Kill those Redskins!

During (American) football season, I often stick my nose in my local sports book to check out the boards and occasionally drop a couple of twenties just to keep my Sunday afternoon blood pressure as high as possible. I scan the games, looking to see how big the spread is getting on my wife's Giants as they stumble through the season, Eli Manning proffering footballs to opposing defensive backs as if he were handing out treats on Halloween. I check out the 49ers as well, although the league's getting wise to Kaepernick's antics.


As I review the boards, it never occurs to me to be offended by a sports team's name. After all, teams were named in far less enlightened times. I am of course referring to the recent media rekindling of Native American discontent with Washington's mascot.

An Air force friend who commented extensively on my "Slaves to the Symbol" post regarding offense and the Confederate battle flag passed along this article discussing the debate and thought I might comment.

Some might raise the specter of "political correctness" and warn us that we are taking offense too easily these days: "Come on, get over it already." They might point to Notre Dame's mascot and argue that Irish-Americans aren't up in arms about the jut-jawed leprechaun stereotype.
 
On the other hand, I can understand why they might be offended and I know that I would certainly notice if the bookie's board had spreads for the Metropolitan Niggers vs. the Neon City Kikes.

The word "redskin" was used in part to dehumanize an opponent during a long period of intermittent warfare. Dehumanizing epithets are a cultural universal, especially in times of violent conflict. Thus, "redskin" can be compared to "gook," "raghead," "jap" or "kraut." I cannot say whether or not the epithet "redskin" is as offensive as these examples, if gradations of this form of insult are possible, to the Oneida Nation. It is not my place to make that call and it is easy for those distant from the offense to dismiss its severity to the offended.

We cannot avoid offending others and sometimes this offense is critical to our strength as a republic. I am pretty certain a large percentage of the population would find offense at some of my opinions, but I still need to be able to express those opinions in a civil manner. Calling people names is also not restricted, although under certain circumstances it can be libel or slander if the name-calling is public, false, and damaging.

The Redskin's case is neither an expression of political, economic, or religious policy nor is it slander or libel. Additionally, it seems that a huge majority of Native Americans are ambivalent toward the Redskin's mascot.

Does this matter? Do we allow every offended group to dictate how others use language? Does the size of the group or its relative power matter? How far should we go to avoid offense?

At this point, I could not support court action or legislation to decide this matter, although such court action was attempted some years ago in this specific case. I am pleased that the NFL is at least willing to discuss it, although how seriously they are considering it is beyond my ken.

Ultimately, I would ask, just as I clarified in a reply to the "Slaves to the Symbol" post, that we continue to at least consider those aggrieved and not dismiss them offhand. In our daily lives, we should seek to avoid gratuitous offense. Why? Because those "say what's on their minds and don't give a shit what other people think" are both louts and liars.

Anti-Obama Headline Proves Fallacious!

I am always looking for examples of classic rhetorical fallacies and, since the anti-Obama hype machine is at full-crazy tilt during the partial government shutdown, there is much fodder to be had. True, there are also rhetorical shenanigans going on among Obama supporters, but the hair pulling on the anti-Obama side is a much, much richer vein to tap.

Ironically, much of the hue and cry seems to be coming from the camp that routinely urges us to strip back the government. It is not uncommon now to spot a meme-o-gram laughing at the notion that the shutdown is serious (WITHOUT GOVERNMENT, WHO WOULD CLOSE THE ROADS?) followed by links to op-ed pieces arguing that "King Obama" is using the shutdown to advance nefarious schemes quite possibly in the pay of any number of international cabals. Although the effectiveness of these geriatric bugaboos is in serious question.

In any case, every president has had to face straw men put up by the opposition. Here is one instance I came across in my ramblings that seemed particularly amusing, if it wasn't that so many people believe this stuff.

Among those furloughed under the most recent budget stalemate (something we went through many times during the Reagan administration and once in a big way during the Clinton era) are civilian Catholic priests who minister to troops on military bases. In an op-ed critical of this particular aspect of the furlough plan, John Schlageter, General Counsel of the Archdiocese for the Military Services, USA, argues that this will impede the free exercise of religion among those in uniform. He provides specifics and makes a well-reasoned, valid point (1).

