www.landofmilkandmoney.com

Die Zeit ist da!

As of today we are merely two weeks away from the release of my novel, Land of Milk and Money, published by Tagus Press of the University of Massachusetts at Dartmouth. The university has a robust program of Portuguese studies and the theme of my novel made it a natural for the “Portuguese in the Americas” series, of which my book is #18. (Collect them all!)

Of course, if my novel were only thematically significant, then it would not be likely to attract much attention. I have it on good authority, however, that it is also a rollicking good yarn. Bestselling author John Lescroart read the entire manuscript and proclaimed it excellent. Here's what he provided me for a cover blurb:

In Land of Milk and Money, the author mines rich family history to create a full-blooded tale that patient readers will find insightful, rewarding, and entertaining.

That's not bad, is it? In the note that accompanied the blurb, Lescroart said, “Really excellent work. Congratulations.”

Well-known California author Gerald Haslam also provided a cover quote:

One of the West’s singular migrations—from the Azores to California’s Great Central Valley—is given faces and voices in Land of Milk and Money. Along with its triumphs, the Francisco family embodies the challenges to an immigrant family in a new land, including the often-ignored difficulties posed by success and the loss of the old culture. A must read.

Got that? It's a must read! (And we can trust Gerry Haslam because he's one-eighth Azorean.)

Getting a novel published is a success in and of itself, especially considering that math professors are not known for their literary accomplishments. Nevertheless, it would please me greatly if Land of Milk and Money were at least a modest success, forcing Tagus Press into more than one printing. You can help, of course.

The next time you pop into your friendly neighborhood bookstore, please be sure to inquire sweetly:

“When will you have Land of Milk and Money from Tagus Press in stock?”

I would much appreciate it. No doubt hordes of inquisitive blog readers could give the book quite a boost.

I hope, too, to see some of you at book events in various parts of California. A few are already lined up and others are being sought. See the Events page at www.landofmilkandmoney.com for current details. I look forward to meeting you!

Mass marketing

The Church is my bulwark

Over the years I have been to a handful of book-launch parties. The most recent—and most impressive—was for the hardcover debut of John Lescroart's The Hunter. There was food, live music, book-signing (of course), and an overflow crowd of a couple hundred people. On the other hand, I've been to book events where chairs are set up for forty and only a quarter of them get used. That can be dispiriting.

Naturally I'm concerned that my own book events—which begin next month (watch this space for more specfics)—not be wash-outs. I want crowds of eager people to hang on my every word and congregate in lines to get my autograph. Of course I do!

Sensible people know that this is not a particularly reasonable expectation for a no-name, first-time novelist, especially one whose publisher is a small academic press. Although one can never tell what strange things might occur against all expectations (after all, people bought Twilight), sometimes a bit of divine intervention might help.

Exactly! And that's what I got!

Later this summer I will be featured at a book-launch event that is expected to draw 300 people. They will treat me with the utmost respect and consideration and it's likely that several will buy my book and get my autograph. The event can hardly go wrong, for it will be sponsored by the Roman Catholic Church.

Perhaps you are goggling in perplexity. Perhaps I took you by surprise, despite the giveaway title of this post. Why on earth would the Church be so nice to one of its lost sheep? I'll explain.

If my novel were not about a significant era in the history of Portuguese immigration to the West Coast, it would not have found a publisher so quickly. The university press that is bringing it out has a special interest in the Azorean diaspora and the professor who is its founder and senior editor was himself an Azorean immigrant to California. One of his older brothers became a priest (as so often happens in Portuguese families). As a favor to his younger brother, the priest is hosting my book-launch event. When the senior pastor of a parish crooks his finger in summons, the parishioners turn out in droves—especially in a parish full of doughty Azorean-Americans. If Father says he expects about 300 people to show up, then they'll show up. One needn't doubt it for a moment.

Has Father read my book? I don't know and I haven't asked. It probably doesn't matter. My novel treats the Church rather gently, given that the cast of characters is replete with devout Catholics. (The book is also dedicated to the memory of my baptismal godmother.) Sure, the character based on me clearly lapses in his religious practice as the plot progresses, but he's not the central figure in the novel and he doesn't spend any time on a soapbox denouncing the Church. Furthermore, his best friend heads off to enroll in a seminary.

