Digital Devolution

You know how the digital revolution puts creative power in the hands of the people? And this is a liberating, nay, an empowering thing? Well, I saw the future this weekend, and all I have to say is, "go back."

I attended a film festival on Saturday, and up to the point when I stood up early and excused myself from a darkened theatre, I had sat through something like ten short films. Only one made me smile. The rest made me cringe. I won't even go into the weak scripts, the bad acting, and poor lighting. Instead, I'll complain about out-of-sync dialogue tracks and abrupt soundtrack breaks. What the heck? I don't consider myself to be a moviemaker, but I've played around with my iMovie and know I could do better. Or maybe it's an example where my amateur Apple product blows the pants off other intro-level applications, because I just don't get how anyone could watch their "finished" film and not be bugged by nonsensically flapping lips to go back into their project and at least manually play with bumping the dialogue track back and forth until it was more in line with the talking heads. Or why a director would be dead set against two soundtracks simultaneously playing. Almost every film would abruptly cut out the music when an actor opened her mouth to speak. This problem, I'm thinking, may highlight a crappy editing program. It's as if they were stuck with only one soundtrack, because all I could think is, "why didn't they create multiple soundtracks and overlap them where need be." Maybe they simply couldn't.

I know, I know, I disappear for months and finally return only to whine about amateur films. They're supposed to bad. That's part of the appeal. But there's bad with a spark of creativity, and bad with... well, nothing. A decade ago, short film festivals were amazing. Sure, there'd be the clunker or two in any given festival, but there were real artists plying their craft and the results were a joy to behold. Now, because of the digital revolution, I have to sit through nine of Every Man's delusions of grandeur to see one gem.

(And the gem was a clever film called Variations on Gerald's Death, where poor Gerald finds himself in the middle of an old fashioned duel to the death with pistols... again and again and again. The production was low end, but professional.)

Gawdammit.

That is all.

Advice To An Island

Tony Blair is up against the ropes this week. Top members of his own party are demanding Blair give a timetable by July detailing his resignation. Ouch. Recent local elections went poorly for the Labour Party, and when you throw in recent scandals regarding mistakenly released foreign criminals and sensational love affairs of highly visible ministers, you have the makings of a political upheaval.

Now as a non-citizen of the UK with no significant stake in her politics, I feel I'm in a conveniently impertinent position to make a puffed up assessment of the situation. My advice to the Brits is to look across the pond--actually I want to direct their attention southwest across the grey Atlantic to a district sandwiched between Virginia and Maryland--and remind them, it could be worse. Really. At least your guy can string together sensible sentences. At least he reads his own reports. At least he understands how the scientific method works. And at least he gives a flip about Africa.

Last summer I met disillusioned, young Brits upset with Blair over a variety of issues. The hostility surprised me. So we played the my-leader-sucks-worse-than-yours game. I usually won. Like shooting goldfish in a bowl. It helped that my leader was actually in the country at the time granting rare television interviews on BBC. Imagine Masterpiece Theatre meets Hee Haw.

Of course, there is the not minor issue that Blair led his country into Iraq. And who am I to say, just because your guy is loquacious he's the lesser of two evils? Brits can dream of better government, responsive to their needs, right? Or at least a place where hospitals stay solvent. So, go ahead kick out Blair. But what happens if Washington dislikes the replacement?

Cheers.

Where Do YOU Get Your Information?

It's fun when students make your point for you.

They all know my view on certain websites, namely my skepticism about wikipedia, and know not to rely upon it for any course work for me. It doesn't stop them, however, from looking at it anyway. Nor would I actively discourage them. I'm not against the basic premise of wikipedia per se. To the contrary, a recent study comparing wikipedia to one of the book based encyclopedias found nearly analogous rates of mistakes. The idea of community editing appears largely to work. My resistance is born more from a snob's disdain of encyclopedic sources. I'd rather my students delve deeper into any given topic.

But some of my boys recently showed me the power of manipulation, if you understand how to use such a resource. Earlier this week, I had one of my classes look up criticism about Plato's dialogue, Crito. A group of boys clustered at two school laptops in the corner of the classroom. They alternately were intensely focused, eyes squinting intently at the screens, whispering in serious tones to each other, now and then pointing at some piece of information, and then suddenly breaking into guffaws before quickly composing themselves and returning to their former scholarly attitudes. Trouble.

