikinis, right?"

Huh? I shook my head perplexedly. Yeah and no. Wearing two-piece suits is commonly frowned upon, sure, but I wouldn't hold up bathing suit modesty as our defining doctrine.

"I knew a girl with really long hair and skirts," Doug said. "She could never wear a bikini. She looked so weird when we went swimming," he continued. (Considering that Doug grew up in MN like me, I doubted that she looked that weird. We aren't exactly Palm Beach up in Loon Land and much of the summer swimming that takes place happens in muddy lakes or small community pools.)

"She was probably Pentecostal if she couldn't cut her hair," I noted.
"Sorry, I've never met a Mormon before," he responded excitedly. "That is crazy. What do you believe?"

I took a deep breath and was reminded the counsel of our stake president at a recent conference: Keep it simple. Turns out I had to keep it really simple because the pilot got on the P.A. to announce the score of the Vikings game. Doug cheered. It was 0-0.

"When Jesus Christ was on the earth, he established a church," I told Doug. "The early Christians had apostles, for example. That church was eventually destroyed. There was an apostasy of belief. Over a thousand years later, Joseph Smith received a revelation and founded a church in the same pattern as the early Christian church. That is the church to which I belong," I finished with conviction.

"So no bikinis and no drinking?" Doug sounded like he was starting to get interested!

"Sometimes people know us because they have seen our full-time missionaries. Young men. White shirts and ties."

"Oh, yeah. I've seen those guys. Really nice guys. No beer?"

"No beer, Doug. But we don't need it. We have a lot of fun. I love being a member."
To this, Doug smiled and reapplied his chapstick.

Here are a few interesting tidbits I learned about Doug during the long, long flight to Houston:

* he drives a Ford F350 - this is the largest, extended-est pick-up truck around.
* he owned some ranch land in the hill country near Austin but sold it since he would be leaving the country.
* he once saw a cow drown in the mud. He helped his friend then toss that cow's carcass into a corpse pile in an empty corner of the ranch. ("The drought's been hard on us, Erin!")
* he adores Texas country music ("You ever heard of Kevin Fowler? Jackson Taylor? Jamey Johnson?" he listed. "I hate this Nashville pop. Taylor Swift ain't no Loretta," said Doug, and I wholeheartedly agreed with that statement!). He also made me listen to multiple tracks on his MP3 player. (What's the etiquette? I didn't put the ear bud IN my ear but simply held it close. The roaring of the plane's engines made it nigh unto impossible to catch much of these tunes. I simply nodded and smiled at him.)
* he wants to earn tons of money in Iraq and then open up a Texas-style bar in Minnesota. ("I'm going to serve moose burgers. They are so tasty. Have you ever tried them?" he asked. I just shook my head and kept the gagging to myself.)
* he made a fancy stars & stripes cowboy hat shortly after 9/11 and then Charlie Daniels asked Doug for the hat after a concert. Doug declined to share the hat with Mr. Daniels, country music legend, even though he went backstage in hopes of connecting with one of his idols, but now regrets hanging on to the bejeweled hat, because, as he says, "I could have made like a million dollars by now."
* he is FB friends with Roger Creager and is trying to help in Creager's efforts to save some landmark country dive in Austin ("I'll do whatever it takes," said Doug passionately).
* he likes to hand out thank you cards to vets and keeps dozens of them in his wallet. Last time he did this (Friday night), 10 vets bought him drinks as thank yous for the thank you. This is how he got painfully drunk two days before leaving Minnesota.
* his best friend in Texas - a woman - is gay.
* his best friend in Minnesota is a 55-year-old diabetic Native American who loves apple pie.
* he likes to go hunting with his Muslim buddy and enjoys learning about other parts of the world.
* he wanted Hillary Clinton to win the presidency in '08 ("She is tough and I like that in a lady!").
* he thinks the war policy in Iraq is a mistake and can't wait to talk to soldiers on the ground about their view of military policy. ("Erin, I cannot stand G.W.B," he said, sounding almost exactly and ironically like G.W.B.) 