I think Father can read my book without adding to his gray hairs. What's more, he gets to preside over a celebration of Portuguese-American culture and history, things dear to his heart. In return, I may have to sit through a mass or two. Not a problem.

Oh, and Father would appreciate it if I were to say a few words to the assembled throng in Portuguese.

Oh.

This is going to take a little work, after all.

Unfair and unbalanced

So what else is new?

In an especially egregious display of chutzpah, cartoonist Lisa Benson gives her cross-eyed view of California's budget plight. Our state has, of course, suffered from the Great Recession brought on by the feckless policies of the Bush administration (and a bolder Obama administration should have pushed a larger and more effective stimulus in its initial recovery effort). In addition, the Golden State has been saddled with a Republican minority in both houses of the state legislature that knows only the word “no.” They are essentially useless obstructionists (like their counterparts in Washington).

Benson, however, persists in presenting the Republican elephant as the steady representative of fiscal sanity. Look at how he sits there on the budget teeter-totter, a modest “No New Taxes” valise by his side. In shocking contrast, the profligate Democratic donkey has loaded up his end of the seesaw with a huge steamer trunk of “Spending.” (Benson is blissfully untouched by the reality that state spending is and has been flat since the Bush recession took hold: $90.9 billion in General Fund expenditures in 2008-2009 and maybe $92.6 billion in General Fund expenditures in 2012-2013—a less than two percent increase in four years.)

How can such an unbalanced seesaw remain level despite such evident Democratic irresponsibility? Benson hastens to inform us that the California state budget is being supported by “Gimmicks” and “Borrowing” and “Programs.” Wait a minute? Programs? I guess Benson ran out of clever labels for the baggage that is supposedly propping up the state budget. (I thought Programs were part of Spending. Silly me!) This entry sets a new standard for inane cartoon commentary on the California political scene. Pure propaganda. One almost has to admire its audacity.

But I don't.

Pyrrhus in the pulpit

Bill Donohue redefines victory

The e-mail announcements from the Catholic League always bear ALL-CAPS subject lines, presumably to conform to the histrionic style of its leader and bombastic spokesman, the cheerfully obstreperous Bill Donohue. Clearly the crew at the Catholic League was poised with press release ready the moment the jury weighed in on the fate of  Monsignor William Lynn. The priest was convicted on one count of child endangerment:

Monsignor Lynn served as secretary for clergy for the 1.5 million-member [Philadelphia] archdiocese from 1992 to 2004, recommending priest assignments and investigating abuse complaints. Prosecutors presented a flood of evidence that Monsignor Lynn had not acted strongly to keep suspected molesters away from children, let alone to report them to law enforcement.

The jury, however, declined to convict Msgr. Lynn on the charge of conspiracy or a second child-endangerment accusation. Thus Donohue hastened to declare victory, sort of, with a generous dollop of but-everybody's-doing-it:

The witch-hunt has come to an end, and those who have been clamoring for blood lost big time. What made this a witch-hunt was the decision of former Philadelphia D.A. Lynne Abraham to summarily ignore what she was empowered to do in 2001: she was given the charge “to investigate the sexual abuse of minors by individuals associated with religious organizations and denominations.” Had she done so, those cases of minors who may have been sexually molested by ministers, rabbis, and others, would have been investigated. Instead, absolutely nothing was done about these cases.

Nothing was done? Bill knows this, of course, because D.A. Abraham declines to confide in him concerning other investigations by the district attorney's office. Therefore these other investigations must not exist. Since the D.A. went after a Catholic priest, this is obviously a vendetta against Rome. Besides, Abraham failed to get a conviction against a second priest, hence her prosecutorial efforts are exposed as simple anti-Catholicism. At least, this is how the Catholic League sees it!

Donohue's crowing is not muted by the facts of the second case:

A second priest, the Rev. James J. Brennan, 49, was tried with Monsignor Lynn, charged with attempted rape and endangerment of a youth, but the defense challenged the accuser’s credibility.

To convict, the jury had to find that Father Brennan had not only abused that boy but continued to put children at risk over subsequent years of ministry. The prosecutors were unable to find later victims. The jury said it was deadlocked on the two counts against Father Brennan, and Judge Sarmina declared a mistrial on those charges.

Donohue, however, is certain that Fr. Brennan was small fry and not the real target of the investigation:

They wanted the big prize—they wanted to nail a high-ranking clergyman on conspiracy. Had they won on this count, they would have been in the driver’s seat to pursue other “conspirators” nationally. Looks like their car ran out of gas in Philadelphia.

