Steven Harper's Blog, page 22
November 23, 2022
Long Wednesday
The day before a long weekend, a lot of teachers go for a more low-key day, partly because we're as tired as the students, and partly because absence rates are really high and you don't want to teach something new, only to have to re-teach it for all the students who missed it.
So I ran a low-key day. My seniors were great. We did some reviewing of previous material with online games, listened to a radio version of the book we're reading, and did some drawing of literary scenes. It was very relaxed and fun. Then my ninth graders showed up. They were monsters all class, some of the worst behavior I've seen all year. Immature and bad decisions that bordered on malicious. I was really upset with them, and it was a sucky way to end what had, until then, been a really nice day. I was glad to see the class end.
I have sixth hour prep, and normally I would have ducked out early, but we had a Gay/Straight Alliance meeting after school (we meet every other Wednesday, and this was an "other" Wednesday), so I had not only to stay, but stay late. I thought the meeting would be dead, with maybe three or four students, but we had a full house. All the active members came! I was a little mystified at this--didn't everyone want to get out for the long weekend?--but then I remembered how high schoolers see it.
To a teacher, an after-school meeting is work, and it's much the same as running a class (though the students are better-behaved). More work is the last thing you want on a Friday or the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. But the students see a group meeting as fun time. It's social time and time to unwind with friends. It's the kind of thinking that eventually leads to Happy Hour when they're adults.
The meeting went very nicely, and it was good to get the taste of my freshmen's bad behavior out of my mouth, but as the time for the meeting to end drew near, a lot of them were lingering. Under normal circumstances, I'd've let them, but today I wanted to go home, so I gently shooed them out the door.
By the time I got to the parking lot, it was nearly 3:30, and on the way home, I got caught in the "I'm sneaking out early today" traffic, so it took a LONG time to get home. I was late, in fact, for my online counseling session, but was able to hook up with the therapist anyway.
In the end, it was after 6:00 before I got any downtime. I should have gone for a run, but I said screw it and slacked off.
But the day wasn't done yet. Thanksgiving prep had to begin...
comments
So I ran a low-key day. My seniors were great. We did some reviewing of previous material with online games, listened to a radio version of the book we're reading, and did some drawing of literary scenes. It was very relaxed and fun. Then my ninth graders showed up. They were monsters all class, some of the worst behavior I've seen all year. Immature and bad decisions that bordered on malicious. I was really upset with them, and it was a sucky way to end what had, until then, been a really nice day. I was glad to see the class end.
I have sixth hour prep, and normally I would have ducked out early, but we had a Gay/Straight Alliance meeting after school (we meet every other Wednesday, and this was an "other" Wednesday), so I had not only to stay, but stay late. I thought the meeting would be dead, with maybe three or four students, but we had a full house. All the active members came! I was a little mystified at this--didn't everyone want to get out for the long weekend?--but then I remembered how high schoolers see it.
To a teacher, an after-school meeting is work, and it's much the same as running a class (though the students are better-behaved). More work is the last thing you want on a Friday or the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. But the students see a group meeting as fun time. It's social time and time to unwind with friends. It's the kind of thinking that eventually leads to Happy Hour when they're adults.
The meeting went very nicely, and it was good to get the taste of my freshmen's bad behavior out of my mouth, but as the time for the meeting to end drew near, a lot of them were lingering. Under normal circumstances, I'd've let them, but today I wanted to go home, so I gently shooed them out the door.
By the time I got to the parking lot, it was nearly 3:30, and on the way home, I got caught in the "I'm sneaking out early today" traffic, so it took a LONG time to get home. I was late, in fact, for my online counseling session, but was able to hook up with the therapist anyway.
In the end, it was after 6:00 before I got any downtime. I should have gone for a run, but I said screw it and slacked off.
But the day wasn't done yet. Thanksgiving prep had to begin...
comments
Harris
I've avoided writing about this, but I need to.
My friend Harris died last week.
I'm still in shock. Her husband must be in grief beyond grief. Harris had undergone a number of medical procedures in the last several years, and their health was dicey. Last week, they had a massive stroke.
I first knew Harris as Anne Harris. A few years ago, they announced their non-gendered status and have been Harris since then. Harris joined the Untitled Writers Group some twenty years ago, when we were in our thirties, and we became friends. Harris had a sharp wit and earthy manner. If they liked something you wrote, you knew it, and if they thought you'd done something wrong, you knew that, too. One of their more memorable lines about a character of mine was, "My god--a woman with an actual clit!" Harris was the most likely person in the group to understand what I was trying to do with a given piece, and their advice was always valuable to me. As Jessica Freely, they wrote the ground-breaking novel All the Colors of Love. The book made me both laugh and cry in equal doses. They were--and remain--the only non-male author I've ever read who wrote realistic gay male characters.
