The Lone Holdout

I think I may be the only person left who just doesn't understand Taylor Swift's popularity. Of course, I don't fully understand the popularity of Mylie Cyrus (who sings through her nose) and the Jonas Brothers (the less said, the better), either, but maybe that's a post for another day.

I watched the Academy of Country Music Awards last night while grading papers. Swift made several appearances throughout the show, but given how successful she has been this past year, I guess that's really no surprise. She's appeared on almost every music awards show in recent memory, always performing some variation of a "woe is me" song. She even won two awards last night, including Album of the Year over such musical stalwarts as George Strait and Montgomery Gentry.

I had confirmed for me last night what I have believed all along. She cannot sing live. At least, not on key. Each time she has sung on an awards show, I am left wondering how anyone can stand to listen to her for an entire concert. Her voice must benefit a great deal of the work done in the studio. Is this another one of those instances where the performance is made by skilled technicians rather than the singer? I think that must be the case.

I also imagine that the look she sported last night and that she tends to favor--a short dress with cowboy boots--is going to be a popular look for a while now. More's the pity.

Look, I get it on some level. Young people need role models and idols too. They should have someone who is much like themselves in terms of emotional development (those overwrought emotions!) but far more talented than themselves in order feel like they have something to aspire to become. And I'm okay with that. I don't begrudge Swift or Cyrus or the Jonas Brothers their success. I just wish they weren't touted as being skilled musicians, and I wish the airwaves weren't always filled with their music or with music by performers like them.

Several years ago, one of the managers for one of the boy bands that was popular at the time (I usually can't tell them apart, to be honest) was asked why such bands continue to be popular. His reply: "Because they keep making teenage girls." I think that might account for all of these young people who keep appearing on the music charts and on awards shows and even on the big screen--in 3-D, no less.

I'm earning my old fogie credentials in saying this, I know, but if this is the future of music, I'll be listening to oldies for the rest of my life. And I don't think that will be such a bad thing, after all.

Dreaming of Anderson Cooper

Twice this week, I've had dreams about Anderson Cooper, the silver-haired CNN host. I'll admit that he is a handsome fellow, and the gray-white hair does make him look awfully distinguished (even if I'm four years older than he is), and those eyes are lovely. I don't know why my dreams have been focusing on him, though. I'm usually very good at "interpreting" other people's dreams, but when I dream about Andy, I'm at a bit of a loss. The first dream was a bit frustrating, admittedly, because I woke up just as I had gotten him down to either Speedos or Underoos--I don't recall which. (He's pretty much fish-belly white all over, in case you're wondering.) Two nights later, we were just talking, nothing sexual going on at all. I'm beginning to think this is some sort of metaphor for my love life, but why it's being expressed through his repeated appearances is beyond my comprehension.

Nutty Neighbors: Here We Go Again

You will see from the picture above that I, once again, am living next door to a vacant apartment. This last group was here for a torturous six months. I can't say that I was particularly sad to see them go. I do realize that my fears of the exploding crystal meth lab that becomes an all-night roller disco may be realized with the next set of tenants, but I'm very happy that Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls are no longer around.

I know I haven't shared all of the details of their brief time in the building. Perhaps you'd be interested to know why I nicknamed one of the girls Sasquatch? She managed to stomp around the apartment so loudly that everyone knew where she was at every moment. You'd know when she was headed for the door or when she was walking through the short corridor to the master bedroom or when she was in the kitchen on the rare occasions when they cooked. The funny thing is that their apartment is carpeted, unlike mine, which has hardwood floors. How do you make that much noise walking around on a carpeted floor?

And they didn't even own a vacuum cleaner until about two months ago. I happened to ride up in the elevator with one of them when she brought it home. They then proceeded to vacuum for the next two hours. Each time they got the urge to clean, you could count on two hours of that sucking sound. How filthy must that carpet have been to have gone four months without being vacuumed?

After about a month or so, I got tired of knocking on the door to ask them to turn down their music. They loved anything with that annoying Auto-Tuner sound. I just decided to call the security patrol each time. That way, there would at least be a record of their disturbances. Some weeks, I had to call four or five times. They never seemed to learn that other people lived in the building and didn't want to hear their music. And it wasn't just me. I know security stopped by a couple of times when I hadn't yet called, so other people were annoyed with the neighbors and their music. (And it wasn't only music. You should have heard the ruckus the night a friend brought a videogame player. Oy.)

