ISTEchnology the point?

Blog 2, day 1

Here are a few random thoughts generated after my arrival at the Sheraton Downtown and attendance at the official opening ceremonies of the ISTE 2015.

I sat and waited for other teachers from my school and when they arrived, I sat and waited for the registration to be completed for an hour plus. It takes time to tell a computer that 13 people ate registering at a hotel but paying for one check. Computers are dumb like that, apparently. Our fearless leader, while explaining that all 13 of us were n0ot there just yet but that we would all show up, also had to explain that we were here for a technology conference and were told that there would be complimentary wifi access in the rooms. They wanted to charge us 13 bucks a day to have access to stuff which we were here to discuss. Eventually, they said that they would eliminate it from the bill. I can’t wait to see how that works out.

The room is lovely but I had only 8 minutes to admire it before we struck out on the mean streets of Philly to hit the conference at the convention center. The building is relatively close by, at least the entrance is. The registration area is 4 miles away, all within the building. We walked and walked and final, when they ran out of hallways to send us down, found where we pick up our tote bags and advertisements for the companies that paid for the additional hallways. The structure was overwhelming to say the least. If I wanted to say more than the least I would start by saying it in all caps.

It was OVERWHELMING.

We found the registration area (destroying the one ring in the process…it was a long walk) and got similarly overwhelmed by the content of the free tote. The maps were confusing, the paperwork was cryptic and most of it was either wrong or unnecessary. And I had trouble putting the ID badge necklace on over my ears. I suffer. The next big item was the keynote address by news person Soledad Obrien. Instead of fighting the crowds to get into the hall in which she was speaking, my compatriots found a television on which the speech was to stream. I found a dark corner with relatively little noise so I could assimilate all the info that had been dumped on us. It took a while and in the middle of it I realized that I was operating on 4G not wifi. It seems that the wifi kicked out and I was using data! After a few minutes the wifi turned back on – I had been warned that the wifi can’t always handle the demand.
I am not comforted by the advice they give in the info packet to turn off the wifi on devices while at the conference in order to save bandwidth. [“To maintain Wi-Fi speed, please turn Wi-Fi off when you are not using it and switch off any auto-syncing applications.”] This is a technology conference and they are asking people not to keep synching, not to keep connected etc. They have set up apps so that we can have online schedules and maps and take notes to share with the world, but they want us to turn off wifi when we aren’t actively using it? Doesn’t this smack of a problem (if not simply an example of delicious, delicious irony)? I found myself transferring everything to a pad of paper using a (gasp!) pen so that I wouldn’t have to rely on the fancy technology at the tech conference.

I also noted that there were long lines of people waiting to get in to the key note. It looked like the lines at Disney except the weirdos here weren’t toting children along to make their bizarre habits look acceptable. I wonder what it feels like to be a Soledad Obrien groupie.

I sat in my corner and tried to chart each session I signed up for, each table I wanted to visit and each time slot in which I was supposed to be in 3 places. The supposed “interactive map” which would guide me was a series of static images which didn’t correlate to the printed map (as a note, the street we walked on wasn’t even ON the printed map…we had wandered that far inside the building that I believe we were in Connecticut). There were no indications of room numbers on the local maps so I couldn’t ground myself and figure out how to orient the map. I found my way by wandering back and forth, dropping breadcrumbs and hiring a dog to urinate on various escalators.

Soledad’s speech was…um…speech I guess. She spoke more about herself and her interactions with stuff than about technology. I now know about her family and upbringing and about 5 different news pieces which she filmed over the last 3 years. Fascinating, and her hair is nice. But it wasn’t about technology. It was about her and about the sad state of education, mostly as a function of politics, race and economics. I applaud the candor with which she said “We can leverage technology to change the world” and I endorse the truth in her statements that this shouldn’t be about technology for technology’s sake, but about creating opportunities for all to succeed, but it took her over an hour to make a simple point and I had lost interest way before then.

