Kenny Smith | A remarkable thing happens …

Friday / video — No comments
14
Nov 25

Bad words on poor words

First thing this morning I had a meeting. And then I spent the rest of the day writing. And also writing. And then there was rewriting. My process is to put a lot of words together in my head. Then drop them onto a page. And then stir them all up until they don’t make sense to me anymore.

I changed up the process somewhat because when I was working on this particular thing one night last week I turned it into a literary exercise. It felt good, even then — even as? — I knew that was all going to come out in the next draft. It was an exercise of getting it out of my system. Now, I am writing something so tediously specific no one will want to read it.

It’s a gift.

There are many styles in all of us, I am sure of it. We must only turn the right valves. And there’s an art in knowing which ones to use at a given time. Some people, I thought, today, never seem to heed those warnings. They just write the thing they wanted to write, the thing they needed to write, putting their magisterial collection of words and thoughts together in the way they must be written, this time. Or so we’d like to think. Even people that know the craft can get so caught up in the brilliant work of others that they are transported far, far away from the idea of drafts and editors. I don’t write like that, because it isn’t in keeping with what I do. Consequently I’m probably not good at writing like that. But it’s fun to dream about onomatopoeia and sizzling verbs and alliteration that affects us all.

I like to read it, though.

So I wrote the day away, which was fine. It was pleasant. It’s what I needed to do. I enjoyed it. I would print out a draft and sit in the window and read the thing I’d just written word-by-word. I am trying to develop a self-editing process for that. I think it would improve my output. It would make some of my writing better. At the very least, it would be a thing I could enjoy. With that objective in mind I’ll just keep doing it until I figure out the process. Then I’ll do it because it is a process.

Tonight we saw a comedian. We saw three comedians. Two of them were the opening and feature acts. It was a large arena show and I wondered if a comedian, on a big stage in a big venue like that, knows when he is bombing. The opener was not having a good night. He gamely plodded through. The feature act was better. And this is how it should be. We’re warming up the crowd for the headliner. The headliner who is doing an arena tour. And working on new material. But also offering to do a greatest hits set.

In a way, this is kind of sad for Bert Kreischer. He’s been closing with this bit for years and years now. It’s become Freebird. People yell it out to him. It’s paying the bills, and that’s great, but he hasn’t had to write a new finish in ages. So now he has to write an almost finish, but it can’t be bigger and better than his Freebird. What a fine line to have to thread.

He’s also doing these big arena shows and saying this is where he’s working on the stuff for his next special which will be recorded next year. I know even less about comic writing than I do about any other style of writing, see above, but I’d rather you work on that in small clubs. There’s a different intimacy there, and a tradition to honor. And it would fill. Tonight, he had about two-thirds of a basketball venue filled and were scattered and unpolished and it just wasn’t a good feeling. Also, a lot of empty seats.

I didn’t know, until recently, that there was such a thing as a showbiz review of stand-up comedians. By chance I ran across a review of this tour. The critic was dismissive of the effort. I thought, maybe the writer isn’t a fan of the genre. Maybe this person is new to stand up comedy. Maybe Kreischer had an off night. The critic said maybe Kreischer has run out of things to say. Maybe the critic was right.

The other possibility is that he’s too busy living the gimmick. I’m not sure when he can write while doing all of the things that his outsized personality and persona require. I’m sure there’s a process here. I’m sure he never sits down and thinks, “I wish I could write the most boringly dense thing possible that no one will read.” I’m sure his special next year will be good.

Some days barely get titles

In class, we watched the documentary, “Slaying the Badger.” Last time we had a football documentary. Next time it is basketball, so I wanted to make a point about how we might see things in a program featuring a sport with which we aren’t that familiar.

Plus, it’s one of the greatest races of all time. And the documentary, which is gripping, is based on a book that’s even better. And next Tuesday we’ll see what they have to say about it. Hopefully it will be a useful conversation.

In org comm we discussed negotiations. I asked them what they have negotiated about. No one really had much to offer. Finally, someone said something like ‘We’re young. We don’t get to negotiate. We just do what we’re told.’ And I suppose there’s some truth to that, but then we spent some time expanding our ideas about what negotiations are. Then we talked about different sorts. Next week they’ll do a little in-class negotiation.

And I guess that was the day. I spent some other time working on other things, some things which are coming due in the immediate future and, thus, require the incredible crush of clarity that means my words will get blurry almost immediately.

I will print things out and pore over them, word-by-word. Tomorrow is going to be a lot of fun.

