Goodbye, Golden Girl

Another one of my beloved Golden Girls has passed away. Bea Arthur died yesterday here in Los Angeles after a battle with cancer. We now only have Betty White and Rue McClanahan as the surviving members of the foursome who were such a part of my life during the 1980s and have remained a favorite thanks to reruns on various channels since then.

I never missed an episode of The Golden Girls when the show was airing on NBC, and a friend and I would call each other each week to talk about what had happened. I still recall vividly the show where the Dorothy, Rose, and Blanche have been arrested in a sweep of a hotel frequented by prostitutes. Rose starts talking about a possum, and Dorothy says something to the effect of how many "exploding possum stories" Rose has told lately, only to be reminded that it was a pig, not a possum, that exploded. My friend called me during the commercial, said two words, "exploding possum," collapsed into giggles, and hung up. We had to wait almost half an hour after the episode before we could talk without laughing.

You know how people like to watch shows with four female characters (Sex and the City, Designing Women, etc.) and try to determine which one they and their friends most closely resemble? Everyone thinks he/she is a Carrie, and everyone wishes they could be a Suzanne. Well, play that game with The Golden Girls, and you'll find me as a Dorothy. Ironic, isn't it, that I'm a Dorothy and a Friend of Dorothy's?

Arthur was a master of the put-down and the withering look. She could silence anyone with one glare from those intense eyes of hers. Just two words--"Shady Pines"--would be enough to freeze her mother on the show, Sophia, played by the dearly missed Estelle Getty. Arthur also had the ability to sing and dance, talents that were at times put to good use on the show, perhaps most effectively in the episode where Dorothy and Blanche are competing for the attention of the men at the Rusty Anchor. Dorothy's rendition of "What'll I Do" silences the room, and she starts to bring sheet music to the bar to sing on a regular basis. Her version of "Hard-Hearted Hannah" is a treat.

Arthur also created the memorable title character on Maude. She was best known for her line, "God'll get you for that, Walter," but my favorite episode was built around a telethon where she promised that "Mark Spitz will drink a glass of milk on this very stage." Maude was a strong feminist icon of the early 1970s, but Dorothy Zbornak from The Golden Girls was a fitting companion, a symbol of what women could do for each other and on their own.

I have to mention Arthur's most famous role on the stage and in the movies, Vera Charles from Mame. The movie version cast Lucille Ball as Mame, a horrible decision given her age and inability to carry a tune any longer. She sounded like Michigan J. Frog, and the cameraman had to shoot her through so many layers of cheesecloth you could barely recognize her. Arthur, though, was perfectly cast. Her duet with Ball (and, earlier, with Angela Lansbury, in the stage production) on "Bosom Buddies" is note-perfect. One of my favorite songs in the show, though, is her rendition of "The Man in the Moon Is a Lady." Her delivery of it is incomparable. The video clip is from a Jerry Herman tribute. Unsurprisingly, Arthur stole the show just as she often did.



One of my prized possessions--including all of the seasons of The Golden Girls on DVD--is the CD of her one-woman show, Just Between Friends. She tells stories of her career, she tells jokes, she sings, she does it all. I listened to it again this morning after reading in the newspaper about her death. I will miss you, Bea. We don't see your kind much these days, and the world is a sadder place as a result.

Happy Birthday

Today is Barbra Streisand's birthday. The above picture was snapped by her brother Sheldon. I hope there's still some of that little girl inside of her today as she celebrates her 67th birthday.

Every gay man has a diva, at least one. She's someone whose work he admires and/or whose life story inspires him. I have friends who are enthralled by Judy Garland or Cher or Edith Piaf or Bette Midler or Marilyn Monroe. Even today's young gay men have divas although they're having to make do with people like Britney Spears and Taylor Swift, sadly.

My diva has been Streisand since at least 1975. That was the year my mother took me to see my first Streisand movie, Funny Lady. I enjoyed the movie, but it wasn't until the following year, with the release of the soundtrack to A Star Is Born, that I became a full-fledged fan. I bought the single and the album. Then I had to buy a second copy of the album because I wore the first one out playing it so often. To top it off, I had my grandfather drive me and a cousin to the movie theater in Corinth, almost an hour drive away, to see the movie when it opened. I was hooked, and I was only thirteen.