After about five minutes of this, one of the boys started to say aloud things like, "Hey, this site is awesome," and, "Whoa, it has all the answers to the questions." The other boys vigorously nodded in agreement, one of them lending support with the occasional, "Yeah, really good site, good information." The rest of the class couldn't help but take notice, and a girl next to the boys asked for the url. Not surprisingly, the boys eagerly read off the address. Its source address was wikipedia. At that point, I suspected I knew what the boys were up to, so I typed in the address they had just given the girl, and sure enough, under the heading, Crito, the first paragraph told how Crito was originally Socrates' baker and how the two spent many a long morning sitting in Crito's bakery eating scones and sipping on coffee and discussing philosophy. The paragraph even went as far as to explain that a gingerbread man will choose to be eaten because he will wish to maintain the rules of the bakery because the gingerbread man owes his very existence to the polis--I mean bakery.

Soon, the rest of the class was lapping this up, and one boy asked me about Socrates' gingerbread man example. Another girl asked when gingerbread was invented. My perpetuators, meanwhile, could barely contain their laughter. They were bursting in the corner, some of them turning red trying to contain themselves.

I deemed the time was ripe for a discussion about assessment of sources, and the boys' joke was transformed into a useful lesson. It was an eye-opener for me to realize that, as comfortable with technology as the younger generations are, they don't necessarily comprehend how it all works. So we spent some time looking at how anyone can edit a wikipedia entry, including certain classmates in the corner.

Afterward we corrected the boys' false information. See, community editing does work. In the end.

Drinking Problem

15K. 15 kilometers. That's a little over 9 miles. The distance between Sandia Casino and Flying Star on Rio Grande. The distance I ran this morning in a race. My legs hurt. No, really hurt. But my knees are okay, which was my main concern. I managed to find soft dirt next to the roads and paved paths, and it seems to have saved them.

I've never run such a long distance competitively, and as such, it was the first time I had to think about the water option. That is, there were water stations along the race route, where friendly and helpful volunteers would hold out styrofoam cups of cool watery goodness. I ran past the first station and did not partake, but the second one I decided to try it. There's an art to this running ritual, a skill unbeknownst to me. The instant I grabbed the cup, I realized I had to do something with it, and quick. Nobody wants to clutch a crushed styrofoam cup for six miles, so the idea is to slam the refreshment and throw the cup aside a few feet from where it was grabbed, within a reasonable collection zone for the volunteers. Try drinking a cup of water while running... on a curve... entering the incline of a hill. I threw the hand with the cup in the general direction of my mouth, splashed most of the water all over my face, and tossed a half full cup on the ground. Needless to say, my rhythm was broken. Any runner will know exactly what I mean. That zen running rhythm we all enter over the long haul. The patterns of breath and foot patter that make up the all important 'pace'. Shot to hell in one clumsy motion.

I finished the race. And of that, I am proud. But maybe I need to add 'drinking a cup of water' exercises to my running regiment. It seems I have a drinking problem.

Getting Medieval

There's one period every ten days at school when all the classes become study halls. What is normally a well behaved history class loses its collective mind that day. Today was no exception.

Two minutes before the start of the period, the influx of kids from other study halls into my room exponentially increases every 30 seconds. They all want a note for their teachers to allow them to go work in the computer lab on a powerpoint presentation they have to do for me tomorrow. At the rate I'm signing notes, I predict out loud only half of them will find an available machine. I also give them fair warning I'm going to swing by the lab at some point.

Inversely, while the crowd surrounding me is three deep, the desks are empty. The period is beginning and most of the students who are supposed to be with me are AWOL. I step out into the hallway, bark at the stragglers and herd them into the classroom, giving them instructions to pull out the materials they need for studying. They settle in, I settle in, and I cross my fingers.

Five minutes in and the first sorry sods who couldn't snag a computer trickle back into the classroom. They want permission to go to the library. I send them trudging back to their respective study halls. They feel they've been ill dealt with.

Ten minutes in and I'm walking toward the computer lab. I hear them well before I round the corner. It's a circus without a ringmaster. Kids have crammed themselves two to a monitor and the cliched paper airplane soars across the room. (I kid you not, a paper airplane.) My coming into the room is like Moses' wrath upon the idolators at the foot of Mt. Sinai. Internet browsers instantly switch to britannica.com's homepage and the plane's papery cockpit crumples into the wall as it spirals downward like a Luftwaffe fighter spattered by RAF fire. I empty the lab by about half its current occupants, sending them to study hall purgatory, and promise the remaining miscreants, "I will be back."