Hurrah! Victory!

Just between you and me, however, I suspect the celebratory mood is rather more muted when Donohue and his minions are behind closed doors. Another molester-shuffling cleric has been caught playing “hide the abuser.” The champagne won't have many bubbles.

Procrustes writes a book

Slow Denialist and the Seven Plots

Christopher Booker is the author of The Seven Basic Plots, a much-lauded book that purports to classify all literature into seven pigeon-holes. It's quite a tour de force. Of course, for every Fay Weldon who gushes “This is the most extraordinary, exhilarating book,” there is an Adam Mars-Jones who cites “distortion” and concludes that it is “a stimulating, ambitious and unsatisfying book.” Still, the estimable Margaret Atwood admires it; that should count for something.

Booker's tome is my current bedside book. I have not fully plumbed its depths, but I dig through a few more pages each evening. I frequently chuckle. As someone who is widely and eccentrically read, I am susceptible to the book's charms. Perhaps I am particularly vulnerable because I especially enjoy catching literary or cultural allusions. “Aha! I see what you did there!” No doubt there are many that sail right over my head, but The Seven Basic Plots is by its very nature a name-dropping, title-dropping work, and my decades of reading have equipped me to occasionally nod my head in a knowing way when certain books are cited. Ooh! I feel so smart!

But my bedtime browsing has not been spared the sudden twinge at odd intervals, as I purse my lips, frown, and regard some authorial pronouncement with suspicion. On page 77, Booker referred to the “Portugese explorer” in H. Rider Haggard's King Solomon's Mines. Ah, careless proofreading! One demerit! But then I got to page 90, where Booker is immersed in a discussion of Robinson Crusoe and refers to a mutiny aboard a “Portugese ship.” Fie! The man cannot spell “Portuguese”! I naturally take particular offense.

It turned out he also did not know how to spell “Pharaoh.” It's an admittedly tricky word, but there's no good excuse for using “Phaoraoh” multiple times. One begins to despair!

The misspelling were merely disturbing quibbles, but perhaps they alerted me to more significant matters. My antennas were vibrating with a subtle suspicion. While introducing the plot he labeled as “the Quest,” Booker calmly said, “On the face of it, stories based on the plot of the Quest could hardly seem more disparate.” One might indeed think so, since Booker's list of examples included the Odyssey, Pilgrim's Progress, Watership Down, and The Lord of the Ring. Nevertheless, equal to the task he set himself, Booker briskly strips the various stories of most of their elements until he can stuff them into his Quest pigeon-hole. (I can imagine him huffing and puffing and muttering, “Get in there, damn you!”) Only a story's naked armature matters when performing the act of classification.

When he got to the “Voyage and Return” plot, Booker faced the problem of distinguishing it from the Quest. He proved his mettle: “The Quest is altogether a more serious and purposeful affair.” By contrast, of course, the Voyage and Return is rather a lark. Since Frodo and Sam suffer somewhat dramatically on their casual little trip to Mordor and back, Booker points out that The Lord of the Rings is really a dog's breakfast of a work that embodies all seven plots in a glorious mash-up (with due attention to the Thrilling Escape plot device, of course). By the way, the Return component of a Voyage and Return plot needn't be taken too literally. If the protagonist doesn't get to go home again, he might instead return to some condition of normality after the abnormality of his Voyage experiences. It's a Voyage and Return plot as long as the hero has to return to something.

There's no way Booker can lose.

Although I'm still enjoying The Seven Basic Plots, my delight is somewhat tempered after several examples of Booker's trim-to-fit analyses and manipulation of his rather plastic plot definitions. Yes, it's still quite an impressive achievement, but the book seems more thick than profound. At least I'm sure to meet several more old friends and acquaintances as I continue to plow through it.

There is one additional fly struggling in the ointment. After a few too many plot-rackings, I decided to check up on Mr. Booker's credentials. Is he some distinguished litérateur whose name I should have recognized? Wikipedia soon tipped me off to the awful truth. Christopher Booker is one of those self-deluded “thinkers” who imagines that he has pierced the veil of climate change's mysteries and penned a denialist book titled The Real Global Warming Disaster. Of course, when one reads history at Cambridge, one is clearly qualified to evaluate the technical claims of climatologists.