We moved all the way back to the entrance and the vendor tables there. I visited 7 tables before I headed out:

1. Two teachers who are marketing themselves as experts because they use technology such as interactive notebooks and kids seem to like it. There were hearts and polka dots and colors and I have no idea what they were selling
2. A group which tries to create virtual dialogues between students from different cultures internationally. I don’t know what else they do, but I signed up for their informative email because tolerance and stuff is awesome.
3. A program designed to teach digital literacy and citizenship from the young ages and from pre-computer stages so students understand how to use Twitter without a computer. Truth.
4. An organization which groups tech resources and can create suggestions for you once you tell them what you are looking for. They are consultants who for a fee, will tell you which of their products to buy depending on your need, your skill level and bank account size. Huzzah.
5. A bunch of elementary school students who were talking about ho they connected with another school virtually and shared info about Hans Christen Andersen and global warming. It seemed more about giving these 5th graders a chance to present their Weebly presentations – is this about the specific content? The ability to connect disparate school systems? The skill of creating said presentations regardless of who sees them? I have no idea, but I now realize that Hans wrote the Princess and the Pea, so there’s that.
6. A program which encourages sharing of stories and traditions between Native Americans and Jewish day schools. Except the sharing is done IN PERSON and not by leveraging technology. So if we want to take our students out to Cheyenne for a week, they can set that up.
7. A program modeled on the BOCES system of shared resources to defray costs and make various technological opportunities available to public schools in North West NY state. I don’t know what they were selling.

On the whole, I was left with many questions, not the least of which was whether this entire thing was about technology or about different approaches to teaching with technology being an asterisk or an afterthought. It just didn’t seem like the focus was on anything revolutionary in terms of technology or even its use. It was just people saying “het, I did this and it seems to have worked…pay me X dollars and you can copy me even if your situation isn’t the same as mine…and, oh yeah…technology.” So I’m not yet convinced.

I stopped back at the hotel with just enough time to leave my room and get lost on the way to a dinner that can’t be beat and a faculty meeting before retiring to my room, my almonds and my chocolate chips. As a side note, Philly's downtown is architecturally beautiful. All three sky scrapers are works of art.

Tomorrow, the fun begins before 8AM as I have to hit 3 more tables, a level 3 area, and 5 rooms before 9:30 when the real stuff kicks in.

So, until then, I leave you with something Soledad Obrien said: “Hi, I’m Soledad Obrien.”

To ISTE I Go

International Society for Technology in Education 2015 Conference and Expo.


Against my better judgment, I decided to attend a conference in Philadelphia – something to do with technology in education. I’m an educator and I use technology so it seemed reasonable but I didn’t like how it was going to require me to leave the house and interact with people. Then my school said that they would pay and I said “where do I virtually sign?”

I go in to this with an open mind and curmudgeon’s heart. I believe that there are a variety of “technologies” which have their place in the classroom (including chalk, record players, computers and bananas) but that the electronic variety has value if it becomes an organic extension of the education and content. The cart should not lead the my-kingdom-for-a-horse. Too often, I see people who say “let’s invest in the electronics and we’ll find a way to build the education around them” or who assume that “newer is important and the wave of the future. Since students use new technology in the world, we have to shift our classroom paradigm to accommodate and coopt the technology so that we stay relevant. New technology must be good so new methods must follow.” Harumph, I say.

So I printed up directions (just because “Waze” exists doesn’t mean that I want to use it) and gassed up the car for the drive to the city of brotherly tolerance. On the way, the maintenance light went on on my dash so I might not ever come home, but the free wifi in the hotel seems sufficient.

I have set up a schedule of events and talks to go to. I tried to pick ones that either addressed my position as an English teacher, or which seemed to respect my particular cynical attitude towards computers in the classroom. The key note is scheduled for 5:45 and then there are some things to attend in the evening. I will try to take notes during presentations (I even brought pen and paper so take that future humans!) and reflect a bit, then write up my thoughts and post them. I wouldn’t call this “live blogging” mostly because I think that that is a stupid phrase. Whenever I blog I am alive (at least thus far) so there will be little difference in my existence status for these posts. I will not be giving a play by play unless the presentations truly call for an immediate rebuttal. Otherwise, I will absorb and fire off a grape shot post after it all calms down. And if the car doesn’t start for my return trip I’m sure I’ll have something more to say then.

So if you are an educator and can’t be at ISTE 2015, or you are here and want to see if your response falls in line with mine (which will be, of course, the right and normative response), or if you are just a fan of everything I have to say, then stay tuned and I will post brilliance whenever the muse descends.

And for those of you reading this while still on the way here, the traffic stinks, there is construction and poor signage, but the lobby is pretty. Drop by and say “hi” then leave me alone. I miss my house.

Meet the Mets, Beat the Mets

I'm sitting here watching the Mets. I want to explain what that is like because I have been doing it for a while and it is a feeling that I feel needs sharing.