And then they wrote the short story "Still Life, With Boobs." Go read it. We'll wait!
Harris said that they were inspired to write the story when a friend mentioned that she didn't like wearing a low-cut blouse in public because when she did, it felt like her boobs were having conversations without her. Harris sent various drafts of the story through the group, and we always clamored to read it. I gave them one comment about a plot twist, and you can see it in the final version of story. (SPOILERS FOLLOW.) In Harris's original conception, Gwen's disapproving mother finds Gwen's runaway boobs in an ice cream carton and flips out. I told them, "You should change this. When Mom opens the carton, instead of freaking, she says tiredly, 'Oh. You, too.' " Harris pounced on this idea and gleefully worked it into the story. (END SPOILERS) Harris sent it to F&SF, and Gordon Van Gelder rejected it, but mentioned "the audacity of this story" as a treat. Harris eventually sold "Boobs" to Talebones. The story got a lot of deserved attention, and it became a finalist for the Nebula Award.
We were both Pagan, and we did some ritual work together. At Lammas one year, Harris told a dirty joke about the Goddess that explained how laughter entered the world. Harris and their husband Steve threw world-class holiday parties, too.
In the early 00s, I started teaching graduate school at Seton Hill University in their Writing Popular Fiction program. A few years later, however, my life just got too busy and I told the University I had to stop. The program director was worried--I was the only faculty member who handled fantasy and science fiction, and the student demand in those genres was climbing. Coincidentally, I had recently learned that Harris was looking for some supplemental income, so I put Harris and the University in contact with each other. Harris joined the faculty at Seton Hill and became a major hit. Students begged to be Harris's mentees, and they boosted the careers of many SHU students.
Harris eventually left the Untitled Writers Group, and, since we lived relatively far apart, we drifted. I only saw them at major events and holidays, and then only online. I saw that Harris had gotten into improv theater, and I thought of how in-character that was (so to speak). Harris was always willing to try something new and different.
I feel the loss deeply. It's still hard to understand that they're gone. The space Harris occupied is empty now. They've moved on.
comments
My friend Harris died last week.
I'm still in shock. Her husband must be in grief beyond grief. Harris had undergone a number of medical procedures in the last several years, and their health was dicey. Last week, they had a massive stroke.
I first knew Harris as Anne Harris. A few years ago, they announced their non-gendered status and have been Harris since then. Harris joined the Untitled Writers Group some twenty years ago, when we were in our thirties, and we became friends. Harris had a sharp wit and earthy manner. If they liked something you wrote, you knew it, and if they thought you'd done something wrong, you knew that, too. One of their more memorable lines about a character of mine was, "My god--a woman with an actual clit!" Harris was the most likely person in the group to understand what I was trying to do with a given piece, and their advice was always valuable to me. As Jessica Freely, they wrote the ground-breaking novel All the Colors of Love. The book made me both laugh and cry in equal doses. They were--and remain--the only non-male author I've ever read who wrote realistic gay male characters.
And then they wrote the short story "Still Life, With Boobs." Go read it. We'll wait!
Harris said that they were inspired to write the story when a friend mentioned that she didn't like wearing a low-cut blouse in public because when she did, it felt like her boobs were having conversations without her. Harris sent various drafts of the story through the group, and we always clamored to read it. I gave them one comment about a plot twist, and you can see it in the final version of story. (SPOILERS FOLLOW.) In Harris's original conception, Gwen's disapproving mother finds Gwen's runaway boobs in an ice cream carton and flips out. I told them, "You should change this. When Mom opens the carton, instead of freaking, she says tiredly, 'Oh. You, too.' " Harris pounced on this idea and gleefully worked it into the story. (END SPOILERS) Harris sent it to F&SF, and Gordon Van Gelder rejected it, but mentioned "the audacity of this story" as a treat. Harris eventually sold "Boobs" to Talebones. The story got a lot of deserved attention, and it became a finalist for the Nebula Award.
We were both Pagan, and we did some ritual work together. At Lammas one year, Harris told a dirty joke about the Goddess that explained how laughter entered the world. Harris and their husband Steve threw world-class holiday parties, too.
In the early 00s, I started teaching graduate school at Seton Hill University in their Writing Popular Fiction program. A few years later, however, my life just got too busy and I told the University I had to stop. The program director was worried--I was the only faculty member who handled fantasy and science fiction, and the student demand in those genres was climbing. Coincidentally, I had recently learned that Harris was looking for some supplemental income, so I put Harris and the University in contact with each other. Harris joined the faculty at Seton Hill and became a major hit. Students begged to be Harris's mentees, and they boosted the careers of many SHU students.