So let me get to that. I would call it a head start, but that implies beginning. I am not beginning. I am months into this project. Eight, nine, maybe 10 months into this. That’s not a beginning. I’m well beyond a head start. Let me, then, get back to building up some momentum.

football / overwriting / photo / video / Wednesday — No comments
12
Nov 25

Don’t get married on a Fall Saturday, anywhere

I tried to get this published elsewhere, but failed. I still like it. I’m sharing it here.

It started, perhaps, as an in-joke. Maybe a brother-in-law joke. Or a t-shirt, one of those hastily designed gaudy numbers you see at fan shops. Maybe the whole thing began as a bit on talk radio. Sometimes the organic nature of jokes, or even traditions, can be lost to us without a very serious investigation.

This is not that.

I remember it all those ways. A guy said it on the air, off the cuff, from the hip, and wherever else one-liners fall from. I saw it on a shirt. And, if you’re there long enough, you live it, unfortunately.

You don’t book weddings on fall Saturdays in the South.

I have been to several Saturday weddings in the fall in the Deep South, an exercise designed to weigh your love of sport and the ol’ alma mater against these two people standing up there. Who are those people, anyway? Strangers, probably. I mean, do you know the bride’s third quarter rushing stats? Have you memorized the tackle for loss numbers the groom has put up this season? What even is the win-loss record of the person performing this ceremony, anyway? Alternatively, it could be a deliberate measure to keep attendance low.

I mention this because, of course, weddings are organized far in advance, but not farther out than the more-than-a-century long tradition of watching dudes hit each other as hard as they can for temporary victory and immortal glory. Long is the memory, short is the ceremony. The same is true for any given football play, but one of these two events lasts longer in the memory of most of us.

Authurine Babineaux and Merrick Bourgeois — two people we don’t know at all, but who prove my point nicely — were married on Saturday, October 31st in 1959 in Cankton, Louisiana, right there at St. John Berchman Catholic Church. The writeup in the paper, as was the custom, describes the bride’s dress and what her attendant was wearing. There’s a photo with the notice, the image has gone fuzzy with digitization, but the new Authurine Bourgeois looks beautiful. The groom is wearing a white jacket. They had a little reception in the cafeteria of the school they both attended. Maybe they met there. Maybe they hit it off there. We don’t know. We do know there was a four-layer cake. We don’t know when the celebration ended, or if they were able to catch Billy Cannon’s immediately legendary punt return.

There are more than 2,000 returns for “married Oct 31” in the 1959 Louisiana newspapers. And some of, most of, or, perish the thought, all of those people who attended missed Billy Cannon’s Halloween Run at Death Valley. But which did they talk about more, as the years passed?

My first fall wedding on a Saturday in the South was in 1993. It was November 20th. It was 11th ranked Alabama at number 6 Auburn. It was the Iron Bowl.

It was a wedding in someone’s home. And they chose to do this event during the football game.

Perhaps there was some other event scheduled in the living room in the next hour.

Oh, the service was lovely, marred only by my running up and down the hall, getting scoring updates from the radio from the bedroom where the groom had previously been getting ready. “Does anyone have a reason these too should not be wed? And what is the score, young man?” Even then, as a young football fan, I wanted to share the news, and that news was the game and newly emerged folk heroes.

Auburn won that game 22-14. The Tigers were on probation that year: no bowls and no TV. Some entrepreneurial outfit sold Radio National Championship bumper stickers. They were everywhere for a time.

That house, where the wedding was, was full of people. I wonder which event is more memorable all these years later.

In October of 2012, my wife and I (who were married in the summer, thank you very much) attended a wedding that was scheduled on the Third Saturday in October. In the South, you capitalize it just like that. The Third Saturday in October. This is the Alabama-Tennessee game, a joyous collision that seriously impacts commerce in two states. Alabama being atop the polls and facing a heated rival probably hampered the wedding’s turnout. There were some other big games with implications that day third-ranked Florida was taking on ninth-ranked South Carolina, number six LSU had Texas A&M, ranked as the 20th best team in the land.

Why, I asked the bride, beforehand, did you choose this time of year? This date? She attended a huge football school. As did her brother and her mother and her father before her. As did everyone up and down her family tree. As did her husband.

She offered that the weather is too unpredictable in the spring. (It is not.) And that there would be TVs at the reception. (There were not.) It was a fine wedding. I remember there was a bar at the reception – but no TVs with games. On the bar were little chalkboards which told you the preferred drinks of the bride and groom, so you could order the same and be just like them. I don’t remember her choice, but the groom’s drink was rum and Coke.

You don’t have to ask yourself where he was on the idea of a Saturday wedding in the fall.