It isn't quite pain, but pain is a good place to start. I guess it has something to do with pain because it certainly does hurt to be a Mets fan. Watching any strange combination of events conspire to keep the team you love from any consistent success can inspire a wince or two. There is nausea involved, and a fair amount of it. But the real feeling of being a Mets fan has to do with the emotional toll it takes on people.

The Mets drag you down. They are always a scrappy bunch of kids with the can-do spirit who clearly can't do a damned thing. Injuries, chronic underperformance and just plain stinkiness hound them each year. They field a minor league line up and are constantly relying on a set of pitchers who seem to be a shade beyond their historical success. Somehow they always seem to be on the cusp of coming out of a slump, but stay mired in that slump until the one day that they explode for 15 runs and make you believe.

That's the great crime. They make you believe. In fact, in 1973 the claim was "Ya Gotta Believe" and you do, as a prime imperative HAVE to believe in this team. Then they go and win the series in 1969 and 1986. That's great. They make it to the series a couple of other times. Maybe we're on to something. And you invest yourself. You put your heart right back there on the line and learn the player names. You start paying attention to the standings and hoping -- hoping against hope, itself, that this band of mutts will step up and be great. They will stop being the mediocre, middling bunch of has beens and never will bes and coalesce into an actual team. And they implode. Then, in March, it starts again: a strong spring season with a bunch of players of promise, and sometimes, an early season which gives them a great position. Then the collapse. It could be in May, in Late July or September, but it happens, and they time it each year to create maximum sadness among those who still flock to Flushing with visions of miracles in their eyes.

And if that isn't enough, players who were barely pulling their weight get traded away and suddenly become superstars on other teams, and prove it especially when they come back to play the Mets. And the big name guys who are brought in to anchor the group suddenly forget how to play the game, get hurt or just prove that you really can wish for "lukewarm" when confronted with "ice cold." New dimensions in which to disappoint are explored. Time passes. People go to the games late just to see the events afterwards or say 'no' to the promotional offerings. Sportscasters make jokes and the Mets' play-by-play guys struggle to find something to talk about. It is just sad.

And the fans. The poor, tortured fans. We come back every time. We defend our team. We curse them and insult them, second guessing them and being proven right. We yell about how much we hate them and still, we come back. We give up hope before the season is a month old, but we still harbor, in the darkest corner of our hearts, that this is the year in which the Mets will prove us wrong and pull one out of the fire and actually win something. Not a singular game, but a consistent streak in dominant fashion. And while it gives us a thrill, we don't really want the team to scrape by in extra innings or get runs with two outs, against all odds. We want to see a team which lives up to the salary wasted on it, being what we have been led to believe they can be. We are afraid to watch the reruns of games they won for fear that they will find a way to lose this time. We breathe when they are up because at least then they can't lose a lead.

We go to games when no one else goes (I recall promotional games from the late 70's which were sparsely attended) and we stay well beyond when we should. We watch the airplanes, make comments about the shape of the stadium and do whatever we can to keep us from watching the team. We don't have a closer. We don't have a bang-bang lead off or clean up hitter. We don't have a slam dunk ace pitcher. We don't have a miracle fielder. We have a set of no-namers playing in the top market, providing a punching bag for any other team that decides to show up.

We bleed blue and orange and that isn't because of some weird disease. Unless you call being a Mets fan a disease, which often it feels like it is. We wish we didn't believe, but we gotta.

Stuff that I like, people whom I don't. And vice versa.

I have never made my antipathy towards statistics private. I wear it on my sleeve. I think statistics are vile in the best case, and downright dangerous at any point beyond that. They can be used to prove any point that one idiot wants to make, and they generally are. Somehow every show is the highest one rated, every disease is least likely to kill you and the percentage of people who lose between 3 and 400 pounds is either 1 or 97. It isn't enough that statistics requires us to look at numbers but it does so in a way which encourages misunderstandings and enables a huge number of lies. By my quick count, not only are more than half of all statistics made up, but over 95% of all uses of statistics are intentionally misleading either by masking sample size or selection or by mispresenting variables or context. Statistics are horrible because they present as some vision of truth what is, in some form, invariably a lie.

But, and I mean this sincerely, I have no quarrel with statisticians. They are probably well meaning people who like to count stuff. They generally aren't the ones using their statistics for evil. They are about presenting possibilities and they let people decide meaning. That might be a touch irresponsible, sort of like laying down a loaded gun and saying "whatever you want..." but they aren't shooting anyone.