Various journalistic outlets picked up on this op-ed and, one of my favorite, came up with this headline:

"Obama Orders Priests Arrested if they say Mass on Military Bases"

"Over the course of history, dictators have seen the Catholic Church as an obstacle to their power," writes Coach Kevin Collins, "It is, therefore, not surprising that King Barack is using the phony crisis, he himself has created, during this government shutdown to mount a new and perhaps the most vicious of his attacks on Catholics and their priests serving in our military.Under the cloak of the usual weekend news blackout where virtually no reports of any value are posted, King Barack has used a royal edit [sic] to command that any Catholic priest who dares say mass on a military base during the shutdown be arrested. Yes that said arrested!"

Well, yes, Collins has partially right.The Roman Catholic Church is powerful enough to be a bane or boon to those seeking power. They are an incredibly powerful organization and influence the lives of millions. Then again, the same could be said of the NRA or the AARP.

On the other hand, it is impossible for President Obama to have created the government shutdown, he can't issue royal edicts, and it is unlikely that any priests would be arrested for saying mass on base.

Collins also fails to point out is that it isn't President Obama's "edit [sic]" that forces priests and other government workers to stand down, it is the Antideficiency Act, passed in 1870 under the watchful eye of King Ulysses S. Grant (Republican and a Radical Republican at that). This means that civilian imams under government pay and ministering to US military Muslims will also be barred from their duties.

In addition, it appears that on the same day Collin's rant was published, Schlageter's well-reasoned plea had the desired affect: the house passed a resolution urging the military not to cancel religious services during the government shutdown.

I don't care what side you happen to take, please just don't fall for this nonsense.

(1) I need to be clear at this juncture. Schlageter's argument is valid based on law and precedent regarding the free exercise of religion of in the United States. Whether or not it is wise and fiscally responsible to set up and pay a specialized field of intercessors between troops and the executive branch of their particular brand of supernatural belief is an entirely different matter.

Classroom Ephemera #2: Busy Sex Hands

Sex is a big deal. Teenagers are especially entranced by sex as an act and as a topic of conversation. In this issue of Classroom Ephemera, I present a widely practiced exchange of fluids the discussion of which couldn't wait until after the passing bell. Oh, and I don't think "succed" is a misspelling of "succeed."

Scowling Inspiration for Young Writers

In high school English classrooms all across the nation, you'll see these wonderfully executed sketches of literary greats. These particular shots came from a friend's room. I took over her 12th grade classes last week. We worked on diction.

In any case, this dour parade of lettered folk don't inspire me to write, and I like to write. I even write for money. Or chickens. I am pretty sure they don't inspire high school kids to write.


I mean look at their faces. James Thurber, a "celebrated humorist" looks like he's ready for his close up as Pink Floyd's schoolmaster from The Wall.

A couple look like they might be getting ready to have a good time. Vonnegut is wearing a modest smirk and Fitzgerald looks like he might have heard something funny, like someone told him he would be taped to a Las Vegas classroom wall one day.


But Emily Dickinson is almost certainly hiding a hickory switch behind the whiteboard and Willa Cather is about as warm as a catheter-wielding nurse.

Hurry up and write, kids, or Frost will come for you in your sleep.

Remember teachers, just because you get free posters from publishing houses doesn't mean you should put them up.

Princess Army

This image of Disney Princess All Hallow's Eve costumes at our local Costco doesn't quite capture the same ominous beauty of the Battlestar Galactica reboot's resurrection ship but it does do a pretty good job demonstrating how good Disney is at infiltrating our culture.

Actually, I may be wrong in this case. Infiltration is complete. Disney has become as much an integral part of American culture as jeans and Jesus. Raising your child without any one of them might get you accused of neglect.

There are other science fiction analogs to this rack of princess husks waiting to imbued with souls: the Borg, Matrix energy pods, any number of zombie movies. The promise of a Halloween night filled with underage Cinderellas and Snow Whites could be much more disturbing.
Zombie kids? No.
Cyborg kids? No.

 Imagine a night of underage Caprica Sixes.

Oh wait, that's an American Apparel ad.

Apocalypse Food

HP sauce goes great with meat, especially fatty ground up meat in casings. We love HP sauce so much and in 2003 it was so difficult to come by in Italy that when I was sent on a short-notice TDY to the UK, I jumped at the opportunity to grab a few bottles, wrap them in my underwear, and carry them home to my wife like battlefield trophies.

You may notice the expiration date in this picture, but please also understand that in our house these dates are only suggestions. Government meddlers aren't going to keep us from potentially poisoning ourselves.