Harris eventually left the Untitled Writers Group, and, since we lived relatively far apart, we drifted. I only saw them at major events and holidays, and then only online. I saw that Harris had gotten into improv theater, and I thought of how in-character that was (so to speak). Harris was always willing to try something new and different.
I feel the loss deeply. It's still hard to understand that they're gone. The space Harris occupied is empty now. They've moved on.
comments
Shoulder Surgery 25 (Pause to PT)
So now I don't do physical therapy. For the moment.
This is a good thing. I don't have to drive to Ann Arbor twice a week and go through an hour of lifts and stretches. I don't have to add half an hour of exercises to my daily run. I get home from work, I do a run, and I'm done for the day, and it's not even 4:30.
I should be happy about this, but really, my feelings are mixed. I know my shoulder and arm aren't up to full strength, and I worry that pausing or stopping PT will mean I won't get that strength back. I definitely feel the strain--and pain--when I lift anything more than three or four pounds the wrong way. (When I mentioned this to the doctor, he said, "Then don't lift that way," which is decent medical advice, but thing is, I would like full strength back, thanks. I shouldn't have to spend the rest of my life with a weak right arm.)
On the other hand, a major burden has lifted. I'm no longer spending five and six hours a week, plus travel time, in physical therapy I hated.
Why is it not completely a thrill? I've been doing this for sixteen months. For a year and a half, my life has been bolt out of work and run to PT, then arrive home, tired and sweating and in pain, and by the time I showered and dressed, it was after 5:00--time to make supper. So my days started at 6:00 AM and I ran non-stop until 6:00 PM. For sixteen months. This made me feel ... helpless. Like I had no control over my schedule or my life. Wrenched daily from one even to the next, doing shit that felt scary or even degrading. ("Here, lift this one-pound weight. That's all someone in your shape can handle. Then I'm going to hurt you a bunch, but that part of the recovery process, so put up with it, you weak little shit.")
After a while, it becomes your life. When it's lifted, you don't know how to let go. I get mad when I think about all the hours I put in (six hours a week times 78 weeks = 468 hours, which is more than ten 40-hour work weeks, or 20 days of 24 hours). How much could I have written in that time? How much could have I read? How much harp could I have played? How much could I have just rested when I needed to? Because the pain is still there, it feels like I completed 468 hours of PT for nothing. Wasted time. Lost time. And I still do an hour a week of talk therapy. Been doing that for a year, so add another 50 hours or so. And the amount of time I've spent on the phone and the amount of time I've spent at the doctor's office and it all adds up to so much time taken away from me.
It's hard to let go anger and frustration you've gotten on a daily basis for sixteen months, even when a chunk of the anger/frustration's source is over. Or at least, on hiatus.
I'm working on that. Being upset doesn't make life better for me. The only thing it does is ensure that I don't give up and I don't let the medical people give up. But it's not something that happens overnight.
comments
This is a good thing. I don't have to drive to Ann Arbor twice a week and go through an hour of lifts and stretches. I don't have to add half an hour of exercises to my daily run. I get home from work, I do a run, and I'm done for the day, and it's not even 4:30.
I should be happy about this, but really, my feelings are mixed. I know my shoulder and arm aren't up to full strength, and I worry that pausing or stopping PT will mean I won't get that strength back. I definitely feel the strain--and pain--when I lift anything more than three or four pounds the wrong way. (When I mentioned this to the doctor, he said, "Then don't lift that way," which is decent medical advice, but thing is, I would like full strength back, thanks. I shouldn't have to spend the rest of my life with a weak right arm.)
On the other hand, a major burden has lifted. I'm no longer spending five and six hours a week, plus travel time, in physical therapy I hated.
Why is it not completely a thrill? I've been doing this for sixteen months. For a year and a half, my life has been bolt out of work and run to PT, then arrive home, tired and sweating and in pain, and by the time I showered and dressed, it was after 5:00--time to make supper. So my days started at 6:00 AM and I ran non-stop until 6:00 PM. For sixteen months. This made me feel ... helpless. Like I had no control over my schedule or my life. Wrenched daily from one even to the next, doing shit that felt scary or even degrading. ("Here, lift this one-pound weight. That's all someone in your shape can handle. Then I'm going to hurt you a bunch, but that part of the recovery process, so put up with it, you weak little shit.")