I feel quite the opposite about another field -- a field in which the study itself and even the findings are completely acceptable but those in the area of study are the ones I can't stand. If you are in this discipline, I apologize in advance; you might be a fine person but in your official capacity I don't like you. The subject in question is archaeology and the practitioners, those archaeologists, are the problem.

Unlike statistics, archaeology is a field inherently honest. People crouch in the hot sun with brooms and shovels and stuff and look in the ground for neat things like bottle caps and civilizations. Eventually, after a whole lot of diet soda and boredom, someone unearths a fragment of a bone, or an arrowhead shaped like a cookie, or an old cookie shaped like an arrowhead and jumps for joy. The precise location is charted, graphed, mapped, catalogued and tweeted along with the depth, orientation and taste of the artifact. The item itself is photographed, sketched and interviewed (or so I've heard) so that everyone all over the world will rest assured that we have yet another piece of old lamp or a stella. A what? a STELLA. This process produces no lies. It produces things that can be looked at and admired, especially if one wishes to pay the suggested donation. The context in which each was found is clear and findable on a map. There is no uncertainty about the existence of the thing qua thing.

Archaeologists are another matter. They make their living getting tourists and volunteers to do their digging for them while they sit back and scribble in their notebooks about the air temperature and the stupidity of the volunteers. Then, they look at the little piece of nothing that some schlub found after 6 hours and a mild touch of heat stroke and they make up stories about all that the existence of that old gum wrapper proves. Proves, they say, as if finding a broken pot in the middle of the desert can prove anything other than "someone, at some point, dropped this pot and it made its way into the desert." For all anyone knows, it was dropped in a bustling metropolis and a passing sheep got it stuck on his head. He worked it off while he was in the desert and voila! Instant proof.

A few years ago, while on a rare vacation, my family collected some sea shells. Small ones. Pretty ones. We brought them home and then realized that we don't particularly care for sea shells, so we put them in a little basket which we put on the front steps. Along came a rain storm and the basket tipped over and the skells landed in the patch of dirt and pachysandras in the front of the house which we call the garden. I decided to leave them there. And in 10, 100 or 1000 years, when some future archaeologist digs up those shells, he will dream up some scenario about the ocean's level having been up to my front door. It will be a lie. The fact that the shells are found there will be the truth but the archaeologist will invent an explanation. He is the liar.

Archaeology cannot prove or disprove anything. it can provide tantalizing clues that need to be connected and established in relationship with other clues but all that is done by drawing conclusions and making guesses. And even then, the scope of the concept proven has to be local to the precise nature of the find. If I find a skeleton with an arrowhead inside it and matching scoring on the rib cage, I can conclude that this arrowhead passed through this one person's ribs. I cannot conclude a cause of death or a motive. I cannot do anything more than speculate. And I certainly can't come to any conclusion about this person's family, society, culture or values. All of that is bunk. And yet archaeologists do that, everyday. An archaeologist's primary job is to invent lies. Now, I'm not talking about an English teacher's interpretation of symbolism in a text. That's also invention, substantiated by textual evidence. But the end result is the creation of a larger set of possible understandings. Archaeology's end result is the presentation of a single truth, a knowledge of the machinations of the past and the particular path of history.

You are probably wondering why I am writing this -- that's a fair question. I am in the midst of an online argument with an archaeology student who insists that literary authorship can be established or refuted through archaeology. Now, he isn't talking about finding an inscription which reads "Joe did NOT write that book" which still would prove nothing if I lack knowledge of the provenance and authority of the one who inscribed it. He is talking about archaeology "proving" that the text is not true and that the author didn't exist. The text in question is the bible and the author is Moses.

Now I'm not here, or even there, to get into a discussion about whether archaeology has proven or disproven the accuracy of the bible -- that has been done thousands of times. The fact that there are myriad books, articles and websites which take contradictory sides, all using the same "finds" should show the inadequacy of archaeology to prove anything definitively. But this guy injected his belief in the primacy of archaeological 'proof' into a discussion of the literary analysis of a text. This is just further proof that archaeologists are jerks, making up stuff when they are in their own field, and elevating themselves over other fields which are unrelated to their process or findings.

So, in summary: statistics, bad. Statisticians, good. Archaeology, good. Archaeologists, bad.

What I do for the Joke

I have a favorite scene from the movie "Who Framed Roger Rabbit."