* he once moved to California with a girlfriend because he thought the baby she had just given birth to was his, but the paternity didn't quite turn out the way she said it would and her father with whom they lived was dealing cocaine out of the back bedroom so he had to leave. He drove his Suburban back to MN alone and heartbroken. This poignant image made me acutely sad for him. This fellow was silly, yes, but genuinely kind, I could tell.
* he loves pit bulls and BBQ and Texas Longhorns. I wish I had a Target gift card for every time he 'hooked 'em'! I just gigged-'em feebly in response. "No need to be ashamed," he counseled me. "The Aggies did fine on Thursday. It wasn't an embarrassing game at least."
* he is 37, just like me. "How old are you, Erin?" he asked, as we flew over Kansas. "Thirty seven," I answered. He stared silently, and then said, "Wow. I would not have guessed that. We are the exact same age. High five!" (Can't tell/don't want to know if his silence was 'cause he thought I was drastically older or younger.)

Who are you, Doug? I wondered. I thought I had him pegged as a sloshy Vikes fan who loves beef, but it turns out that he has some depth and cannot be pigeonholed. I love finding people like this, people who have not simply fossilized into one Personality Category but instead pull from all the traits and threads life has to offer. As a liberal Mormon, I know what it means to mix-n-match.

You may be wondering why I've given just so much space to a stranger on a plane, one I'll likely never see again. I suppose it's in gratitude to the fiction muse for sharing with me this fully formed and quite original story character. I probably will meet Doug again in something I write. And when I do, I shall reapply chapstick in his honor.

In our final moments together, after the tray tables had been returned to their original upright positions, Doug asked, "Have you ever heard of the Food Network?" (As I said, he might have a low threshold for being impressed.) After I answered in the affirmative, he got a bit cocky: "I can cook better than any of them on there."

"What's your best recipe?" I asked. There better be some proof pudding to back up that kind of claim.

"My potatoes, of course," he answered quickly. "Everybody loves them."

In conclusion, just as Doug concluded his time with me, minus the giant hug he shared at baggage claim, I share his potato recipe. I would hug you, but do not yet know the html code for that gesture.

Please remember that you should also consult a doctor before embarking on a new eating program. This recipe is not a substitute for medical care.

~ Boil and mash five pounds of potatoes. Leave the skins on.
~ Cook up 3 pounds of bacon "really crispy."
~ After mashing the potatoes, crumble the bacon into the giant bowl of potatoes.
~ Stir in two pounds of shredded cheddar cheese.
~ Pour in one large bottle of ranch dressing.
~ Salt and pepper to taste.

Note: according to Doug, this recipe doesn't "need" butter.

Essay prompt ... what would you write?

It's that time of year that arrives on wings of joy in every teacher's heart: Finals!

Here's part of the prompt I assign to my Writing about Lit students. The topic has to be something simple enough to complete in two hours but something with enough wiggle room so that each student can express his/her creativity and competency (and therefore make it possible for me to grade them all in one day. Boring essays = cure for previously nonexistent insomnia!)

If you were one of my students, what poem or story would you want to evaluate (Option #1)? What song would you want to analyze/interpret (Option #2)? Would you take the crooked path of a previous student who analyzed his OWN song for the assignment? (Sadly, it was a poorly written Christian rap and this fellow had no demonstrable rap talent. I cringed my way through his performance and fumbled out some self-esteem boosting compliment through my teeth.) FYI - I am no longer allowing students to write about Garth Brooks' "The Dance." We had to retire that song selection in the manner of a legendary basketball player's jersey.

A ha! I just remembered something about the way I used to teach English III and IV ... before I had children. Get this! - I would complete all the assignments I gave to my students, right along with them. If I assigned a personal narrative, I also wrote a personal narrative. If I assigned a research paper, I wrote one too. I thought that modeling good writing habits and patterns would inspire my students. Not sure if that worked or not. I know those students remember that I taught them how to dance the Charleston when we studied The Great Gatsby and that I played for them Peter Gabriel's "Mercy Street" when we studied Anne Sexton. Whether or not they remember anything else about The Great Gatsby or Anne Sexton I cannot say. What can I say? I was young, fresh, enthusiastic and willing to stay in my classroom til 8 p.m. at night getting things ready and written.