After a while, it becomes your life. When it's lifted, you don't know how to let go. I get mad when I think about all the hours I put in (six hours a week times 78 weeks = 468 hours, which is more than ten 40-hour work weeks, or 20 days of 24 hours). How much could I have written in that time? How much could have I read? How much harp could I have played? How much could I have just rested when I needed to? Because the pain is still there, it feels like I completed 468 hours of PT for nothing. Wasted time. Lost time. And I still do an hour a week of talk therapy. Been doing that for a year, so add another 50 hours or so. And the amount of time I've spent on the phone and the amount of time I've spent at the doctor's office and it all adds up to so much time taken away from me.
It's hard to let go anger and frustration you've gotten on a daily basis for sixteen months, even when a chunk of the anger/frustration's source is over. Or at least, on hiatus.
I'm working on that. Being upset doesn't make life better for me. The only thing it does is ensure that I don't give up and I don't let the medical people give up. But it's not something that happens overnight.
comments
Shoulder Surgery 24 (Redux)
The surgery pain in my shoulder still won't go away, and I made yet another appointment with the new doctor to talk about it. We came away with this:
1. Apparently, 85% of patients report satisfaction with shoulder surgery. That means 15% have continual problems. I seem to be one of them.
2. Based on my most recent MRI, the doctor still doesn't think that exploratory surgery is necessary (good), and a second shoulder operation (which never goes as well anyway) would be a bad idea.
comments
1. Apparently, 85% of patients report satisfaction with shoulder surgery. That means 15% have continual problems. I seem to be one of them.
2. Based on my most recent MRI, the doctor still doesn't think that exploratory surgery is necessary (good), and a second shoulder operation (which never goes as well anyway) would be a bad idea.
3. The doctor suspects the main tendon is still inflamed, which is causing the problems, but he isn't sure. He advised taking more anti-inflammatories. If it is indeed inflammation, a third cortisone shot might help, or even solve, the problem, but he didn't want to give me one unless he was sure the tendon was inflamed.
4. He wouldn't prescribe more painkillers. "As surgeons, we only prescribe meds post-surgery, and you're past that phase. You'll need to talk to your GP." (I later did, and he prescribed more Meloxicam, but nothing more powerful.)
5. Because the pain isn't going away, I need to "put a pause" on the physical therapy.
So what do we do?
In the end, I paused the PT and was scheduled for another MRI. I got an appointment only a day later and went in for it, but the first available appointment for follow-up wasn't until the Wednesday after Thanksgiving.
In the meantime, however, the MRI results showed up in my patient portal. I untangled the medical jargon--here's where it's an advantage growing up in a medical family--and saw that, yep, the tendon is inflamed.
Next week I see the doctor, then, and he'll probably give me the cortisone shot. I hope that ends it!
comments
November 11, 2022
Andor: Unpopular Opinion
(Unpopular opinion coming up.)
Andor is a slooooooowwww show. My god, it's slow. Did I mention that it's slow? We should talk about how slow the show is, just like the show endlessly talks about stuff that is slow, in a slow, slow way.
The show also has no fun or funny robots (B2EMO is barely a presence). It has no light saber battles. It has no space ship battles. It has no central antagonist that we love to hate.
So what =does= it have?
A dry study of the economics of the Empire. Speeches at the Empire Senate. Dinner parties. Shopping trips to an expensive boutique. Long, long, LONG discussions about the nature of morality. Long, long, LONG discussions about whether or not to go through with a plan (when we already know full well they're going to go through with the plan). Long, long, LONG examinations of family dynamics in families that aren't all that interesting. And a slow, slow plot. In other words, it has nothing fans expect in a Star Wars show.
I haven't fully understood the high praise the show gets. It's a decent soap opera in a SNnal setting, but everything moves so slowly that I haven't felt compelled to scarf down the next episode. And I can forgive a slow plot if the characters are compelling, but ... they just aren't. I watch the show more out of a sense of duty and a desire to keep up with SW continuity than anything else, but I can only work up enough interest to watch an episode every couple of weeks. Viewers like me are the reason the show's numbers are down.
https://screenrant.com/andor-star-wars-show-fans-not-watching-reason/
comments
Andor is a slooooooowwww show. My god, it's slow. Did I mention that it's slow? We should talk about how slow the show is, just like the show endlessly talks about stuff that is slow, in a slow, slow way.
The show also has no fun or funny robots (B2EMO is barely a presence). It has no light saber battles. It has no space ship battles. It has no central antagonist that we love to hate.
So what =does= it have?