In it (and I approximate and paraphrase dialogue), Roger is handcuffed to Eddie Valiant (a wonderful Bob Hoskins) and is being tossed around as Eddie looks for some way to remove the cuffs. Finally, Eddie finds a saw and begins hacking through the links. However, because of the angle, Roger keeps getting in the way. So Roger moves his hand out of the cuffs and asks, "Is this better?" Eddie, focused on sawing, grunts in the affirmative and thanks Roger. Wait a beat. Eddie looks up and realizes Roger is out of the cuffs. Roger notices Eddie's anger and slips his hand back in. Eddie snarls, "Are you telling me that you could have gotten out at any time?" Roger responds, "Not ANY time -- only when it was funny!" I do it disservice -- here, watch it https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5mU0HfI2jQ

The thing is, I believe in that. Timing makes the apparently ridiculous, dumb or otherwise annoying, funny. It's like fire. Sure, it can burn down a house but it can also turn raw meat into something edible. And don't tell me about carpaccio. That's just gross. And I believe, that for the sake of the funny, there are very few boundaries and rules. I would jump in front of a charging rhino if I thought I could raise a chortle. Chortles are gold. And rhinos are rare on my block.

So on Saturday afternoon, I decided to do something "funny." It was a beautiful day. The sun beat down. My host placed some chairs on the front lawn so we could all enjoy the day. Then, he and everyone else went back inside. No doubt, they had something important to do but they committed a terrible crime -- they left me alone with my thoughts. So I did what I do best: I had a bad idea.

What if, I thought, they came back and found me, still besuited and proper, sitting in a chair, on the lawn, but on my back? HA! That'd be AWESOME. Imagine their confusion and, eventually, their joy at seeing something as ridiculous as that! But I recognized that I was on the clock and had to move fast. So before they could re-emerge and put the kibosh on my brilliance, I pushed myself back so that I would float gently to my eventual repose. I forgot two things: 1, no one had mentioned to gravity that I ordered the "float gently" and 2, that I needed to brace myself and catch myself before I hit the ground. So gravity, in his standard, unmerciless fashion, had me hit terminal velocity in short order and my arms, which could have resolved this all, stayed firmly at my side. Fortunately, I had something with which to break my fall. My head.

And to top it all off, when people came out, the result was "No." Not a laugh, but a sigh of resignation. Apparently, I have tried this one gag too often for it to be funny anymore. So much for the classics. I made it through the day with a slight headache and a bruised ego.

But then I did not sleep. By the middle of the night, nausea and a worse headache set in. Now, many people would take this as a sign that one should go to the doctor. I stopped going to the doctor when he insisted on reminding me, no matter why I went to visit, that I was overweight. I'd ask about my TMJ and he'd say, "you also could use to drop a few pounds." Questions about my plantar fascitis? "It doesn't help that, according to this chart I got from a pharmaceutical rep, you are obese." So yeah, I stopped going. Now don't get me wrong. I have the utmost respect for doctors and the proud western medical tradition which they represent. I grew up under the care of a doctor so I know the value of a timely diagnosis of gout, dropsy or the ague. We had all the necessary medicine in the house for treating what ails me: red, yellow, green and clear. I have become a big fan of clear since then. Note, by the way, that I specify the colors beginning with small letters. That's because we had the generic versions of brand names like "Red, Yellow, Green and Clear."

So instead of seeing a doctor so I could hear how my stomach isn't supposed to look like that, I did the next best thing and spoke to people who had taken others to the doctor. I was told that the official, medical position is (and this is in Latin, so bear with me), "If you didn't lose consciousness, you aren't bleeding from some holes in your head and aren't projectile vomiting with alarming speed and accuracy, then there isn't much anyone can do." This is what might be called (for lack of imaging or testing) a "mild concussion." On one hand, I am relieved. On the other hand, hold on.

The following things can be mild: salsa, the weather resulting from a weather front coming in from the south west, a mannered reporter, maybe a cheddar cheese to go with that salsa, and, if you pronounce it wrong, how far I have to go before I sleep. The words "concussion" and "mild" cannot coexist in a sentence unless they are protected by quotation marks, as I just did. A concussion is a bruise of the brain. There is no "mild" when it comes to bruising your brain. Sure, there are gradations of concussion, but I believe that they begin with "holy crap, I bruised my brain" and move all the way to, "is that your brain on the sidewalk? It looks mighty bruised!"