Meanwhile, back in my classroom, they are dead silent when I enter. But something seems off, not least, the fact they're all staring intently at me. And even though it seems silent, there's an undercurrent of noise I can't quite put my finger on. Then I ask, "Where's the music coming from?" Suppressed giggles. It's there, just barely within reach of my ears, the sound of music coming from some far distance. I scan the room, spot the stereo hidden under a cart--with the volume knob barely tapped on--and switch it off. The room erupts in groans. "Oh, that's no fun. It took the last teacher half the period to notice and find it." I tell them, "I'm not your last teacher."

I think I must have a screw loose somewhere, because all of this simply confirms a basic truth for me--I love teaching!

Interpretation

One of the most difficult concepts for students of history to grasp is the idea of interpretation. Too often they'd rather the teacher just told them what the "right" answer is. I don't blame them. As a history teacher, it's not uncommon for me to send them the mixed message: there is no right answer, but then mark them wrong on a test. Is it any wonder many simply want to know, "Will this be on the test?" Of course, I inwardly cringe and wish for them to move beyond such superficiality. Damned be the test! We're going to study this or that subject because we're curious and want to know more. But can I really blame them? When I sit in a meeting where some adult colleague wants the group to explore options or, god forbid, explore how we feel about a particular scenario, don't I revert to that basic learning stage where I simply want to get on with it?

My 9th Graders, after a year of intense study with me, are beginning to understand what I'm getting at, especially as they realize what I'm really pushing is for them to think for themselves. But thinking for yourself means taking responsibility. It means forming opinions and backing those opinions with relevant data. It's harder to think than it is to memorize.

I was reminded just how hard it can be this past weekend after seeing the film Rabbit Proof Fence. Set in Australia, it looks at three aborigine girls who are taken from their family and sent to a reform school. They're taken because, according to the movie, the Australian policy toward aborigine children of mixed heritage is to assimilate them, biologically and culturally. But the girls escape and travel over two thousand miles along the rabbit proof fence to return home. At the start of the movie, it says this is based upon a true story. The time period is the 1930's, and, at the end of the movie, a blurb explains the Australian policy of child removal continued well into the late 1960's. It's the kind of movie where, at several points, I found myself furious at particular characters on screen, at the Australian government, and at the goddamned racist world in general. The person watching with me experienced a similar emotional response. And we both felt absolutely shocked such a thing continued nearly to the time of our own births. (But, really, think about what was going on here in our own country. It shouldn't surprise, and, yet, it does. Discussion of the meaning of such naivete could easily fill several other posts.)

I did a little hunting to see if I could verify or deny the "true story" claim and stumbled upon a hot topic in Australia. The film was very popular there. But it also was the catalyst for a back lash. Probably the most controversial element was the fact many historians and activists have begun to refer to the former child removal policy as genocide. Now that's a loaded word, and I can understand people getting worked up over it. But, really, however we define a word, does it change some of the facts? One publication, Criterion, has a scathing article denouncing the entire film as fiction. (Criterion, if you don't know, is an ultra-conservative magazine, I mean ultra-ultra-conservative.) The article particularly expresses offense at the use of the word genocide.

The reason aborigine children were being taken away from families is complex. The film's premise is the Australian government, and specifically A. O. Neville, Chief Protector of Aborigines, aimed to wipe out aborigine culture by breeding the color out of them. Children of mixed heritage, called half castes, were to be removed from tribes so they could be assimilated into white culture. Over several generations, they would be Europeanized, both biologically and culturally. The opposing viewpoint is that the government was removing children from poor living conditions, in some cases even saving their lives. The Criterion article points out reports of some tribes casting out half castes or, in some instances, even carrying out infanticide. Perhaps the only significant point is half castes often found themselves trapped between cultures, accepted by neither.

Some quick facts:

*In 1936, the Australian parliament passed a law which made sexual relations between Europeans and Aborigines illegal without permission, i.e. mixed marriages had to be approved by the government.

*In 1937, A.O. Neville leads discussion at a conference exploring the practical issues in regard to the removal of aborigine children. Such practicalities as the importance of removing children before age six are brought up.