A few years later, in 2016, we attended a wedding in Tennessee. One of those where the bride and groom had reserved a beautiful chapel and everyone looked terrific, and every single person was in a festive mood. It was a mild October day. I was just getting over a cold and had a terrible coughing fit during the middle of the service. I left so as not to interrupt the beautiful ceremony.

I regained my composure but couldn’t get back to my seat without causing another scene, so I eased up the side of the chapel, and stood along the wall behind these guys.

He was anxious about the event; the game I mean. That installment of the Tennessee-Georgia series turned out to have one of the wildest finishes in the history of the sport. Those border rivalries are always tense, taut, and played close to the rented tuxedo vest.

The young couple got married and we gathered outside for the ceremonial send off. The bride and groom ran through the gathered loved ones and into the waiting car. That’s when the bomb was thrown, and the subsequent Hail Mary.

And that’s when this grown man, the guy above, a pillar of his community, a member of the local education board who was eager to see off a loved one started doing chest slides in the lawn in front of the chapel. The bride was beautiful. The bride was upstaged.

This isn’t about me, but that would become one of my bigger moments on social media. All the right people and outlets amplified the post and eventually it got back to the guy above, a person I did not know. I thought he might be angry that I’d outted him in profile. He thought it was hilarious. I assume that’s because his team won.

And that’s one of the risks you take with a wedding during football season. What happens if the wrong team wins. Now who has a sour taste in their mouth about your wedding day? Your guests? Your partner? Your parents? You?

“But, dear writer,” you may say, “this is not my concern. I am not in the South. I will not be wed in the South. I live here, in the world wide web.”

Fair enough, bride-elect or bridegroom-elect, but consider, that sport is part of culture. We, being social creatures, export the best parts of our culture. This, of course, is made that much easier – and each game made that much more important – because of the dazzling array of streaming and cable packages available to us today. These, then, are cautionary tales for the entire country, certainly a lesson less and less limited to the South.

Put another way, UConn and UMass have been at it since the 19th century, that series is tied, and they have two contests coming up in the next few years. Don’t ask a Huskie or the Minutemen to choose.

If you’ve got love and joyous union on the mind and there are leaves and footballs in the air, consider your audience, and consider the spring or the summer. Green leaves also make for a beautiful photographic backdrop. Baseballs are flying around.

Your guests will likely be paying much more attention to you than a routine pop up to right.

journalism / links / photo / Rowan / Tuesday — No comments
11
Nov 25

I saw no electrically charged particles released by the sun

We had a special visitor in my criticism class today. My lovely bride joined us to take part in our conversation on one of the articles the students selected for us to read. I was glad to have her there. A lot of times you just need more expertise than you have. And my expertise — such as it is — is limited to begin with. The story was actually an opinion column, which allowed us to discuss some of the differences between them.

From MTG to Charles Barkley, ignorance was on display about trans athletes:

Even on positive stories, like Tifanny Abreu ending a playoff hot streak with a Superliga title in hand or Nikki Hiltz on the charge in Grand Slam Track, the level of anti-trans ignorance is toxic.

This year, and especially last week, has been one long real-life comment section if you are trans, and especially if like sports. Politicians put on a show of ignorance at a hearing and then Charles Barkley — purportedly an ally — continued that ignorance with his insulting comments about trans athletes.

A House subcommittee hearing last week was another opportunity to show how ignorant and bigoted the GOP majority can be toward transgender Americans and how they use sports drive it home with pride. The focus was on trans women in fencing. It centered on a match where a cis woman fencer forfeited a match against a trans woman fencer and became a cause celebre to the anti-trans movement.

We talked about some of the specifics in the column, we talked about the outlet, Out Sports, and we talked about the power of the context of the links the author shared, including this really useful primer, Cracking the code of bias against transgender athletes:

The anti-trans crowd relies upon the fact that most readers and/or sports fans will not bother to check the facts for themselves, in part, because the sport is more obscure.

[…]

Fact checking would have perhaps saved Chesworth some embarrassment, but that’s the rub here. A transphobe counts on the general public to not research the claims for themselves.

I’d given that additional read, because it had some key terms to it, but it also allowed me to make a different and larger point. You could change some of the terms and that guide would help readers understand any sort of propaganda.

From time to time, as we discussed the piece, I would steal a little glance to my left to see if this was where the eminent Dr. Lauren Smith would chime in. She is an expert in this field, after all, and I just happen to listen to her talk about it. But she never interrupted me, never felt the need to correct me. So I guess the details are rubbing off.

Then we discussed this other story which I assigned to the class, The predatory web of sextortion increasingly ensnares young athletes:

John DeMay and Jenn Buta say that since they’ve made Jordan’s story public, they have heard from hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people who have been victims of sextortion at some level.