Here is your assignment. You have two hours to complete the work!

English 1302 Final Bluebook Essay Requirements
~Bring a blank bluebook and outline (should include thesis, quotes, topic sentences, key words)
~You will write 750 words/approx. 4 pages handwritten
~This essay is, in fact, a revised draft … but it needs to be a thoughtful, well-planned draft with dynamite diction! Minor grammar/spelling errors will not detract from grade.
~You will still need to attribute and cite quotations from the text but should/can type the Works Cited page ahead of time.
~First person = okay. Second person = still not okay. Analysis verbs in present tense = still required.


~I will be grading your Essay #4: Bluebook on:
       strength of assignment-following/demonstration of analysis and interpretation mastery
       quality/variety of word choices 
       level of interest it creates in me (an intriguing title is mandatory)
       level of creativity/demonstration of your own writer’s voice
       level of diction 


Option #1: In Pursuit of Excellence
Step 1: Read Chapter 28: “Recognizing Excellence” selections in class
Step 2: Read closely the “Writing Critically” section on pgs. 1089-1090
Step 3: Reflect on the “Writing Assignment” prompt, select literary work to be evaluated OR follow “Further Suggestions for Writing” #2 on pg. 1091


 ... oops - forgot that you don't have a copy of the textbook. Well, just go with this next option, blog-students.

Option #2: A Song in Your Heart
Step 1: Complete the same readings, then brainstorm a favorite song, one with powerful lyrics
Step 2: Prepare to write a 5-paragraph analysis/interpretation of your favorite song. Treat the lyrics as a poem. (i.e. find out who the songwriter is, if the songwriter is someone other than the singer, and use his/her  name when discussing the inclusion of literary elements.) Identify tone & mood, other significant literary elements, and theme in the body paragraphs. Explain what the song lyrics mean to you.  Quote at least 5-6 words/phrases from the song and attribute them appropriately.


*Bring a copy of the song lyrics (with name of songwriter and performer) to staple inside the bluebook
*Bring an audio copy of the song if I do not know it/have not heard it

'Fess up

I like Glee in spite of/because all its teen soapiness. I like the choreography and the multi-layered pop harmonies. I like the bright high notes and (in moderation) the breathy vocal expression. I like the show's sincerity and the peter pan blouses Miss Emma wears. It's a great source for interesting (non-vocal) TONE analysis. The underlying message of this show (or its "tone"/attitude toward the subject matter) seems to be that life is hard, but group singing makes it tolerable. I like the vocal depth and the eye-to-eye connections made between characters too. They really can sing. Jane Lynch's Sue Sylvester is that dash of tart that keeps the whole thing from being too cloying.

While in Minnesota for Thanksgiving, we kept singing "Defying Gravity," a Wicked song featured on a recent Glee episode. Even Elin got into the action with tune continuation. This week brings (really last week's episode) something even better (?). This combination: a favorite 80s song (Cyndi Lauper's "True Colors") + simple staging (primary color tees, stools and a few lights) + a slightly different vocal flavor with Tina on lead = a clip I want to share. It is "hard to take courage in a world full of people" and "you can lose sight of it all" but this song is the antidote. Yes, I bought it on iTunes late last night.

True words: "If this world makes you crazy and you've taken all you can there, you call me up because you know I'll be there." Also, you could just send me a message. I might get it sooner.

Link to the "True Colors" clip I found on a random blog

Cold mornings

Cold mornings = an intense desire to stay on the couch wrapped in a toasty afghan blanket.

Cold mornings = an intense desire for hot, fluffy pancakes, melted butter, warm scrambled eggs, perfectly peppered, and festive eggnog.

Cold mornings = an intense desire for a hot bubble bath.