A dry study of the economics of the Empire. Speeches at the Empire Senate. Dinner parties. Shopping trips to an expensive boutique. Long, long, LONG discussions about the nature of morality. Long, long, LONG discussions about whether or not to go through with a plan (when we already know full well they're going to go through with the plan). Long, long, LONG examinations of family dynamics in families that aren't all that interesting. And a slow, slow plot. In other words, it has nothing fans expect in a Star Wars show.
I haven't fully understood the high praise the show gets. It's a decent soap opera in a SNnal setting, but everything moves so slowly that I haven't felt compelled to scarf down the next episode. And I can forgive a slow plot if the characters are compelling, but ... they just aren't. I watch the show more out of a sense of duty and a desire to keep up with SW continuity than anything else, but I can only work up enough interest to watch an episode every couple of weeks. Viewers like me are the reason the show's numbers are down.
https://screenrant.com/andor-star-wars-show-fans-not-watching-reason/
comments
November 8, 2022
![[profile]](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1491408111i/22407843.png)
comments
October 28, 2022
Game Day Morlocks
After I moved away from the Ann Arbor/Ypsilanti area, I forgot about ... Game Days.
If you aren't a football fan (and I'm not), Game Days in the hometown of the University of Michigan are a strange combination of locking down and scurrying out.
See, the Big House (the local nickname for the UofM stadium) holds up to 114,000 people. Most of those 114,000 people come from out of town. This means most of those 114,000 people flood the local highways and roads. The entire day before the game begins, no one can go anywhere. The highways (and there are three of them--four if you count I-275) become parking lots. Every street within five miles of the Big House is backed up. I'm always amazed that anyone manages to get to the game at all.
And then all 114,000 of these people need a place to park. The lot at the stadium fills up a day beforehand (seriously--people actually CAMP OUT in the parking lot). All the street parking within a mile of the stadium becomes engorged. The people who live near the Big House make a cottage industry of charging people to park on their front lawns. PARK HERE! shout the home-made signs. $100 FOR THE DAY! And people pay it. The high schools rent out their parking lots and shuttle buses ferry people to the game. The local supermarkets don't get in on this action, but their lots are full anyway--fans park for free at Kroger or Meijer, then try to get an Uber or Lyft driver to the stadium. If you work for either company, you want to be out there on Game Day.
Of course, all these people want to be fed. Every restaurant and bar in both towns is packed to the gills on Game Day. The takeout places are stacked with orders. Between demand and clogged streets, a pizza delivery won't arrive for at least three hours.
We non-fans keep an eye on Game Day, too. We have calendars and red-ink reminders: GAME DAY! DON'T FORGET! and MY GOD, WATCH OUT FOR GAME DAY! This isn't because we care about the game. We care about getting stuck. Before the game, we non-fans stay home, with the doors locked and the windows barred and the lights off. We huddle in the basement while the fans thunder through our city overhead. We don't make plans. We don't even venture outside. Instead, we wait. This is the lock down portion of Game Day, and it bites football cleats.
But then ... then ... the game begins. And a hush falls over the city. Everyone is in the Big House. The streets and highways are clear. Restaurants and bars and stores are empty. Ann Arbor and Ypsilanti become ghost towns. This is when we non-fans have our time. Like Morlocks at sunset, we creep outside and do anything we want! Eating! Shopping! Entertaining! We have THE WHOLE TOWN TO OURSELVES because everyone else is either at the game or watching it at home.
The cool part, though? All the retails places are fully staffed. They schedule all the workers for Game Day because they get slammed before the game. Then, during the game, the workers repair the damage and await the post-game second rush. So when we non-fans go into such places, we find a lot of staff who are just dying to wait on us. It's lovely! This is the scurry portion of Game Day.
Smart non-fans keep the game running on their cell phone or radio, not because we care about the game--again, we don't--but because we need to know how it's progressing. When the fourth quarter starts, the non-fans scurry back home and hide in the basement again, though now we're nicely fed and fully stocked. For three or four hours after the game, the streets and highways and bars and restaurants are clogged again, and we don't dare go anywhere. But we don't need to because we've already done what we need to do.
I lived in the Ann Arbor/Ypsilanti area for twenty years, and this was the circle of life. Every autumn, the air turns crisp, the leaves change colors, and Game Day looms over you. But then I moved away and was gone for nearly ten years. Now I'm back, but Game Day didn't make a blip on my radar.
As it happens, I eat lunch with a group of male teachers who talk about almost nothing but sports. It's dreadfully dull, and I usually pull out my phone and read when one of the guys says, "So how's that new pitcher for the Puxatawny Groundhogs doing?" I do keep an ear out in case someone brings up a different topic, which turned out to be a good thing. Today, one of them mentioned "The game against MSU," which is Michigan State University, to which another guy said, "Yeah, they might actually beat Michigan this year."
