Building Castles on the Beach

"Without a soundtrack, human interaction is meaningless." --Chuck Klosterman I have been known to say that if I could I would implant a chip into my head that would broadcast music directly into my brain. If science fiction knows anything, it knows that in real life we're building the nanotechnology right now that will enable us to use our brainpower alone to log onto the internet or tell our appliances we want a toasted bagel at precisely 6:35 in the morning. All I want is the music chip. An iPod for my noggin. None of this Star Trek TNG speech interface claptrap: "Computer? How about some jazz?" If I think of it, I want to be able to hear it. From an unscientific webscan of info about brain implants, most of us are paranoid delusional against it. With this technology, I will have a steady soundtrack to what's happening in my life. I pretty much do already, I know. Music plays in the living room, in the car, in my classroom, when I go to bed. Silence...

The Colorado Student Assessment Program is upon us. Both my wife and I have proctored this standardized exam in Colorado schools every Spring for over ten years. We've noticed that since the CSAP began, the Powers-That-Be have become more strict about the rules and regulations around proctoring. The benefits of standardized testing are plentiful. As a CSAP proctor, you may not read a book, grade papers, check email (or even turn on a computer), sit down, or stand still. You must collect all cell phones, headphones, gramophones, and homophones (no student should have an advantage by knowing the difference between their , there , and they're ). Leave the door open and actively proctor, like the giant head in the old Apple Macintosh commercial . This means watching over the students' shoulders and making sure there are no stray marks outside of the oval. Clearly, the proctors' time is on loan from the state, and you are supposed to act only for the benefit of the ...

Last week, I accidentally clipped Xander's finger. There was a slow build up, but the wail that subsequently arose from Xander's premature lungs was worse than when he gets his Synagis shots. He gets a shot every month until the end of RSV season. As a preemie, he's super-susceptible to the Respiratory Syncytial Virus, which I'd never even heard of before last October.  Anyway, when Xander gets his shots, his eyes shut tight and his face burns red and his mouth opens wide enough to see his uvula before it starts vibrating with the burst of air coming up through his vocal chords. The sound is sharp and shrill, but brief. Followed by a moment of silence. He's made his point. But then he thinks better of it and adds a bit more howling for good measure. Fortunately, this doesn't last more than a minute or two. Probably not even that long. His mother holds him tight on her lap, holding a pacifier in his mouth, and soon he calms down. I was also present when Xande...

I've only been at this for less than a month and I get an award. I feel like Marisa Tomei winning an Oscar. Did Jack Palance just read the wrong name? And to be completely forthcoming, the award is from a friend in real life, not just the blogosphere: Debbie Davis, from Debbie's Inkspectations . Anyway, this is it. I'm a stylish blogger, alright. I don't know what is exactly so stylish about my plain ol' blog page, so I'm going to assume it's the writing that deserves an award. Even when I don't post pictures of my beautiful baby boy, people still want to hear what I have to say. Rants about the state of American education? Check. Whimsical whining about Facebook? Check. Keeping you informed about my son's belly button? Check. I'm supposed to do the following things: "1. Thank and link back to the person who nominated you, only do not re-nominate them. 2. Share 7 things about yourself. 3. Pass along this nomination to 10 recently ...

Diane Ravitch Speaks February 17, 2011 Denver, Colorado At the last minute w e cajoled May’s parents to watch the baby with promises of Chipotle burritos and an early return time. When I registered to see Diane Ravitch speak, the website said her appearance would be from 6-9 pm and would include a book signing. We thought that would mean an hour or two for speaking and questions, then and hour or so for signing. Since we didn’t really want Ms. Ravitch to sign our Kindles, we assumed that we would be home way before 9:00. The timing was all wrong. We arrived at 6:05, thinking we were late, but there were only a couple dozen people there. By 6:20, a few others had arrived, but there was no sign of Diane Ravitch. An announcement was made that Ms. Ravitch would begin signing books at 6:30 and her speech would begin at 7:30, with questions at 8:30. My wife and I conferred, she made a call home, and we decided to stay. It wasn’t too bad: we had some time to talk, I had my Kindle to read...

I haven't had much time to write this week, so I thought we could hear from a guest blogger today.  Introducing the First Epistle of Xander to the Wescotts and Roberts, proffered in utero, as witnessed and subsequently set down for posterity by May Elizabeth Wescott, nee Roberts. "September 18, 2010 (As transcribed by his mother since he currently does not have access to a computer, the internet, or fine motor control.) Hey family, How're things? I can't wait until I get to see you again. Only a few more months (or weeks depending on how patient I can be) until my arrival. Things here are getting a bit more cramped as I continue to get bigger. I learned a new trick yesterday. If I stretch real tall I can kick my Mom right under her ribs. She thinks it's pretty funny and keeps putting her hand on me to make sure that it's me kicking her and not some weird muscle spasm. I guess she's surprised because I've never kicked her above her belly button ...

Back in the seventies when I was in grade school and living in Salt Lake City, my dad built a house on an empty lot up the eastern slope on Wasatch Boulevard. It had a great view to the west across the Salt Lake Valley, from the Great Salt Lake in the north to the Great Land Scar of the Kennecott Copper Mine in the south. I would sit for hours (at least it seemed that way in my innocence) and watch the sun set and the city lights blink on. My other favorite memory of that house was that the Bookmobile would come round and park itself directly across the street. An itinerant extension of the Salt Lake City library system, this was a large, square bus lined inside with shelves and shelves of books. I would spend hours (at least it seemed that way in my innocence) pacing back and forth, discovering books to read. One that I remember vividly is the classic Star Wars novel, Splinter of the Mind's Eye . This was supposed to be a sequel to the first Star Wars movie, so it weirded me out...

5:46 am Roll over when Xander starts mewing, and reach over to poke his pacifier through his teeth. He’s still asleep. This is but a warning that he could be ready to eat at any time in the next hour. 5:48 am Xander spits out his pacifier and wimpers, just to remind me: I’ll be ready to eat soon. Don’t forget, Daddy. 6:30 am May’s alarm clock goes off. She’s already in the nursery pumping out Xander’s meals for the day, but the interminable buzzing reminds me that Xander needs me for something. 6:31 am Awake enough to move enough to smack the alarm clock into the wall and remember that there’s a baby around here somewhere. 6:32 am Stumble to the kitchen to heat up a bottle. 6:37 am Feed Xander, painfully aware that it is time. His volume and violent avoidance of the pacifier are indications that I should have begun this process about 49 minutes ago. 6:49 am Xander, sated, is no longer comfortable hanging over my shoulder with me repeatedly thumping his back. He is wide awa...

I have some severe misanthropic tendencies. My initial response to most problems is that people are stupid. I think that if people ( other people, not me) weren’t such idiots all the time we wouldn’t have traffic jams, long lines, or computer viruses. So my views about children ( other people’s children, not mine) are not personal, but if you ever asked me why I’m a teacher, I would never answer anything like, “Because I just love kids.” I teach for other reasons. I decided to major in English before I graduated from high school. I loved to read, had some skill with a pen, and relished a rousing discussion of ideas. At one point before graduation, I visited my favorite middle school teacher and told her I wanted to major in English. She frowned and said, “I guess you’re going to be a teacher, then.” (And this was 15 years before the stunning initial aria from Avenue Q : “What do you do with a B.A. in English?” ) I don’t know if Mrs. Cathcart’s comment was the first time I thought...