And just to clarify, there was no comic amnesia. Total rip-off.

Now, I know, it could have been worse. I could have fallen backwards onto the concrete walkway instead of the relatively soft dry ground, but I prefer not to look at the glass half full. These days, I see two glasses and I am sick to my stomach so can we please not discuss anything in them? My symptoms continue and here's where I get confused. Sure, I have a headache, both a dull throbbing one in the back of my head and occasionally, a more stabbing sensation behind my eyes (no doubt, due to my affinity for "Othello." Look it up). I understand headaches. I get them, I medicate them, I complain about them...repeat. But I also have the nausea. Nausea? Why would I even have that? Since when is the urge to throw up connected to my brain? When I stub my toe, I don't suddenly develop hemorrhoids! And dizziness? Did I fall onto my inner ear? I think not. I mean, I'm not sure, but I think not.

Anyway, the bottom line is that other people who have done something dumb like this (or gotten their concussion type situations through less comical means...slackers) have to wait it out and after a week or two, things get better. I hope that is true because in my pain, I have had to spend a lot of time alone and I have gotten to thinking. I bet it would be funnier if I fell backwards while holding a porcupine!

Please excuse the typos. I am using one hand to keep my brain in.

Schmuck! That's how you write a blog post!

Today I will deconstruct the creation of a blog post so you all can see how the magic happens.

First, I will devise a topic which will appeal to a small number of people but will do so by asserting my expertise over something you never thought of so even those not intended will be suckered into reading it. Notice, I already started with a reference that most people won't get.

"Artists whose music is better performed by others"

Then, in order to establish my expertise, I will start with a broad statement about history that might be true, but I say it with such confidence that you will not question me.

"Back in the day, a song existed in various forms, as performed by any number of bands. When you liked a song, you prefered a version over another -- the notion of a song belonging to one particular writer/performer was alien."

Then I will move to a transitional sentence, inevitably tying it to some specific example/fact that you wouldn't dare question.

"Now, songs are closely associated with the specific performer of that song, a trend which finds as its source, the Beatles."

Next up, my thesis -- revolutionary and revelatory, and controversial, but because I'm an expert, you are wrong.

"Some bands, though, should leave the performance of their songs to others as the ostensible cover versions are unequivocally better than the writers' performances of the music."

Now, the examples, cherry picked to support my contention. I will ignore counter-claims, others' subjective responses or anything which doesn't conform to what I will establish as the truth. I might throw in some smarm so as to deflate any other opinions before they happen. I will also put in details you didn't know so you will feel dumb.

"Springsteen. Come on, you know this is true. His forced delivery and amateurish band butcher his work while others, rescuing diamonds from coal make songs like Blinded by the Light, Light of Day and Fire into genius. The fact that no one important has tried to get famous covering Tunnel of Love should show you that even Bruce's writing skill is a crap shoot.

Bob Dylan. The Byrds made an entire career out of being better Dylans than Dylan. My Back Pages and Mr. Tambourine Man turn into real songs. Even Manfred Mann made Quinn the Eskimo sound good...Dylan is just that bad. Except when he covered Band of the Hand. That song was so good that even he couldn't ruin it.

Johnny Cash. Here is a list of songs of his that others covered. I haven't heard of most them, but because I am citing an authority and I'm never wrong, you should assume that this list is great. Thing is, I actually like some covers of his songs (Like Social Distortion's Ring of Fire) but he didn't actually write all the songs he is known for, or even perform them first, and he has covered so many others' songs that it is a wash.

I'm not even discussing Kris Kristofferson.

A few artists are on the bubble because they have some songs of their own that are brilliant and some that others do better:

Stevie Wonder. Yes, he's lovely and wonderful on many songs, but don't look me in the eye and say that his version of Superstition or Higher Ground is the best one out there.

Some artists write stuff made popular by others but whose "original" version, even if recorded after the famous version, is superior, such as Mellencamp's I need a Lover and Palmer's You're Gonna Get What's Coming."

Throw in some gratuitous links to things unrelated but which I like and show the authority of my judgment.

"If you appreciate the subtleties in music which I have pointed out, you should also read this book and this one."

Finally, solicit feedback which I will never read.

"If you have other artists which you think should go on this list, please leave a comment."

Jerk.

And there you have it. Condescending and arrogant, irrelevant and irreverent, useless. A perfect blog post.

To a Student who died too young

I write this as a form of catharsis. I need to write this. So I want to apologize right off the bat if you don't like it. It isn't meant for you.