We also kept getting notices about their smoking on the balcony. They did try to help, I suppose, by putting a two-liter Sprite bottle out there so they could douse their cigarettes when they finished smoking. I guess they should be applauded for the ingenuity and generosity, but I'm not feeling particularly charitable toward them these days.

I never did figure out how many people lived there. They were late in paying the rent last month, perhaps one reason they moved out so quickly. Only two names--both female--were listed on the letter, which was taped to the door of the apartment so that everyone could see. (Hey, the apartment management company doesn't fool around with delinquent tenants.) However, I know at least three guys lived there at various times. Mr. Echo was a frequent presence, and so was this guy with short hair who tended to call people up late at night to ask if they wanted to go clubbing. Yes, I could always hear their conversations through the wall. They were just that loud. I'll never forget one of his last conversations when he kept yelling into the phone about how untalented so many people in this town are. (Pot? It's Kettle calling for you. Thanks.)

Speaking of loud, you'd perhaps be happy to know that Mr. Echo had an active sex life. He "plays on my team," as the saying goes, and he and his current boyfriend/partner/trick would sometimes wake me up at 3 a.m. with their "love sounds." I mean, I have to admire anyone with the stamina to have sex at 3 a.m these days, but some of us have work to go to. I need my beauty sleep, as much of it as I can get.

I also managed to discover, somewhat accidentally, what two of them did to make a living. Mr. Echo and I got on the elevator at the same time one day, and he was carrying one of those fruit arrangements--you know, the kind made to look like a bouquet of flowers (not really, but go with me here). Turns out that was his job, making fruit into party centerpieces. Sasquatch is apparently an actress. Obviously, not a very talented one, since she didn't manage to find an acting job during the six months that she lived in Los Angeles. I don't know what she plans to do next, but judging from the conversation she had with a stringy-haired new boy on the Saturday of the move, she's going to be in Long Beach. God help all of you who live there if she becomes your neighbor. No, I don't know if Mr. Echo is moving with her. Oddly enough, I didn't ask.

The move actually started two weeks ago. A couple of friends stopped by to help Sasquatch pack up her clothes. Well, "pack" is a bit generous for what they did. It was more like stuffing clothes into shopping bags. No suitcases, no wardrobes, no boxes, just old Nordstrom and Abercrombie bags. They took clothes out of the apartment for a couple of hours, and then the place sat quiet for a couple of days. I actually thought they had already moved out Mr. Echo and Telephone Man came back in the middle of the week.

This past weekend, Mama Sasquatch showed up, as he had when Sasquatch had moved in last fall. (And, yes, now I know where Sasquatch gets her charming personality. These people would have to work on improving themselves just to become white trash.) I managed to see Mama walking out with a couple of lamps, with Sasquatch following behind her with a microwave in tow. Piece by piece, they moved stuff out, rugs, cushions from the floor, a box of dishes (yes, one box). It didn't take that long since, as I mentioned before, they had so little in the apartment. I was right, by the way, about the lack of bedroom furniture. I was here when the Great Mattress Removal began. Only mattresses left that apartment, no beds. How can anyone stand to sleep on a mattress on the floor? I know they're young, but that's just asking too much. And there was no couch either, just the aforementioned cushions.

It wasn't official, of course, until the magic white keyhole (although it's actually more yellow than white) appeared this past Monday. I did another little dance in the hallway when I realized that they were gone for good. I know it probably won't be long until another set of tenants moves in. I just hope the new folks are more respectful and quiet. It would be nice if they were also people who had jobs, so then they'd go to bed before 3 or 4 in the morning. Of course, with my luck, they'll probably be elephant trainers who bring their charges home with them in order to make the pachyderms more comfortable.

A Discovery

For the past couple of weeks, I've been fighting a sinus infection. I've had good days and bad days, a lot of sniffling and sneezing, and a scratchy throat for much of those two weeks.

You might remember that last year at this time, on the Friday before Spring Break, I was undergoing surgery to have a skin cancer removed from my nose. I was left with a little scar where the graft didn't quite completely work, close to the top on the right side of my nose. I thought it was just a small indention that I'd have for the rest of my life, barring some sort of cosmetic procedure.

I was shaving one day last week when I needed to sneeze. I grabbed my nose to try to contain as much of it as I could, yet when I sneezed some of "it" escaped from the scar left from my surgery. That's right. I have a hole that goes all the way through. Yes, I have a blowhole.