“Just this week I had four reach out in a 24-hour period,” Buta said.

The parents’ advice for teens getting targeted is simple: Shut off the computer as soon as a questionable message pops up, walk away and then go tell a trusted adult. The criminals are looking for money, and if they think an avenue has dried up, they’ll likely move on. It’s like a fish wiggling off the hook. But if they believe a fish is still on the hook, there is no amount of appeasement — or payouts — that will stop them from pushing for more.

“If you don’t engage with them, they’re going to stop and move on,” John said.

Meanwhile, NCMEC suggests immediately reporting the account to a social media platform and reaching out to the organization’s hotline: 1-800-843-5678. Laws and policies can help keep the image off the internet.

“We can help,” Coffren said. “We can handle it.”

A slew of new state laws — often pushed into passage by victim families — have made sextortion a felony. Law enforcers say that since most of the international criminals don’t believe anyone will actually take their own life, they won’t actually face criminal consequences for what they believe is just a minor financial crime.

It’s why a message had to be sent.

It’s a horrible story, shocking in its details. Important in every respect. In this class we ask a set of questions about who a story is for and who the disadvantaged people are, and this story had plenty of obvious answers, and some thoughtful and unexpected one from a few students, as well.

For a lighter time, after that class ended and I moved to org comm, we talked about the concepts of conflict. (Later this week and next we move to negotiation.) The class broke up into four groups, each had a different sort of sports-centric conflict they had to resolve. One had two teammates pursuing the same woman. Another had a play-coach disagreement on tactics. There was a third conflict about playing time on a co-ed intramural team. The fourth was a conflict stemming from a captain’s favoritism among teammates. They had to understand the problem, detail the framework of solving it and create reasonable solutions. They were into it, right until the end. I think the windows face the wrong way in that room and when there was nothing in the sky above the gloaming, that was pretty much it.

Maybe they were looking ahead to seeing the Northern Lights. They were probably disappointed. We had good skies for it, for the most part, but nothing out of the ordinary. Still, it’s a delight to go outside, shiver, look up and see all of this.

It is even nicer when you rush back inside nine or 10 minutes later, because it is that time of the year now.

The time of year where I have already decided which jacket I’ll wear to campus for tomorrow’s faculty meeting. The time of year when I wonder when we’ll see the 60s again. The long-range forecast says we’ll get 60 on Sunday. But I think that’s just an automated template from the weather site. It’s also the time of year where you wonder how long I’ll complain about this. That’s a fair question. The answer is: until April, for some silly reason.

cycling / Monday / photo — Comments Off
10
Nov 25

A rare feeling, indeed

As of this writing, I am dangerously close to being caught up. This is a sentence I haven’t been able to say since late September or early October. Yesterday and today I did a bit of class prep. Today I graded. This evening I built slide decks for tomorrow. I even got one of my inboxes under control.

I dislike the weight of being behind. I thought of putting about 400 words into that, but everyone knows the feeling, and everyone registers it differently. Besides, that’d just slow me down. What I’ll do is enjoy this feeling for a day, maybe 36 hours. And then I’ll be behind again.

Also, I have a document to write about a future class, start building that class, this, and some things to read for tomorrow.

Since I’ve been on a roll, at least some of that gets done tonight.

Let’s look at the last few days in photographs, shall we?

What is it to go up a road? Or are you going down a road? And what distinguishes between the two? For instance, was I going up or down this road on Saturday?

I had timed up my ride to get out and about and back in time for football. From that spot I was about 13 or 14 miles from home. And I almost made it back for kickoff. Didn’t miss much, but there’s something to be said for knowing how slow you are, so you can set up and pace your whole day around a ride. Also, it was beautiful. Just gorgeous. Shorts and short sleeves and it will be much too long before I get another ride like that.

This is a park I ride by pretty regularly. There are a couple of baseball and softball fields back there, a few soccer fields, too. I’ve never seen it this empty, and on what might be the last perfect fall Saturday of the season.

Great job, everyone!

I had a great shadow selfie. I must have been headed east at the time.

And here I am riding south, with the sun over my right shoulder.

Sometimes these roadside trees look like sculptures. Also, I didn’t notice it at the time, but there’s a bird flying through the background. Sometimes art is serendipitous.

At all times, my photos are pretending to be artistic.

I went for a run. OK, it was a short run. It was a nice foggy midnight run.

It was 5:50 p.m.

And this evening, we had a lovely sunset. I enjoyed it for about 20 seconds.

Because, of course, there are things to do.