I own all her records. I once owned them all on vinyl, but now I have them all on CD (well, except for The Owl and the Pussycat soundtrack, which isn't available on CD). I have seen every movie she's ever made, and I own all of them on DVD now. I've seen her in concert twice, first at Arrowhead Pond when she returned to live performing and then a few years later at the Staples Center. In fact, I flew my mother out to Los Angeles so that I could take her to the Staples Center concert. It was really her love of Streisand that made me into a fan. In some small way, I hope the concert was a little bit of repayment.

I'm not an obsessive fan, just so you know. I don't have an entire wall of photographs or anything like that (the way Richard Simmons used to have). I just like her singing and her acting, and I admire the work she has done throughout her career on behalf of civil rights and the environment. She's a lifelong Democrat and so am I, so we share opinions on a lot of social issues.

What I think draws me to her is the story of how this shy, awkward girl grew up almost in poverty. Her family was lower middle class at best, and she claims they didn't even own a couch when she was growing up. She was an outsider at school, and she was frequently taunted by the other children because of her looks. She knew she wanted a career in show business, but even her mother discouraged her, telling her to learn how to type since she was going to wind up as a secretary. (That's why Streisand has always had such long nails, by the way, to spite her mother.) Despite all of the negativity that surrounded her, she made herself into a star. There's something quite remarkable about a person who decides to listen to the voice inside her head instead of all of those voices that surround her.

I don't think it's that much of a stretch to see the connection to a shy, awkward kid growing up in rural Mississippi who manages, despite his family's poverty, to get a college education, move to California, and become a relative success as a teacher despite all of the people along the way who said it would be too difficult. I was told by a lot of people along the way that I wouldn't be able to make it at the university level, that I would miss my family if I moved away to go to school, that I wouldn't like California, that I'd never get a job teaching at the college level. So you see I can somewhat empathize when I read Streisand's biography even though I'm not an entertainer.

It isn't as if you have to accept wholeheartedly every move that your diva makes, by the way. She really does have poor taste in song selection sometimes, particularly since the 1980's. She has made some very oddball choices in films too (e.g., All Night Long, Nuts). She can be infuriatingly stubborn too, supporting some politicians and/or candidates who are just not exceptional choices.

Yet I'm willing to forgive every misstep whenever I hear her sing "Evergreen." I still cry each time I watch The Way We Were. I can still vividly recall that moment when the curtain was pulled back to reveal her at the top of the staircase in The Concert. That's what it means to have a diva, that unconditional love for her talent and her drive and her accomplishments.

Happy Birthday, Barbra.

Going Up

Yesterday, the folks who have been working on the elevators in my apartment building finally finished. It's been five months (actually, almost six now) of having only one elevator in service at a time. You're probably wondering why having just one would be a problem. There are thirteen floors to my building and twelve apartments on each floor (eight of them are two-bedroom apartments). That's 156 apartments, most of them occupied, many of them by more than one person, sometimes by entire families. One that I know of on the first floor has eight people living in it. (And the bottom floor is called the Main Floor, not the first floor. How very cosmopolitan and vaguely European of us.)

During peak times, like the morning and afternoon rush, those elevators get very full. Everyone is trying to go to work or trying to come home. Many times over the past few months, the door to the elevator has opened to reveal a dozen people crammed inside and no room to add just one more. I have climbed six flights of stairs more than I care to remember, including a very memorable day when I had to make the trek three times with my laundry. And you probably just shouldn't ask how much fun we've had on the days that people moved in or moved out. Imagine trying to squeeze in between the mattress, box springs, bedside tables, lamps, boxes, and everything else someone has crammed into that small enclosed space. It's a good thing I'm not claustrophobic. And no one is in a very welcoming mood, frankly.

The repairs have been necessary, I suppose. The elevators haven't been upgraded, pretty much, since they were installed in the late 1940s-early 1950s. They needed to be modernized. They are far more sleek looking inside, compared to the carpeted walls we had before that always made me think of a rumpus room. We now have a lovely voice telling us in gentle tones which floor we have stopped on, no doubt for those who are visually impaired. And the buttons are easier to read, thanks to the larger size. Yeah, I know I'm getting older when I appreciate "large print" elevator buttons.