I snapped the shot, opened the bottle, and poured a little of the brown and spicy and tart stuff all over my cheap hot dogs. It was quite a bit thinner than it should have been even after a vigorous shaking. But hey, it can't be that bad. I lived  to write this blog post.

Pilgrimage

Early last June, I participated in an art class up on Mt. Charleston. Although I had a passing interest in the project, I almost certainly would have found an excuse not to bother driving the 70 miles from my couch to far end of asphalt. I like Mt. Charleston, but it is hard to bend the inertia of routine to get up there.

My motivation for the trip came in the form of a writing assignment for Seven. Having some extrinsic motivation to write and knowing I am going to make a chicken or two in the process helps with inertia bending.

The day's workshop was part of a series of projects designed to get people up on the mountain, interact with natural media and create an installation that would last however long it lasted. The resulting piece I wrote explains the whole concept.

That day, our class installed our sort of gradated stone and woodchip and deadfall Viking longboat sculpture, although we didn't think of it specifically that way at the time. We put it in the middle of the wash, again, not because we thought it might eventually turn out to look like a boat, but because we figured natural events in the wash, like monsoon flooding, would fairly quickly scour our project away.

It turns out it lasted longer than I thought it might and now heading up the hill is at least part pilgrimage. Last Monday, my wife and I had a morning off and went up just because we could. The colors are changing and because it was a weekday, we would have much of the place to ourselves. We drove up, parked near the old ski tow site, and crunched across the dirt lot to the wash and there it was, not much worse for the monsoon season.


The mast has collapsed, but the hull and prow remain and worse, I am beginning to build an emotional connection with a transitory piece. Perhaps I will disassemble it, carry it down the hill, and reassemble it in our living room.

Running Laps

You gonna rewrite that shit next time!? Punk.

Why so many high school and freshman college students I meet think they get one shot at writing an "A" paper is beyond me.

Imagine a bunch of high school freshmen walk into the locker room at the start of the football season and the coach says, "OK, guys, get suited up. We're playing Bishop-Gorman(1) in an hour."

These 9th graders may have played PeeWee or street games, but never at the high school level and have had no practice, no play study, nothing. The kids might be excited at first, especially since they didn't have to do any of the grinding conditioning and fundamentals work. They never had to run laps, drop and give the coach 20, or memorize and run plays until they dreamed about them.

So the kids hit the field and get slaughtered and the coach says, "You all suck. You'll never play football. You have no talent, no drive, and no knowledge of what to do out there. Get out of my locker room!"

If your son were dropped into a game with Gorman and the coach didn't put the boy through a rigorous and repetitive training program that drilled him until he was exhausted and inspired to press on, you wouldn't holler at your kid, you'd scream for the coach's head.

Learning how to write well in the academic environment is exactly like getting ready to play the best team in the league. Writing well isn't a matter of talent, it's a matter of preparation. Repetition, conditioning, memorizing the play book and running the plays until you dream about them. Running them until you can spot a botched set of quotation marks in the grocery store. Running them until you can pull your own misplaced modifiers and vague pronoun references and subject-verb disagreements and sideline their asses. Running them until slinging together a 5-paragraph essay is as easy and automatic as driving to class.

(1) Bishop-Gorman, a privately operated Catholic school. In Vegas, B-G is synonymous with boost-your-football-team-with-all the-best-high-school-players-from-the-valley-by-handing-out-scholarships.

Artifacts #2: A Sign of the Times

I was first stationed stationed at RAF Upper Heyford, an air base a double handful of miles or so north of Oxford, from 1982 to 1984. In early 1984, I PCSed back to the CONUS and found myself in the antithesis of England: Nellis AFB, NV.

I missed the Midland's cool rain, soft green topography, and ancient peace. Vegas came on to me in all her brash exuberance, and I found myself pining and homesick for a place that was only my home for a couple of years.

Nellis is the home of the Red Flag exercise, and as such, routinely hosts USAF, sister service, and allied force units from across the globe. In 1985, a year or so after I left Heyford, the 20th TFW rolled into town to participate in Red Flag. I got to see some old line buddies and catch up on news. 

A tradition at the time was for visiting units to paint identifying markings on a piece of sheet metal screwed to the outside of the hangar out of which they worked for the duration of the exercise. When they left, Nellis personnel would come along, paint over the markings, and the next unit would roll in and the cycle would repeat. I was determined to save the Heyford sign, regardless of its intended transient nature. 

