RateMyProfessor: Oops, Is That ME?

The last time I looked at my TU ratings I scored 4.7 out of 5. Not too shabby. The comments were positive with words like “Awesome” “Great” and other superlatives. Great for the ego.
So today I looked at my TCC ratings from 3 students based on my classes from the spring of 2010. I scored 3.4 out of 5 with comments like “He doesn’t teach much, but gives bonus points.” What the HELL? Is this the same professor? Then it hit me. Yes, it is the same professor, but TCC is all labs with no real chance to teach content. All show and tell. All models. And, my classes were way above the average in both grades and retention. Disconnect? I think so. My lab teaching technique, developed over decades of teaching (too many decades maybe?) is to NOT give people the answers to questions like “Is this the right or left clavicle?” My answer: “I don’t know. Let’s try to figure it out.” Then I show them how to figure it out, without ever telling them the answer. Works like a charm and before long they burrow into material on their own. And they don’t realize they have learned to learn. Probably the most important thing anyone can learn.
So I feel bad about the ratings and comments, but understand that learning to learn is not as apparent as memorizing a list of bones. I can’t wait to see the ratings from this term. Maybe I will soar up to 3.5.
Image: www.flickr.com/photos/wakingtiger/3157622170/

Thanks.

Thanksgiving. I have been thinking about thanksgiving and all the church signs I see around with some variant of "Thank God" for something. That got me in a really negative mode because there is no doubt that if you thank some being for the good things then you must hold that same being responsible for the bad things. At least as I see it. Then I read a blog (1) posted by one of my favorite authors, a woman suffering and possibly dying from MS. She shamed me with her long list of “thanks” without once thanking any kind of god. I went back over my own thoughts and did after all find lots of things to be thankful for. Thank you to Sally for all the years you have put up with and loved me. Grateful for being alive and relative healthy, not rich, but not poor either, good friends, and the list got longer and longer.
With deities off the table, anyone can be grateful for anything. Or appreciative even. Like a beautiful sunrise or powerful storm. A poem or novel or play or symphony. Anything. Negative just slips away.
So I think my point is this: If you feel the need to thank some god for everything good that ever happens, then you should hold some god responsible for the times when things go wrong. “Thank you God for the food on our table, but where are you when people are starving in the Sudan?” And “Thank you God for protecting my child while she was deployed in Afghanistan, but where were you when other children were shredded by IEDs? And by the way, why are we at war anyway? If you are so powerful and loving, surely you could solve that little problem without butchering thousands of innocent people?”
Get the point? No praise without responsibility.

1. “A Writers Thanksgiving” : http://asknicola.blogspot.com/2010/11/writers-thanksgiving.html
Image: iskcon.net.au

WIC and CIGS

He was ahead of me in the line at Harveys. Three WIC vouchers four piles of stuff. I don’t know how WIC really works, but obviously each of the vouchers either had a dollar limit or a food type or he saved them up. He got milk, eggs, cheese, some cereal and a few other things on the vouchers. Each pile had to be checked out separately, each voucher signed separately. The fourth pile was beer, and the cashier got a couple cartons of cigs. Out came the wallet with a wad of 20s. That really pissed me off. Essentially I paid for his kid’s food and he paid for his beer and cigs. It still pisses me off.
Sally pointed out that with the vouchers, at least his kids got fed (and so did he, the greedy bastard) because he would have bought the beer and cigs anyway, and not food. She is undoubtedly right. It still pissed me off. If this guy makes enough to wave that kind of cash around why the hell is he getting the vouchers in the first place? Maybe works for cash so no paper trail? I don’t know. And maybe when he gets home he will sell the groceries to a neighbor, send the kids to eat a free lunch at school and sit around watching his flat screen drinking beer and smoking. Just the thought of that pisses me off.
More good news: the economy in Florida will generate 1.3 million jobs in the next few years due to the recovery that is well underway. So the morons in Florida that “Threw the bastards out” threw out the wrong bastards. No accounting for morons.
Image: http://farmdirectmarket.powersites.net/files/2010/09/WIC.jpg

Breaking News: Blurred Groin Syndrome!!