Michigan, of course, means University of Michigan. My old reflexes kicked in, and I came to attention. I interrupted. "Are they playing in Ann Arbor or Lansing?"
They looked at me like I was a space alien. "Ann Arbor," came the answer.
"Ah." I tried to keep it casual. "What time does the game start?"
"Seven."
I blinked. "Seven?"
"Yeah. It's a night game. We won't get home until two in the morning, and that's without the drinking, har har har."
Oh, crap. Usually games start at two or three, which means we non-fans only have to huddle inside until afternoon. A seven o'clock game means we stay inside ALL DAY LONG.
But at least I got warned. On Saturday, we'll be good little Morlocks and hide in our tunnels until it's safe.
comments
If you aren't a football fan (and I'm not), Game Days in the hometown of the University of Michigan are a strange combination of locking down and scurrying out.
See, the Big House (the local nickname for the UofM stadium) holds up to 114,000 people. Most of those 114,000 people come from out of town. This means most of those 114,000 people flood the local highways and roads. The entire day before the game begins, no one can go anywhere. The highways (and there are three of them--four if you count I-275) become parking lots. Every street within five miles of the Big House is backed up. I'm always amazed that anyone manages to get to the game at all.
And then all 114,000 of these people need a place to park. The lot at the stadium fills up a day beforehand (seriously--people actually CAMP OUT in the parking lot). All the street parking within a mile of the stadium becomes engorged. The people who live near the Big House make a cottage industry of charging people to park on their front lawns. PARK HERE! shout the home-made signs. $100 FOR THE DAY! And people pay it. The high schools rent out their parking lots and shuttle buses ferry people to the game. The local supermarkets don't get in on this action, but their lots are full anyway--fans park for free at Kroger or Meijer, then try to get an Uber or Lyft driver to the stadium. If you work for either company, you want to be out there on Game Day.
Of course, all these people want to be fed. Every restaurant and bar in both towns is packed to the gills on Game Day. The takeout places are stacked with orders. Between demand and clogged streets, a pizza delivery won't arrive for at least three hours.
We non-fans keep an eye on Game Day, too. We have calendars and red-ink reminders: GAME DAY! DON'T FORGET! and MY GOD, WATCH OUT FOR GAME DAY! This isn't because we care about the game. We care about getting stuck. Before the game, we non-fans stay home, with the doors locked and the windows barred and the lights off. We huddle in the basement while the fans thunder through our city overhead. We don't make plans. We don't even venture outside. Instead, we wait. This is the lock down portion of Game Day, and it bites football cleats.
But then ... then ... the game begins. And a hush falls over the city. Everyone is in the Big House. The streets and highways are clear. Restaurants and bars and stores are empty. Ann Arbor and Ypsilanti become ghost towns. This is when we non-fans have our time. Like Morlocks at sunset, we creep outside and do anything we want! Eating! Shopping! Entertaining! We have THE WHOLE TOWN TO OURSELVES because everyone else is either at the game or watching it at home.
The cool part, though? All the retails places are fully staffed. They schedule all the workers for Game Day because they get slammed before the game. Then, during the game, the workers repair the damage and await the post-game second rush. So when we non-fans go into such places, we find a lot of staff who are just dying to wait on us. It's lovely! This is the scurry portion of Game Day.
Smart non-fans keep the game running on their cell phone or radio, not because we care about the game--again, we don't--but because we need to know how it's progressing. When the fourth quarter starts, the non-fans scurry back home and hide in the basement again, though now we're nicely fed and fully stocked. For three or four hours after the game, the streets and highways and bars and restaurants are clogged again, and we don't dare go anywhere. But we don't need to because we've already done what we need to do.
I lived in the Ann Arbor/Ypsilanti area for twenty years, and this was the circle of life. Every autumn, the air turns crisp, the leaves change colors, and Game Day looms over you. But then I moved away and was gone for nearly ten years. Now I'm back, but Game Day didn't make a blip on my radar.
As it happens, I eat lunch with a group of male teachers who talk about almost nothing but sports. It's dreadfully dull, and I usually pull out my phone and read when one of the guys says, "So how's that new pitcher for the Puxatawny Groundhogs doing?" I do keep an ear out in case someone brings up a different topic, which turned out to be a good thing. Today, one of them mentioned "The game against MSU," which is Michigan State University, to which another guy said, "Yeah, they might actually beat Michigan this year."
Michigan, of course, means University of Michigan. My old reflexes kicked in, and I came to attention. I interrupted. "Are they playing in Ann Arbor or Lansing?"