So, the night after the 20th packed up and left, I got off a long swing-shift at Eagle AMU and on my way out I Street gate, eased my truck up next to the hangar. I looked around for roaming SPs and saw none. So I slid out, and quickly popped out the retaining screws, threw the sign in the back, and rolled on home. 

The sign has followed me ever since. Before its current posting in my garage work space, it came back to Nellis and hung behind my desks at the 57 IS and 57 ATG, reminding me of that first tour.

Oh, and after I "liberated" the sign, I kept my eye on the unpainted piece of hangar. Sure enough, within a couple of weeks, CE had put up another piece of sheet metal. 

The new one was riveted in place.

Hemispheres

On one side , my dad's '66 Mustang, $3,000 bought new from Smith Ford and an heirloom now but still flying its original paint and upholstery and a radiator that can't quite hang with Vegas summers. This is the car that flung me through my late adolescence, threatening to to kill me at every turn. I love that car. I love looking out across its broad prow, watching it rumble and torque when I slap down the pedal. I love dumping pints of gas through the carb just to hear that old engine growl. The guts and grind of it all.

On the other side, our 2012 Toyota Prius Plug-In Hybrid Advanced. Just saying the name gives you get an idea of how long it takes to get from 0-60. It's sleek and quiet and very polite. I love that car. It's like driving an iPad. I love easing down on the pedal and hearing. Nothing. Amps to torque to the grocery store for a trickle of kWh. I love the data, the charts and graphs and flowing arrows and arcing LCD mpgs. The Bluetooth and HUD of it all.

Looking for Mr. Prog-Hop

It's not easy for someone like me, 52, white, and baptized in the waters of 70s rock, to come to terms with hip-hop. I tried, at least I always say I tried, to pick up on what people were calling the great masters of the genre.

Sorry Tupac, you're just another Jim Morrison to me: charismatic wild-child buried early but lyrically unimpressive and musically uninspiring.

What I need is some Prog-Hop. Something technically demanding, multi-layered, and with lyrics that lean into literature. My students have tried to to help. "Lupe Fiasco," they say, "Here, Mr. Rice," they proffer, "you must try Immortal Technique." Not even close.

Now, I pick up this week's issue of Seven, and am teased by a piece on Ekoh by Camille Cannon. She teases me with lines like, "This year, Ekoh’s poetic flow is rippling deeper than ever." Even more  tempting is the title of his latest release, Zzyzx Road, which strikes a Joshua Tree chord in my latter-20th century bosom.  

I haven't spun the digital turntable on Ekoh yet, but I'll let you know the outcome once I have the courage to get disappointed again.

This year, Ekoh’s poetic flow is rippling deeper than ever. - See more at: http://vegasseven.com/2013/09/25/ekoh-resonance-man/#sthash.fnYLttDC.dpuf

This year, Ekoh’s poetic flow is rippling deeper than ever. - See more at: http://vegasseven.com/2013/09/25/ekoh-resonance-man/#sthash.fnYLttDC.dpuf

This year, Ekoh’s poetic flow is rippling deeper than ever. - See more at: http://vegasseven.com/2013/09/25/ekoh-resonance-man/#sthash.fnYLttDC.dpuf

This year, Ekoh’s poetic flow is rippling deeper than ever. - See more at: http://vegasseven.com/2013/09/25/ekoh-resonance-man/#sthash.fnYLttDC.dpuf

This year, Ekoh’s poetic flow is rippling deeper than ever. - See more at: http://vegasseven.com/2013/09/25/ekoh-resonance-man/#sthash.fnYLttDC.dpuf

Classroom Ephemera #1: A Study in Penises

I thought of making these part of my Artifacts  project, but decided these works needed to live in a space of their own. In Classroom Ephemera, I will present documents produced to last only a short period of time, normally not more than one class period.

Anonymous . Graphite on Notebook Paper . $475

Following this thread will allow you to return to the  strangely compelling, yet often utterly banal secrets of adolescence. It might be the last glimpse of a fading world of pencils and tightly folded notebook paper. The decade before Vernor Vinge's vision of skiving off ruins everything.

All of these works were given to me or confiscated in the course of the instructional day. I do not remember from whom they were collected or in what year. I have redacted any identifying features.