Not everyone has caught on yet, by the way. We all still wait beside the one that's been working the past couple of months by itself. When the "new" one opens up, people are reluctant to step inside because they aren't sure it's truly fixed. I've been in it twice now, and I have to say it's a smooth ride up to my floor now.

Just as an aside, I should mention that a couple of the guys working on the elevators the past couple of months were model-handsome, well built young men with attractive faces. We get some of the hottest people here to take care of and fix stuff. When the rewiring project was going on last summer, one of the crew members stopped traffic when he walked around the hallways. He was just that good looking. Even the two young guys who haul out the garbage bins from the basement each Friday could be working the runways. I don't know why that is. I'm just grateful for it.

I'm also very grateful to have both elevators working again. I've been hoping they'd get finished in time for me to buy a new set of living room furniture before summer school starts in mid-June. The current set is very shabby, having been used now for the past thirteen years. It's white-ish (white adjacent?) and shows dirt far too easily. I'm ready for a change, but I wouldn't have dared to have any furniture delivered when we had only one elevator in service. So it looks like I'll be shopping in the next few weeks for a new, smaller, darker couch or sofa (still don't know the difference) and chairs. It's going to look like a whole new apartment when I'm done, hopefully, and now I have brand new elevators to ride to get to it too. Such small pleasures in life, sometimes, I know, but aren't they worth it?

Too Hot to Fish

When I was growing up in the South, on days like the ones we've been having so far this week, my grandfather would sometimes remark, "It's too hot to fish." If you don't know much about older Southern gentlemen like my grandfather, let me enlighten you. It has to be mighty hot to be too hot to fish. They love going to a creek bank or a pond somewhere and spending all afternoon in the sun waiting for that tug on the fishing line. For it to be too hot to do that is saying something.

I went to see the movie Adventureland on Sunday (good movie, by the way), and when I got in my car to go home, the temperature gauge inside the car read 109 degrees. It was 3 p.m. I immediately cranked up the air conditioning and rolled down every window in hopes that I would not burn to a crisp immediately. Of course, the gauge is a reflection of more than just the actual temperature; it also is heavily influenced by the amount of sun, so I know it wasn't truly 109 degrees. However, we did go over the 100-degree mark on Sunday.

And in the city where I work, we topped out at 100 degrees on both Sunday and Monday. Monday was a particular delight because I got to walk from my office to class several times during the day. Then, on the drive home, between 7 and 8 p.m. or so, the gauge in the care consistently read more than 90 degrees. For most of the ride, it hovered around 95 or 96 degrees. This was after the sun had gone down, a time when the temperature usually drops to something more comfortable.

This morning it was already 71 degrees when I got up at 4:15 a.m. It never cooled down last night, and today was still near the top of the thermometer. I don't know if we set another record today like we have the past couple of days, but I wouldn't be at all surprised.

I'm realizing more and more that these extremes of temperature (way too hot or way too cold) are what truly bother me, and it gets particularly bad if the temperature rises and falls a lot during the same week (wich is apparently going to be the case here this week). If it stays relatively consistent, I'm fine with the weather in California. However, it's April and we've already hit 100 degrees a couple of times. I'm coming home exhausted and sweaty and more than a little smelly, I'd imagine. (Sorry for anyone who's had to stand or sit close to me the past couple of days.) I need more moderate weather.

Yes, I know I grew up in the South where the temperatures are even higher and the humidity creates another charming factor. But I've not lived in the South for 19 years now, and I know I wouldn't survive a full summer there. A week in New Orleans one May a couple of years ago almost killed me. It was already 100 degrees with 90 percent humidity at 8 a.m. How anyone lives through that is beyond me. (Well, I know how they do it. They stay indoors where the air conditioning is working.) I have all of the windows open here and a fan going, and I still think it's too hot.

Relief is on the way, according to the weather forecast. I'm hoping the cold spell we're about to face (dropping to a frigid 78 degrees tomorrow) will be more permanent than this 90-100+ stuff we've endured recently.