That having been said, I'll start with all the expected and right stuff:

I just got back for a funeral of a former student. She was in my 12th grade AP class only 4 years ago (she earned a 96 or so) and now she's gone. I'll tell you about her. You know all those good things you say perfunctorily whenever someone passes? Yeah, that, only sincerely. Brilliant, motivated, caring, sincere, selfless and like that. She had a smile that could, and often did, light up an entire building, and an attitude which buoyed a community. She put her family, friends and strangers ahead of herself as a matter of her personal code. She studied her world because she could not imagine doing otherwise. She shared with others and was fearless in her pursuit of all things new and different. She came back, even after she fell ill, and visited my class. I even put her on the spot more than once and asked her to speak to my class off the cuff. And she did, transfixing the students with her literary insight and her personal anecdotes. As a scientist, she could tell you exactly what was wrong with her and what the medicines were that were being tried to treat her. She even pronounced them right. As a fervent Jew she never lost that spiritual side which drove her to see God's hand even in her darkest days. Like I said, all those things we wish we could say honestly about others, we complain are not evocative enough when it came to her.

So now, I'd like to write a goodbye letter to her, so that she (I hope somehow...it would be nice to think that the hereafter has wifi and she has my blog bookmarked) knows the impact that she had. But please understand, and here's where the apology kicks in, I will be writing this in a very personal way -- full of the affect which she and I shared, and the sensibility which she would truly appreciate. So if you find it inappropriate, I am sorry, but I assure you, she would think it entertaining.

-------------------------

Dear Rachel,

I was at the funeral. Your funeral. Heckuva time but I won't (I can't, really) get into how emotionally draining it was. Suffice to say it had what you might expect -- crying, speeches, a few laughs, but I thought you should know something else that went on so that you can see that no where is immune from the kind of frustration that we often spoke of. The parking situation was inexcusable.

As I'm sure you know by now, you were not the first person to be buried in that cemetery. And though you really packed them in (it was a very well attended event) I can't imagine that you were the top box office draw that that venue has ever hosted. But they still haven't figured out what to do with cars that come in for the funeral. The line extends out into the intersection, and then, once you come in, there is no one telling you where you should park, no signs directing you anywhere. I drove around, and after circling the facility, I found a little out of the way spot about three miles from the main building where everyone was assembled. I got my hiking gear on, packed rations and made my way towards the throngs. When I arrived, I heard someone from the funeral home announce that everyone should now get back into cars so that we could drive to the area of the cemetery near the grave site. So I turned around, found my sherpa and started back. When I looked at the map, I realized that where I was parked was only a short train ride to the site so I figured I should just keep walking. So I did, and got to the grave well before most anyone else. People kept filing in, having dutifully gotten into their cars, assembled in a line, driven 5 feet only to park again for lack of space. There must be a better way.

Then we waited. People just kept coming. And just when we thought that there was no room for anyone else, the same guy from the funeral home announced that anyone who walked over and left a car parked back by the central building had to go move it because there were other funerals and the volume of cars had effectively shut down the entire cemetery. It was like Woodstock all over again, except with more funerals and less Wavy Gravy. Not none, mind you, just less. There is nothing to get a funeral off to a rollicking start like a threat from a big guy telling you to move your car. So I ignored him. I assumed he wasn't in the kind of shape necessary to make it all the way to my car and ticket me.

As much as the parking situation was complete chaos, the funeral itself was too. Were certain people supposed to stand in a particular place? Who needed to get access to what and where is it proper or improper to step? There are no signs or directions. But it was a nice day and I do believe that I noticed the planes flying overhead dip their wings out of respect.

There were Sea Scouts and Venture Scouts and probably other scouts also. If I ever had a need to tie a knot, this was the time to do it. There were grown men and women in uniform. There were black hats and wigs, and bald heads and baseball hats. There were children and adults, students and teachers. There was an ambulance with reps from your Volunteer Ambulance Corps (good thing, also, as during the funeral someone felt faint and the guys had to run to the rig to get the stretcher and help the person out), there were college friends, high school friends and others. There was, and I say this as a testimony to you, an air of class and dignity. There was a hope that you brought to any situation. There was inspiration and a sense that we can all do better because you showed us that we always must try to do better. So thank you for that.

Your skipper had the bosun ring 8 bells and secure from the watch. All is well on your ship. Sail well, Rachel.

Rabbi R