A Study in Penises

For this first edition, I thought I'd start with a deceptively simple sketch. Explicate.

Grandpa's Lessons

My gender identity had yet to coalesce

My Grandpa Lambert could rig up just about anything. He could shinny up a flag pole, sing along with his own piano accompaniment, strip an electric motor, and build just about anything, however inelegant. Most of his constructions, as he was wont to point out, "Weren't pretty, but hell for stout."

The man kept good company, drank congenially, and smoked himself to death. He had a 6th grade education but also knew what it meant to be educated. Educated people, my grandpa knew, didn't toil in coal mines or lumber yards like he did. They didn't work on printing press floors only to be unceremoniously dumped when bankruptcy killed a company and managers fled with the cash drawers.

He didn't "take no truck" with the educationally lazy. He and my father got along famously, the more so because my father brought education to the family in the form of an BSEE.

In the early 20th century in poor and rural Ohio, a 6th grade education was considered enough and few had any opportunities to go beyond it. By the age of 11 or 12, a young man was strong enough to begin work. And work meant physical labor. As my grandfather grew in experience, he began to understand what education could bring, but realized his opportunity had passed.

In my day-to-day contact with high school students, I find many of them do not really comprehend what it is like to work without a formal education.

Sure, there are examples of ambitious and motivated individuals who have done just fine without formal degrees. Steve Jobs jumps to mind. And there are plenty of examples of those with formal degrees who are back in their childhood bedrooms, wondering where all the promised cash went. Still, in the aggregate, more education means more opportunities and less chance of unemployment.

I have found, however, that older college students have an urgent understanding of this principle. They are investing heavily in collecting diplomas. They work, raise kids and cram in classes when they can. It seems real-world experience heightens one's perception of the value of formal education.

So here is my fantasy:

Allow students at the end of the 8th grade (two more years than Grandpa had) to choose between moving on to high school or moving straight into the work force for a minimum of two years. Adjust child-labor laws accordingly. Those who wanted to go to high school would proceed normally.

Those who chose to leave school would have some percentage of their after-tax income deducted from their paychecks and  automatically deposited in their parents' accounts to go for food and lodging. Junior high school counseling staffs would be bolstered and linkages developed between schools and local businesses. Now, 8th grade graduates who opted out of high school would not be required to find work; they could chill at home with their parents. This would go over well with their parents, I am sure.

At the end of two years, those 8th grade graduates would again be offered the opportunity to go to high school. How many would choose to re-enroll? Would their experience either of working for a paycheck or working at home and being constantly nagged provide the adequate incentive?

I realize I am riding on a unicorn over a rainbow here, because the probable outcome would be even fewer high school graduates with less opportunity and more instances of anti-social behavior. Most kids are not going to be like my grandpa. Kids would stay out of school, because the momentum would be gone and as they grew older, a certain fatalism would creep in.

Still, think of what it would be like to teach high school. It would be like teaching college.

Artifacts #1: Tony

Introduction to Artifacts

This is the first installment in the Artifacts series. The idea came from a friend of mine who recently performed a massive inventory and purge of his physical artifacts and told me he felt much better for it. His purpose was to retain digital images of objects in his life that carried some level of emotional value and then ditch the objects themselves. This seemed imminently practical, yet something I wasn't prepared to do with my own sentimental stacks.

With Artifacts, I am taking a middle ground. I will take a picture of an object and then write about it, but will not dispose of it. So really I'm just adding to its emotional mass. I'm not sure if this is wise.

Tony

In the late 1980s and early1990s, Lori and I got in the habit of scooping up animal bones from wherever we happened to be hiking or exploring. We mostly picked up sheep, cattle and rodent remains.

Knowing this, a friend of ours went back up to his Oregon ranch and disinterred Tony, a beloved horse who had died many years before of natural causes and whose remains had been retired to the back 40, there to reunite with the soil. He collected the top of Tony's skull, carefully wrapped it, and then mailed it to us. He told us that he was happy to give Tony a home, but we needed to respect the remains.

We were delighted to have old Tony's head, and even had a plaque made at a local trophy shop so that anyone who saw him, wherever he hung as we moved from base to base, would know his name. This helped Tony's legacy because a horse skull and name plate hung over your mantle is a great conversation starter. Try it sometime.

Now Tony hangs over the fireplace in our bedroom, which now that I think of it is a little odd, since nobody but us will normally see him.

He watches us while we sleep.