None of that is possible if one wakes up at 3:30 a.m., works for awhile, falls back asleep at 6:00 a.m., wakes up in a startled rush at 7:00 a.m., and then wakes up one's slumbering children at 7:10 a.m., all on a morning when one needs to drop off those children at 7:25 a.m. and hit the highway by 7:30 a.m.

This cold morning = ack! I'm embarrassed to admit - and yet here I am admitting it! - that I fed Graham 10 slices of bacon for breakfast. He clutched them in his fist, grease dripping downward, as he rushed out the door. That's it. I didn't have time to give him additional insulin so I couldn't feed him any carbs. (His BG level was fine, we tested it, but no time for a shot.) Annie had a piece of bread with nutella on it. She wore blue socks, black boots and a yellow Hannah Montana shirt.

Cold mornings = a new parenting low.

Dated

     You know me ... cheesy "fake" senior-style portraits make me laugh. And I love to laugh. (My hair is the joke in this picture.) Courtney was willing to play along. She said, "Erin, let me get  a picture of you," and I promptly snapped into posed position. I also like the 'sweep your hair and look backward' pose (see below, and please admire the way I softened the edges.) It's all about getting that right balance of 'I am a somewhat non-horrible looking person' and 'I grew up in the 80s and can therefore poke fun at myself.' If I had any kind of photography talent, I would enjoy creating a Cindy Sherman-esque portfolio entitled Senior Portraits. Obviously, I would need a great deal of wicker and pastel light gels. I would also need to make sure my face was shiny.

     When I was serving as stake YW secretary, I attended a few of the youth dances as a stake leader. At one dance, a nice-looking young man, a bit awkward, came up and asked me to dance. Another kid hissed at him, "She's a leader, dude," and the boy slunk away. Oh, the shame for him. He worked up some kind of courage, and then realized that he had horribly misjudged his options. Probably looked at me and thought, 'She can't be too choosy, I'll ask her." 

     In that moment of his slinking and me trying to stuff my smile, I remembered everything I hated about church dances the first time around. It is so hard to be a teenager ! Let's be honest here: we both loved and feared church youth activities. On the one hand, it was fun to meet new sparkly people and experience that thrill of finding a potential pen pal. (In my youth, we wrote letters to each other on homemade cards enveloped in Benetton ads we ripped out of magazines, and had to wait days or weeks for responses. So, so much easier to just friend on FB, these lucky kids today.) On the other hand, it was uniquely painful to be approached by a dead battery-type person (no spark!) and know that I needed to be nice and make awkward conversation while standing uncomfortably close to this stranger for the length of a song.

     Even now, when I hear the song "Somebody" by Depeche Mode, I instinctively put my arms into Mormon dance position. Can't tell you how many times I've made small talk with a dance partner to that song. (And it's a gorgeous song ... my roomies and I listened to it over and over on the boom box in our dark, candlelit dorm living room, but it's about the kind of connection everybody wants to find, and I often found it disconcerting to listen to the lyrics while dancing with a guy who wasn't my 'somebody.' Um, no, I do NOT want to share my "innermost thoughts" with you. It was even worse to stand next to someone who didn't want to share his innermost thoughts with me! Ack - he thinks I'm a dead battery.)

     As I move forward into the next stage of my life, it appears likely that I'll be moving simultaneously backward, backward into the world of church dances. Come New Year's Eve, I'm going to be standing in a church cultural hall making small talk with strangers standing uncomfortably close. This thought terrifies me, yes, but I cannot avoid my fate. Look what happened to Oedipus. Delaying destiny does not effectively avert disaster.

     Of course, it might be easier to walk through the gym doors and fill in one of those My Name Is ... tags (Erin with a big heart for the i dot, right?) IF I were bolstered by tales of  dance fright tales from my blog friends. I can pretend that you're standing by me, clique-style, or accompanying me to the ladies room to reapply carmex. Any shame moments you're willing to share? Any "N. Dynamite" dance moves I should make a point to demonstrate? It's a given that I'll request the song "Jump" by Van Halen. Any other favorites from your youth dance years? Help me help myself to step away from the wall and into my future.