I'm going to try to restrain myself from showing off this new talent to everyone I meet. However, I'm sure it would be a hit at birthday parties and bar mitzvahs.

Perhaps It's Just Me

All this week, I've been having students write impromptu, or in-class, essays. Every one of my four writing classes did this, and my literature class had an essay exam. I require students to bring a "blue book" to class to write in on those days, and I allow them to submit the blue books early, so I can check them and put a copy of the prompt inside. Everyone knows this. I remind them of it endlessly in the weeks leading up to the actual day of the impromptu.

So on Wednesday, I went to the second of my developmental writing classes to administer the impromptu. I handed out the blue books that had already been checked, and I collected the ones brought that day, checked them, and returned them with an assignment sheet inside. I took attendance, and then I realized that one student in the room was not writing. She was just sitting in the back of the room looking at her notebook. I made a gesture as if to ask, "What's going on?" She just looked down at her notebook again.

I took her into the hallway outside the classroom. Here's basically what was said...

"Do you have a blue book?"

"I bought one, but I forgot it."

"Well, you need one for today's impromptu, so maybe you should go to the bookstore and get another one."

"I already bought one. I just forgot it."

"I understand that, but all we're doing today is in-class writing and you have to have a blue book for that. Do you understand?"

"I know."

"Do you not have any money?"

"No, I have money."

"Okay, then, you should get your money and go to the bookstore and come back as quickly as you can, so you can start writing."

She walked back into the classroom, picked up her stuff, and left. The bookstore is just across the street from the building we were in at the time, a few hundred yards away. A blue book costs about 30 cents, hardly a bank-breaker. Do I even need to tell you that she never returned to class? She just left.

This student has yet to submit a paper for grading this semester. She's done some prewriting activities and even managed to write a rough draft for one of them, but I've never gotten a final draft from her. She also has a perfect "0" on her reading quizzes. She simply folds them in half and puts them away in her notebook. She never answers any of the questions or turns them in.

I don't know what to make of this. Perhaps I just don't understand students. I expect them to submit papers in a writing class. I expect them to do a little writing in class from time to time. Even my assigning some reading shouldn't be all that shocking. And, yet, I'm still getting nothing from her.

No, she didn't drop the class. I know that's what some of you are thinking. I do believe she's hoping that if she just comes to class every day--and she's only missed the one day that I sent her to the bookstore--she'll pass. Of course, that's never going to happen, but perhaps that's my hang-up as well.

Not What I Meant at All

Thanks to my participation in a program designed to help students transfer faster, I have to attend a monthly meeting with other faculty in the program, people from the math department and counselers and other English teachers and (this time around) a sociology professor. We share how the students, who are rigorously tracked for their performance, are doing, particuarly those who are doing well and those who might be in danger of failing. You learn a great deal about what's going on in your students' lives, and it does give you a better context for understanding why sometimes they are having difficulty in your class. It usually turns out that they're having difficulties in all of their classes.

On Thursday, when it was my turn to share, I talked about only three students who are having difficulty. One is passing but barely, mostly because she can't shut up talking long enough to pay attention. Another is earning a low "D" right now, and I think it's because of her limited proficiency in the English language. The third student has had one problem after another this semester, causing her to miss 11 class sessions. We've met 22 times as a class so far, so you can do the math yourself to figure out why she's not doing well.

When I shared this with the group, several people jumped in to tell me that I should drop this student from the class. (They're usually very good about telling you how you should run your classes, by the way.) In theory, I understand and even accept their rationale for doing so. However, this student keeps e-mailing me to tell me what's been happening--the latest is the death of her grandmother--and asking me not to drop her from the class. I've told her how she's doing in the class. I've explained to her what she's missed so far and how much work it will take for her to make all of that up in the very few weeks we have remaining. I have, in other words, kept in contact with her and not dropped her. I shared with the group that I think the student, as an adult, has to make the decision, not me. She still thinks she can come back to the class and be successful after everything that's happened. I know that the odds are against her, but if she wants to try, that's her call to make. And I said something to the effect that a student who knows that she/he is going to fail has as much right to stay in a class as one who knows that she/he is going to succeed.