They looked at me like I was a space alien. "Ann Arbor," came the answer.
"Ah." I tried to keep it casual. "What time does the game start?"
"Seven."
I blinked. "Seven?"
"Yeah. It's a night game. We won't get home until two in the morning, and that's without the drinking, har har har."
Oh, crap. Usually games start at two or three, which means we non-fans only have to huddle inside until afternoon. A seven o'clock game means we stay inside ALL DAY LONG.
But at least I got warned. On Saturday, we'll be good little Morlocks and hide in our tunnels until it's safe.
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October 26, 2022
The News and Teachers
The News Media: Why are teachers quitting in record numbers?
Also the News Media: A teacher died trying to save students from a school shooter
Daycare worker charged for allegedly sharing obscene photos with kids at school.
Two dead, four wounded during overnight shooting near North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University
Shooting at a St. Louis High School Leaves Multiple Black Students Wounded and One Killed
A student filmed a fight at a Central Florida school. Administrators are trying to expel him
4 teens under investigation for allegedly sexually assaulting special needs student
Penn State Hosted The Proud Boys Despite Outcry. Students Were Attacked.
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Also the News Media: A teacher died trying to save students from a school shooter
Daycare worker charged for allegedly sharing obscene photos with kids at school.
Two dead, four wounded during overnight shooting near North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University
Shooting at a St. Louis High School Leaves Multiple Black Students Wounded and One Killed
A student filmed a fight at a Central Florida school. Administrators are trying to expel him
4 teens under investigation for allegedly sexually assaulting special needs student
Penn State Hosted The Proud Boys Despite Outcry. Students Were Attacked.
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October 23, 2022
Dora's Bad Habit
Dora has an enormously bad habit. She tries to leap onto my lap, but because she's so fat, she's sure she can't quite make it, so she lands with all her claws out and digs in. Then she has the temerity to get upset with me when I pluck her from my bleeding lap, toss her away, and squirt her with the water bottle when she tries to come back. She KNOWS she's allowed to jump up beside me, but never, ever ON me. And yet, she still tries.
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October 13, 2022
Shoulder Surgery 23 (Harp)
So here's what happened:
After an involved discussion with my primary physical therapist, we decided I could start coming in just once a week, though I still need to do daily exercises at home or at the gym. I've noticed I'm about an inch or so away from pre-surgery mobility with my bad arm when I reach behind and up my back, though it still hurts to reach that far. I was taking all this as progress.
Today, the therapist asked me update questions. "How difficult is to do this? Do you feel pain when you do that? How well are you able to perform daily activities?" To the last, I said that most activities--running, biking, computer work--didn't cause me problems, but others did, including playing the harp. I explained that I couldn't play very well because the correct arm position for play causes me pain.
As part of the regimen for the day, the therapist also had me do a different stretch. I stood with my back against a wall and was supposed to reach up with my elbows bent so that the back of my arm and hand were also flat against the wall.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't even come close. Not only did it hurt like hell, my arm simply wouldn't move that way. (My good arm could do it without trouble.)
I became enormously upset. So far, I'd been able to do every stretch or exercise they'd handed me. It was just a matter of degree or intensity. But this I couldn't do. It felt like a gut punch, as if the last ten months (TEN MONTHS) of work meant nothing. I shut down and spent the rest of the session nodding or shaking my head or giving one-word answers to questions. I fled the clinic the moment we were finished.
A bit later at home, I got an email from the therapist. She said that she had discussed my harp playing with the head of the PT team, and that I could play as long as I followed certain instructions, which she attached. They involve stretching before playing, playing short runs, stretching and icing afterward, and keeping track of how long I could play and then slowly increasing my time.
I lost it again. I slumped over the computer, trying not to scream or cry or both.
Why was I so upset? Because something central to my life, something that gave me pleasure and relieved stress and helped me in a thousand other ways, had abruptly been yanked into becoming a tool for the physical therapy I both hate and fear. I can't just sit down and play my harp. No, I have to do extensive stretches and warmups. I have to monitor my playing time. I have to do cooldowns and icings. Playing the harp for ten minutes has turned into a 30-minute chore. There's no joy or pleasure in it.
The email also forced me to face something I'd been ignoring. I haven't played Corey since the surgery. That's ten months. I haven't even tried, or even thought about it. At first it was because I was in a sling and couldn't even go to the bathroom without extensive preparation, let alone play a harp. But once the sling was off, I still avoided Corey. I didn't consciously do it--I just didn't play. The email made me realize that it was because I'm afraid that I can't play anymore. The pain stopped me, and so I stopped trying. Now I've gone ten months without touching a string for fear of pain and failure. The harper's calluses on my fingers are gone. My fingers are stiff. I'm forgetting the music.