*Between the late 1800's and the late 1960's, one in ten aborigine children are removed from tribal lands. They are now referred to as the Stolen Generations.

Of importance in this discussion is the issue of motive. If this is to be classified genocide, intent becomes crucial. The Criterion argues the malicious intent of government officials has been greatly exaggerated. I could agree.

I came across a book Neville wrote upon his retirement in 1948. In it he wrote, "... most of these people [aborigines] have never known real happiness. Some are never likely to know it. Mainly it is not their fault, it is ours." This potentially reeks of the White Man's Burden, but it doesn't negate the fact he may be sincere. He may have believed he was helping to alleviate suffering. Most of what I find in the Criterion drives me up the wall, but it made one interesting point. The Criterion article relates the story of the lead actress. Her father was white and left her aborigine mother, just like the girl she played in the film. The actress was frequently in trouble and regularly truant from school. During shooting, she ran away twice. Her behavior, in fact, greatly worried the filmmaker, Phillip Noyce. He told a reporter it made him want to protect her, and after the film was finished, he arranged with her mother to send her to a boarding school. She hated it and ran away. The irony is poignant. My point is perhaps Neville, like Noyce, is not the evil human being he's been made out to be, but rather was a person trying to fix what he saw was a bad situation.

None of this, however, changes the fact countless lives were shattered over nearly an entire century. Even if the government thought is was trying to help, it is clear it was racist in its application of that help. For example, the claim by government officials that they often were removing children from bad living situations rings a bit false when compared to the removal of white children for similar reasons. When white children were removed by the state for their own protection, there were real attempts to eventually reunite the family, fix the situation, so to speak. But when aborigine children were removed, it's clear the intent was permanent removal, the weeding out of race. Aborigine children rarely were returned to their families.

Another failing of those who criticize what they see as the "sensationalism" of the topic is their weak use of numbers. One article I read screamed foul because it found total numbers for removed children were exaggerated. It found only 1 in 10 aborigine children were seized. Forgive me if I fail to grasp how that changes anything. Over decades across an entire population means the real number must be somewhere in the thousands at least. (I consider this a very conservative number, since I've been unable so far to find any reliable population numbers.) Can everyone just agree thousands of wrecked children's lives is wrong?

Mastermind?

I stumbled out of bed to the sound of raucous mewing and clanking to discover the above scene. A quick search of the room uncovered a cache of ale bottles shoved far back beneath the couch. The tangerine feline in question, otherwise known as Hobbes, languidly purred and showed no sign of remorse. His twitching tail mocked me, as his eyes said, "Whatcha gonna do 'bout it?"

Gypsy peeked around the couch and tentatively thwapped her tail against the fabric. "See, he made me do it." She looked at me hopefully.

Damn. My dog was framed.

Bandit Update

"Behold! The amazing strap buckle will lock down that fridge. Your dog will be bemused and befuddled. Its tastefully modern style will brighten any cooking space. Food stored in the fridge will taste better. It'll even take out the trash and wipe down the counter tops. Buy it now for $1.99. That's right, folks, I said $1.99. For less than two dollars you can have this mighty marvel of the kitchen."

I tried it out and it did befuddle my dog. She can't open the fridge. Instead she opened every cabinet door in the kitchen, even the ones she could only reach by standing on the counters. I found one of my beloved English pint glasses shattered on the floor.

That dog!

Stupidly Happy

There's an XTC song called Stupidly Happy, and that's how I feel tonight. It's one of those evenings when everything seems to be in its proper place. So much so, in fact, I decided to forego grading of any kind. My students took a test on Tuesday and I returned it to them today. They can wait until after the weekend for this week's graded assignments. I also met this afternoon with my department chair about my student evaluations, which were exceptionally good. There was much sound and fury over the perception of too much homework and the unfair nature of chapter outlines, and, yet, they still gave rave reviews. "Ah! Too much work! Too hard! But I'm learning." Damn straight.

My reward was to watch a couple episodes of Firefly. I recently bought the shows on DVD and have been re-watching, and dang.... what a great concept, and what an amazing cast. I laugh aloud anytime Jayne opens his mouth. And Mal (above) is my hero. I want to be a gunslinging smuggler. Wait. That's what I used to say when I was 6 years old. Based on another scoundrel. When do I get to call myself an adult?