A newly discovered physical/anatomical disorder is called blurred groin syndrome or BGS. Men have wondered for years why the shape of some men’s “junk” was obvious even through clothing, while others could wear anything for jeans to Speedos and still not have that “come and get it” look. Now we know the answer to this perplexing problem: BGS. That’s right; there is something about the anatomical and electrophasic distribution of the body’s meridia that cause a blurring of the groin area, resulting in a nearly invisible set of genitalia. This syndrome was confirmed inadvertently as comedian Dave Barry was directed by TSA into a pat-down room because the full body scanner could not image his “package” (1). He was told he had a blurred groin. It seems that this strange combination of anatomical and electrical phenomena affects not only the retinal imaging of genitalia but also the X-ray imaging.
So after years of carrying equivalent junk and getting ignored by everyone, men finally have an answer: BGS. Laboratories around the world are currently at work to provide a drug to relieve the symptoms of BGS. Early tests of one drug showed great promise: mice that have notoriously blurred groins were given a two week course of experimental drug “X”, and were observed to have rat-sized genitals! Who Knew? The drug is scheduled to move directly to phase three trials because many of the top regulators in the country have been accused of not having any balls and they want to prove that they have. We shall all see very soon.
(Secret research for this breaking news report is secret, so don’t ask. It is, however, copyrighted)
Image: http://www.aclu.org/files/images/client/BodyScanner.jpg (note that the gun is easliy seen, but the "junk" is invisable!)
1. http://www.npr.org/2010/11/15/131338172/humorist-dave-barry-and-the-tsa

Effie

Effie in the Middle with Greta and Yuyu on either side. Young Matt Search in lap.

And that (story about Corky below) reminds me of another aunt, Aunt Effie. She was my father’s youngest sibling and in many ways the hell raiser of the crowd. Effie was born sometime in the early 1900’s and grew up in the flapper and depression days. She never missed a chance to have fun. She wandered from job to job and man to man, marrying one twice, and scandalizing the family. She borrowed money when stuck in some dive of a town, and made the rounds from brothers to sisters when she was “between situations”.
Aunt Effie had one son, Wallace, who had lots of children and grandchildren, so in her later years Effie was always surrounded by family. She started every phone call with a sighed “Oh Kids” and went on to complain about everything possible. Sally and I stayed with her on one occasion and developed a particular mode of “sleeping”, since her bedroom and ours were connected by a closet with no doors. She was often fun despite herself and as Aunties go she was OK. A bit of hard work sometimes, but then who isn’t.
There were many legends about her, but the one most whispered about and never directly confirmed by me was the tattoo. Now you have to remember that in the 20’s and 30’s only thugs, sailors and very loose women had tattoos. Sometime during that time she got a tattoo. But not a butterfly on her shoulder or ankle, or a Celtic knot on the small of her back. No, she had a simple one: initials of someone, presumable a boyfriend, and an arrow pointing up. So far so good. The shocking part (to those who knew about it) was not only the tattoo that couldn’t be seen easily but the place where it resided. On the inside of her thigh. Remember the design, then think of the location, then think of the information content. Shocking.
Good old gal though.

Corky: KIA

Korea 4 June 1951. Corky Wray jumped with his 5th Ranger Company buddies into North Korea and was killed not long after hitting the ground. He was an only son. Corky had a great personality, always laughing and being goofy. He used to pick me up and ride me around on his tall shoulders, and sometimes let me ride with him on his paint horse. He never had a chance to do any of the things I did as an adult, but he was passionate about his country.
I just watched a video of an old guy who raises a casket flag from a different KIA each day from Memorial Day to mid October. It was touching, and I thought “I wonder what happened to my cousin’s flag after my aunt Greta died?” No matter. Nearly 61years later I remember Corky well, and in the way that adults think about their childhood years I still miss him. Maybe the shock of his death and the life-changing affect it had on Aunt Greta was part of the reason why I resisted the draft.
Ranger John G. Wray is buried in Wymore, Nebraska near his mother. If you ever get out that way, look him up and say “Hi” from me.
Image: http://www.ricarangers.org/images/05th/KIA/WrayJohnG.jpg
KIA/MIA/POW information: http://www.ricarangers.org/kiamiapow.htm

Just for Fun.

While I was looking around for an image for the post that follows this I stumbled on the website of a really incredible photographer. His name is Robert Rodriguez Jr. Here are three examples of his work and believe me his web site has much more. Take a few minutes to visit http://robertrodriguezjr.com/blog/ and enjoy your self.