My playing has hit both a physical and an emotional wall. I don't know how to break it down--and I hadn't realized until today how thick that wall has become. I could march into the family room right this moment, sit down, and put my hands on the strings, sure. Nothing is physically preventing me. But just thinking about it knots my stomach and makes me feel a little sick. The combination of fear and the new connection of my harp to PT freezes me.
I feel like I've been robbed. A major part of my life is gone. I don't know how to get past this. I suspect I'll eventually manage to coax myself into sitting down and trying to play, and I might even be able to make recognizable music. But it'll be nothing like I used to do--and it'll be a PT chore. That makes me angry and depressed all over again.
I don't know how to handle this. I do know that I'm not handling it well. It's like abruptly realizing that I've had a bleeding wound for the last ten months, and I don't understand how the hell I didn't see it before, and I don't know how to stop it bleeding and I'm trying not to panic.
Something new to talk about with my counselor, I suppose. But in the meantime, I'm still not playing.
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After an involved discussion with my primary physical therapist, we decided I could start coming in just once a week, though I still need to do daily exercises at home or at the gym. I've noticed I'm about an inch or so away from pre-surgery mobility with my bad arm when I reach behind and up my back, though it still hurts to reach that far. I was taking all this as progress.
Today, the therapist asked me update questions. "How difficult is to do this? Do you feel pain when you do that? How well are you able to perform daily activities?" To the last, I said that most activities--running, biking, computer work--didn't cause me problems, but others did, including playing the harp. I explained that I couldn't play very well because the correct arm position for play causes me pain.
As part of the regimen for the day, the therapist also had me do a different stretch. I stood with my back against a wall and was supposed to reach up with my elbows bent so that the back of my arm and hand were also flat against the wall.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't even come close. Not only did it hurt like hell, my arm simply wouldn't move that way. (My good arm could do it without trouble.)
I became enormously upset. So far, I'd been able to do every stretch or exercise they'd handed me. It was just a matter of degree or intensity. But this I couldn't do. It felt like a gut punch, as if the last ten months (TEN MONTHS) of work meant nothing. I shut down and spent the rest of the session nodding or shaking my head or giving one-word answers to questions. I fled the clinic the moment we were finished.
A bit later at home, I got an email from the therapist. She said that she had discussed my harp playing with the head of the PT team, and that I could play as long as I followed certain instructions, which she attached. They involve stretching before playing, playing short runs, stretching and icing afterward, and keeping track of how long I could play and then slowly increasing my time.
I lost it again. I slumped over the computer, trying not to scream or cry or both.
Why was I so upset? Because something central to my life, something that gave me pleasure and relieved stress and helped me in a thousand other ways, had abruptly been yanked into becoming a tool for the physical therapy I both hate and fear. I can't just sit down and play my harp. No, I have to do extensive stretches and warmups. I have to monitor my playing time. I have to do cooldowns and icings. Playing the harp for ten minutes has turned into a 30-minute chore. There's no joy or pleasure in it.
The email also forced me to face something I'd been ignoring. I haven't played Corey since the surgery. That's ten months. I haven't even tried, or even thought about it. At first it was because I was in a sling and couldn't even go to the bathroom without extensive preparation, let alone play a harp. But once the sling was off, I still avoided Corey. I didn't consciously do it--I just didn't play. The email made me realize that it was because I'm afraid that I can't play anymore. The pain stopped me, and so I stopped trying. Now I've gone ten months without touching a string for fear of pain and failure. The harper's calluses on my fingers are gone. My fingers are stiff. I'm forgetting the music.
My playing has hit both a physical and an emotional wall. I don't know how to break it down--and I hadn't realized until today how thick that wall has become. I could march into the family room right this moment, sit down, and put my hands on the strings, sure. Nothing is physically preventing me. But just thinking about it knots my stomach and makes me feel a little sick. The combination of fear and the new connection of my harp to PT freezes me.
I feel like I've been robbed. A major part of my life is gone. I don't know how to get past this. I suspect I'll eventually manage to coax myself into sitting down and trying to play, and I might even be able to make recognizable music. But it'll be nothing like I used to do--and it'll be a PT chore. That makes me angry and depressed all over again.
I don't know how to handle this. I do know that I'm not handling it well. It's like abruptly realizing that I've had a bleeding wound for the last ten months, and I don't understand how the hell I didn't see it before, and I don't know how to stop it bleeding and I'm trying not to panic.
Something new to talk about with my counselor, I suppose. But in the meantime, I'm still not playing.
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