When the next teacher started to give his report, he commented on who was doing well and who wasn't, and he said that he was going to drop a student who had missed fewer classes than my student had because, as he put it, "I don't want my students to fail." Naturally, he glanced quickly in my direction, accusing me nonverbally of wanting mine to do that very thing. Now, I ask you, is that what I said?

Am I wrong for letting a student make up her own mind about her classes? It's not as if she doesn't know how much difficulty she's going to face because I have told her. I've even given her a printed grade report that shows her the grade she's currently earning. So why should I tell her that her grandmother's death and the other problems she's faced make her ineligible to stay in my class now? I don't want her to fail, but I also don't want to treat her like she's a child with no ability to make a choice on her own.

This is my last semester working in this program. I've been involved in it, off and on, for about eight of the fifteen years I've been at my college. I've enjoyed it, for the most part, and I know that it's a very successful program for the students who participate in it. But I'm feeling very burned out by it. I just want to teach "regular" classes for a while, classes where I don't have to act like some sort of substitute parent for a student who's a grown-up. I'm weary of being asked to do what I think amounts to coddling students a bit too much, maybe I'm not that good of a fit for it any longer. Apparently, some of my colleagues would agree.

A Memory

In the spring of 1998, Partner At The Time and I went to New York for Spring Break. Ostensibly, we were going with a group of opera students from my college. They were going to spend the week going to various operas and museums. PATT and I were going to see just one opera, Der Meisterzinger von Nuremberg (or something close to that), four hours of Wagner at the Metropolitan Opera House. What we wanted to do instead of seeing a lot of opera was to see a lot of Broadway shows. So we did tourist things during the daytime, and in the early afternoons, we made our way to the TKTS booth in Times Square and selected a show for the evening. It was a great week.

The hottest show in town that spring was a revival of Cabaret starting Alan Cumming and Natasha Richardson. I thought we should take a chance on tickets, so we stopped at the office for the Roundabout Theatre Company and stood in a very long line. Most people were walking away disappointed because the only seats left were what were dubbed "obstructed view." The other tickets you could purchase were for weeks or months in advance. I asked what views were obstructed and was told that some dancers would be above us at certain points in the show. I figured it was worth the risk and bought two.

What an excellent decision it turned out to be. The front rows of the show were set up as tables at a cabaret itself, so we had one all to ourselves. We were about 10-15 feet away from the stage itself, and members of the cast frequently walked by us on the way to the stage. In fact, at one point, Alan Cumming (as the Emcee) stood next to us while waiting for his cue. He turned and looked at us and winked. Hey, it's always nice to acknowledge the gay members of the audience, I'd imagine. The only part of the show we couldn't see was the dancing done by a couple of people above us on a metal walkway; in all, we missed about 30 seconds of something that wasn't integral to the plot.

The show was spectacular, an amazing recreation of Berlin's night life between the two World Wars. Cumming was great, a real scene-stealer. And Natasha Richardson was so beautiful and fragile as Sally Bowles, the singer who can't seem to make good decisions in her life. It's a part that allows actresses to show quite a range of talent, and Richardson did not disappoint. PATT and I both jumped to our feet at the end of the show to applaud her and the rest of the cast. Later that year, when she won the Tony Award for Best Actress in a Musical, we cheered again (this time in our living room, though).

This past week, Richardson passed away after suffering a head injury in a skiing accident. I've thought several times then of that magical night in New York more than a decade ago. It's a special relationship that theater performers have with the audience. They know when they are loved, and they can sense when the crowd is on their side. Richardson was a gifted performer: a great actress with astonishing depth and a talented singer as well.

Richardson comes from a long line of actors and performers. Her mother is the always amazing Vanessa Redgrave, and her father is famed director Tony Richardson. Her aunt is Lynn Redgrave, and her grandfather was Sir Michael Redgrave. Her sister is Joely Richardson, perhaps best known for her performance as Julia on Nip/Tuck. Natasha was also married to another great actor, Liam Neeson. She was surrounded by so many talented people throughout her life. It was perhaps inevitable that should would demonstrate the same skills as an actor that they possessed; it was in her blood.

Natasha Richardson didn't have the traditional career of a movie star, perhaps, but she really didn't need to when she could perform on stage and in the movies with equal ease. She always brought to her roles a sensitivity that made you care about her character. I will always treasure having seen her work as Sally Bowles, particularly her performance of "Maybe This Time," one of my favorite songs from that show. Its words have haunted me since hearing of her passing.