Images used with permission

Cobscook Bay Spirits

We were looking for a place to have a quiet hike, and turned into Cobscook Bay State Park, an out of the way place in Northern Maine. The park and campground was closed for the season, but the boat ramp was open so we drove down there and parked. The 17 foot tide was out making it easy walking along the beach. The beach was covered with wrack weed nearly up to the high tide line, and there were lots of mussels and periwinkles everywhere. We found a trail leading up into the woods and hiked it for about 10 minutes. The trail came out around the bend from the ramp and led down onto the beach. Before us were two small “islands” that were truly islands at high tide but with care, accessible at low tide. We made it to the first island and decided to scramble over boulders and a small beach to the second. Directly in my path was a seagull feather. Naturally I picked it up (see earlier essay) and put it in my hat to honor Bird who left it for me. When we got to the second island I felt strongly that this was a sacred site, probably a burial place, where spirits were still present. I felt their interest and felt at peace. I needed something to leave to honor them and their dwelling place and thought of the feather. I pulled it from my hat and buried it shallowly at the edge of the small woodland. The feeling back to me was immediate and strong: Good. Go in Peace.
Who knows what this kind of encounter means or where it emanates from? All I can tell you is that everywhere you go you will find places like this, and any gesture of honor will be met with respect.
Image: www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=379028429194

"If" is for Children Building Daydreams

If's an illusion.

“If only time would trickle slow
Like rain that melts the falling snow
If only Lord, if only.” (1)

I have been reading the brilliant thinking of Daniel Quinn and have been struck many times how his ideas synchronize with my own. Most Biologists probably agree with his central premise that our civilization is headed over a cliff of unthinkable height to a fall of unthinkable depth. In the end he posits a way to avoid the ultimate disaster by invoking the If-Then solution. You know this solution to problems very well: “IF I could only get a better job THEN I could pay off all my bills.” The problem is with the IF. In the vast majority of cases, the IF doesn’t happen, and if it does, the THEN morphs and itself becomes illusionary. To whit: you get the better job with more salary, BUT the bills just keep coming in and may even get bigger.

In Quinn’s instance, although the premise of reverting or going forward to a tribal civilization is a compelling scenario, it looks like the world just isn’t going to do that. There seems to be no appetite for change or even capacity to recognize that we are in real trouble and need real global solutions now.
The IF in Quinn’s plan is compelling. The THEN is a good outcome. But as Roger Whittaker sings, “If’s an illusion . . . If is for children building daydreams.”

1. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbfR2l0LzfI&feature=related
Image: http://merchnow.com/store/graphics/00000006/MSI0IFEX00-CD001.jpg

The Miracle of the Woods

We went out the day before to find sign and places to wait in ambush. We found plenty of rooting on the edge of a dry swamp, and I found a hollow tree big enough to hide me and best of all it had a crack that looked out over the swamp. Perfect in every way.
We got into place before dawn the next morning, me in my tree and the other guys where ever they found. We waited. Slowly the sun crept up and the sky lightened. Now I could see the edge of the swamp. Wait. Wait. Then, low but real, the sound of slow movement. Rustling in the dri-ish saw grass. Next came a hunters dream: a huge black pig slowly walked out of the brush towards me. Twenty five yards or so. NO!! TWO!!!! One behind the other. My old Fox double barrel was loaded with magnum 00 buck. Perfect. Two shells, two pigs. Wait. Wait. They came closer and got bigger and bigger. I stepped out of the tree, aimed and fired twice. Perfect hits squarely in the head of both, and both went down.
Then the Miracle of the Woods happened. As I walked up to them, shaking with adrenalin (these were after all my first and second pigs), they started to shrink. The closer I got the smaller they got. Damn. How big are they? Closer, still shrinking. By the time I got to the bodies, or what was left of them, they had shriveled to about 15 pounds each. Babies. Just trying to be big and tough. Walking like adults. Puffing themselves up to look like 200 pounders. I felt like a real dick (pardons all around).
On the way out of the woods later that day, I passed two people coming into the woods with a camera or something. The woman muttered “Jerk. Why kill babies? Stupid hunters!” I wanted to scream “I DID NOT KILL BABIES. THESE SUCKERS WERE 200 POUNDS EACH WHEN I SHOT THEM!!!” But of course I didn’t. And of course they weren’t. They were tasty, though, cooked slowly in a smoker. Sort of pre-pulled pork.
Image: http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3065/2716321404_f860af82da_z.jpg