Oh, and a study released today said 24 ounces of beer daily is healthy for males. Good thing I've got my English pint glass handy and filled with foaming ale. 90 Shilling Ale, by the way. Good stuff.

The Ice Box Bandit

This is Gypsy. Do not feel sorry for her. Look at those shifty eyes. She's in trouble and she knows it.

Gypsy opens refrigerators. Neither of us knew this until the last few days. Now she thinks it's her best trick. The first time I discovered her new talent, I came home to hotdog packaging strewn all over the living room, coffee beans spilled across the dining room, and a bottle of cream on its side in the kitchen. Mind you, there was not a drop of cream left, not in the container or anywhere on the floor. I suspect the cats assisted with that one.

So, I removed all food from the bottom shelves and carried out a carefully thought out experiment. The hypothesis? She can't do it again. She's a dog, a small dog at that. The refrigerator door shuts with a *kathwup!*; its magnets make a tight seal with the frame. I'll show her she can't repeat the feat.

She repeated the feat.

Every time I come home, the refrigerator door stands ajar, while the coolers valiantly attempt to chill an entire room. And Gypsy sits on her couch, a wag in her tail, a silly smile on her face. "Hi!", she seems to say, "Look, I did it again! Isn't it time you restocked the food box with food?"

Do not feel sorry for her.

Brolly Fun

So I learned a new, fun word today from the London Times: brolly. Leave it to the wacky Brits to express a mundane object, an umbrella, as a nonsensical sonant. Try saying, "The brazen British brawler brandishing a brolly brutally bruised his brethren," ten times fast. It's also basically what happened in England today.

According to the Times, a veterinarian lost it this afternoon and began ramming his car at high speeds into other vehicles. At one point his spinning tires spat fire and smoke as his car floundered in the pile-up he created on a roundabout. He then proceeded to climb onto the roof of his car and madly swing a stethoscope and brolly at fellow motorists and eventually the constables who came to haul him off.

You know how I've been mildly concerned about the bird flu which swept across Asia and is currently dropping swans on France? Now I'm terrified. Did this guy step up to the avian abyss and not look away?

Aaahhhhh!!!!!!

Da Vinci Devilry

In today's New York Times, there's an open letter to Ron Howard from the Catholic League. The heading reads, "Label 'The Da Vinci Code' Fiction." Apparently, the League is very concerned that Dan Brown's bestseller is filled with malicious lies intended to mislead the gullible faithful. And now the apocalypse is upon us with the imminent release of the movie. They want the filmmakers to include a disclaimer saying something to the effect that what you are about to see is NOT a true story. The impassioned whine which ensues inspired me to write the reply I'd love to see Ron publish.

OPEN LETTER TO THE CATHOLIC LEAGUE:
GO MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN MOVIE AND LABEL IT WHATEVER YOU DAMNED WELL PLEASE

I will not place a disclaimer at the beginning of my new movie The Da Vinci Code (Release date: May 19 all over America at a theatre near you!) I have faith the general public will recognize the superbudget, summer blockbuster they are sitting down to watch in the gargantuan megaplex is a movie, not sober documentary. I admit the lines of fantasy and reality blur sometimes in Hollywood (you would not believe the number of people who still think my name is Ritchie Cunningham!), but last I checked, nobody fears the end of the world if little Willow does not save the baby princess (as he most assuredly does in my movie Willow--available to rent at your local video shop or to buy at your friendly Wal Mart!).

In response to your main points:

*There is no historical proof Jesus fancied Mary Magdalene. There's no proof he didn't. The historical record is actually strangely silent on the subject of Il Savior's fantasy life. By default, then, it must be true. Or false. Gee, the historicity is rather oblique to the point of being absurd. I guess that's when people fall back on faith.

*You are right, the divinity of Jesus was not made up in the 4th Century. It was the 1st Century, by a guy named Felix, in his tiny flat, in Galilee. The newly created, almighty Jesus proceeded to smite the unbeliever within seconds of deification. It's that kind of gratitude that has caused problems for several centuries now. Thanks, Felix.

*Did I mention it's a movie?

Please feel free to picket my film this coming summer and help push up revenues. A good controversy is always welcome in my business.

RH (a.k.a. Ritchie)

P.S. For you eager protesters (and movie-goers), the release date, one more time, is May 19. That's Memorial Day weekend. Most people get a three day weekend. Use the extra day to see Da Vinci Code again. Thanks!