Blue Monday

Today was an exhausting day. The first day back from Spring Break is never easy, but today was more brutal than similar days in years past. I was already tired from having spent much of the previous week grading student papers, so I needed the students to take on their share of the burden. I wasn't too lucky in getting that to happen.

By the way, what you see above is the stack of essays that I graded during my "week off." (I put it next to my briefcase to give you a sense of scale and/or proportion.) Anyone who thinks that all teachers have the luxury of Spring Break never had to lug 186 essays home and try to parcel them out so that you can enjoy yourself a little bit during your alleged "vacation." I managed to finish them all, though, at about 9:30 last night. I even returned four of the eight stacks today, so I'm already halfway done with letting students know where they stand in my class at this (late) point in the semester. That, at least, has been a success so far.

The trouble with today was that the students in myfirst two classes were not ready to come back from Spring Break. A lot of people were absent, and only 17 of the students in the first class submitted their final drafts today, and only about three people had done the assigned reading for the quiz. The second class was even worse. Only 12 papers submitted, but at least five people had done some reading. These are both developmental writing classes, and I'm starting to get worried (more than they are, obviously) that a lot of them will have to repeat the class because they just aren't doing the work. Yes, I know it was cruel of me to expect them to do work during Spring Break. Have I drawn your attention to the picture above yet?

The freshman composition class this afternoon was also filled with too many people who hadn't done the reading. This is a book we're going to talk about for the next two weeks, and many of them haven't started it yet. It's going to be the focus of their final research paper of the semester, and a few of them didn't even have it with them today. Sigh. Trying to get them to talk about the book--the ones who had read, anyway--was almost a futile effort until I forced them to sit in a circle and confront each other. Surprisingly, they did better once they had to face each other. I may have them sit in a circle for the rest of the semester.

A good night's sleep will, undoubtedly, make me feel better. I'm hopeful that Tuesday's classes will run more smoothly. The students tomorrow will, at least, have had an additional day to prepare themselves for the return to work. Otherwise, these last four weeks of classes are going to be quite an excruciating ordeal for them and for me. Wish me and them both luck.

Reading List

I've been trying to read for pleasure at times during the past couple of years. I have so many books on my shelves that have been waiting for me to find the time to tackle them. Two weeks ago, I started Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart. J actually looked at me funny when I brought it to class during the midterms and tried to read a bit of it while the students were writing. Turns out he had read it in high school, so that means I'm already behind someone almost half my age in terms of my reading lists. I'll never catch up at this rate.

I finished it last Tuesday while my car was getting an oil change and brake job. It was an interesting book, but I think it probably is better suited to a high school level reader in terms of its plot. Not to say that it isn't a worthy work of literature, but the ending is one that would more likely guarantee a discussion in a high school English class. A college class would probably be a bit too jaded to be surprised.

Lest you think my pleasure reading is taken up solely by works of so-called "great literature," my current book is John Grisham's A Time to Kill. I picked up Grisham's The Firm during my first week at USC back in 1990. (They were selling "real" books in the college bookstore, not just textbooks. What a strange concept that seemed to me at the time.) Grisham went to my alma mater in Mississippi, and I had met him there not too long after he signed his first movie deal for the rights to The Firm (which would star Tom Cruise and feature a horribly butchered, completely implausible ending). A Time to Kill was his first book, and it too would later become a film (starring Matthew McConaughey in his first major role, as the crusading lawyer even Grisham admits he wanted to be but never was). It has all of the failings of a first novel--too much exposition, too much love of the odd characteristics of the central figures, too much "telling" instead of "showing"--yet there is something compulsively readable about it.

This is an incredibly long novel, 500+ pages in paperback, and I'm only about 170 pages in so far. I only get to read for pleasure while doing laundry on Fridays these days, so it might take a while to get through this one. I remember it took several months to make it through Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All, but that was worth the journey. I don't think A Time to Kill is anywhere near as good a book as Allan Gurganus's epic (700+ pages), but so far I am enjoying it immensely. It is a pleasure to be able to read a book without having to think about how you would write a paper on it or how you would assign it to a class for discussion.

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.