Little Shadow Boxers

(This is a re-post from two years ago, but I just read an article [thanks to Mark Colvin for posting the link] about some of the absurd fallout from the Sandy Hook killings, in American schools, and, despite the horrific nature of that day -- and the very real tears I shed over it -- I still feel this way:)

My mother always was very much against guns. As a kid, I never had a toy gun, outside of the occasional water pistol. Mind you, I really wanted to have toy guns and I would greedily claim any available weapon at friends' houses before playing "war" or any other violence-based games. At home, though, I was, as they say on the mean streets, without a "piece."

At my wife's house, in her childhood, things were a little different. Toy guns were allowed, as were BB guns in the later years. Legend has it that there was a rifle incident in the back yard of their suburban home that left a tree somewhat worse for wear. Karen grew up with two brothers, both of whom own hunting guns and bows to this day. For the record, neither of them has ever killed a man. (Nor has my wife, to the best of my knowledge.) Both of them are throrougly nice guys and one of them is one hell of a dancer. (Just thought I'd mention that, in light of the wedding I attended last night.)

So, who was right -- my mom or my wife's parents? (As far as I know, my dad didn't have a problem with toy guns, though he has always had a thorough disgust for war.)

The Professionals: A Class Full of Teachers

I have been taking, as I have mentioned, some professional development classes in teaching. Here is what I have observed, in regard to enthusiasm, among this particular group of professionals.

Talk about contract issues -- talk about tenure issues and retirement benefits and pay questions, and the room buzzes with energy. Hands shoot up. Heads nod vigorously. Side-conversations erupt. The poor professor can barely field all of the questions before moving on to the next topic. Everyone in the room is engaged and sitting bolt upright, eyes wide and inquisitive.

Except me. I'm doodling in my notes.

Talk about bad student behavior; about trends in poor student attitudes, and the energy again erupts. The phrase "these kids" flies about the room like a boomerang. Everyone wants a say; everyone wants to share his misery. The professor looks on, helplessly, fingering the pages of his notes to show he wants to move on. He waits politely. All of the students are fired up.

Except me. I'm finishing my sketch of the Sistine Chapel.

Why, Indeed?

We were watching Neil Simon's The Odd Couple in creative writing class today (playwrighting time) and there is a scene, toward the end of the film, in which the "Pidgeon sisters" come into Oscar's apartment. The guys, who are sitting playing poker, all stand up when the ladies enter.

I stopped the movie.

In an effort to point to the quick decline in manners, I mentioned that the film was made in 1969, a year after I was born, and that, apparently, in some social spheres, men were still standing up when a ladies entered a room.

One of the girls, honestly and openly, raised her hand and asked, "Why did they do that?"

[Sigh.]

Stupid Intellectuals and the Dinner Miracle

I've said before that there is too much interest these days in "assessing" things and in "doing studies" to determine answers. There is a lot of sociological data-collection done in order to determine reasons for things or to determine causes of particular human actions. What there is not enough of is real thought -- personal, logical and sensitive explorations of human nature. We need more poets and fewer sociologists.

The Magic Pill!

Nothing illustrates this better than the statement that was made -- what? -- maybe a decade ago: that kids of families who eat dinner together are less likely to get involved with drugs.

Yeah, okay.

What I picture is a sociologist organizing his data. "Hey!" he says, calling his research team together. "I have noticed a trend! These kids who have never done drugs...it seems that a huge percentage of them have something in common. They all have regular dinners together with their families. That must be why they have stayed off of drugs!"

The Frozen Wind (A Dialogue)

Chris sits on a park bench. There is snow on the ground and it fall in large flakes. Trees are bent with the weight on their limbs. A tall figure, clad in black, walks across the whited grass. Chris looks up, sees the approaching form, smiles ironically and drops his head to wait. After some time, the figure sits next to Chris on the bench. He (the mysterious figure) has platinum white hair, slicked down with pomade, and brushed perfectly to one side. His face is colder that frozen wind. He is Existential Crisis.


Chris: Hi.

Existential Crisis: Hello. You've been expecting me?

Chris: What do you think I am, a moron? Of course I was.

EC: No. Not a moron. Maybe a little bit too in love with the things around you to admit me.

Chris: Hmpf.

EC: Well?

Chris: Well, what?