Damn. The man is unsound.

Prevaricating priests

More liars for Jesus!

Former Boston mayor and U.S. ambassador to the Vatican Ray Flynn was talking to Bob Dunning on “The Bishop's Radio Hour” on Immaculate Heart Radio, bemoaning American Catholicism's loss of political clout and savvy. “We knew how to frame the question,” he said, explaining why Catholics were more successful in the past.

Flynn was specifically addressing the Church's difficulty in responding to the Health and Human Services mandate for health insurance coverage of contraceptive services. From his point of view, it was a pity that both Catholics and non-Catholics are so accepting of birth control. Quite apart from indicating the laxity of current Catholic practice, general acceptance of birth control creates a “framing” problem for the U.S. bishops as they attack the HHS mandate on contraceptives:

We don't have that voice that is framing the question the way it should be framed, so just average Catholics picking up the newspaper or listening to the radio and casually hears the conversation or hears the headlines, you know, will be attracted to our point of view. If it's framed in a way of contraception and the bishops are trying to tell the country they can't practice birth control, then they win. There's no question about it. But if we keep it on the issue of religious freedom, first amendment, constitutionally protected human rights, religious rights, we win. So there's the battle. The battle is over terminology.

Of course, it's not Mr. Flynn's job to put things in strictly religious terms. He's a canny old politician, so political advice is what you should expect. Are the bishops listening? It seems that they are. For the benefit of his listeners, Dunning read “Protecting Consciences,” a document from the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops. It spins like a top:

The church does not ask for special treatment, simply the rights of religious freedom for all citizens.... Catholics and many other Americans have strongly criticized the recent Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) mandate requiring almost all private health plans to cover contraception, sterilization and abortion-inducing drugs. For the first time in our history, the federal government will force religious institutions to fund and facilitate coverage of a drug or procedure contrary to their moral teaching, and purport to define which religious institutions are “religious enough” to merit an exemption. This is a matter of whether religious people and institutions may be forced by the government to provide such coverage even when it violates our consciences.

What we ask is nothing more than the right to follow our consciences as we live out our teaching.

Truly shocking, isn't it, to see how the cruel and hyper-secular Obama administration is attacking religion freedom and trampling the conscience rights of individuals. No wonder the American bishops are clutching their pearls and reeling in the face of this unprecedented attack.

Because it's convenient for them to do so.

The U.S. bishops are full of shit. They hope that people have forgotten—or never knew—how meekly they rolled over to contraceptive mandates in the past. Sure, there was a bit of whining, but most people are undoubtedly unaware that most states imposed contraceptive mandates on healthcare insurance years ago and U.S. bishops somehow managed to live with it. As the Boston archdiocese incautiously admits, “In more than half of the states, Catholic officials have been living for years with mandates that health insurance plans must cover FDA-approved contraceptives in their prescription drug plans.”

The prelates have a riposte ready for the argument that the HHS mandate is nothing that new. No, no, no! they cry. The state mandates are much less draconian than the HHS version and contain more generous conscience clauses. There is a kernel of truth in the argument. Just enough to make the lie more effective. Here's what the bishops say:

The federal mandate is much stricter than existing state mandates. HHS chose the narrowest state-level religious exemption as the model for its own. That exemption was drafted by the ACLU and exists in only 3 states (New York, California, Oregon).

Oh. So it's not “much stricter” than state mandates. Equally tough mandates already exist in multiple states. You have to love the way the bishops cite only three states, when two of them are California and New York. The mandate and its supposedly too-narrow religious exemption have been in place in California for nearly a decade. The Golden State's Catholic bishops did not feel it necessary to call down thunderbolts from heaven until the mandate went nationwide with the president's healthcare reform. Now, suddenly, it's an abomination from the pit of hell that threatens our precious religious freedom.

The California bishops who miraculously kept their peace about the existing state mandate are now singing from the same page in the political hymnal. Here, for example, is Armando X. Ochoa of the Fresno diocese, roused from his slumber and sounding an anxious call to arms:

[T]he Administration has cast aside the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, denying to Catholics our Nation's first and most fundamental freedom, that of religious liberty. And as a result, unless the rule is overturned, we Catholics will be compelled either to violate our consciences, or to drop health coverage for our employees (and suffer the penalties for doing so).

The American bishops have lost touch with the commandment against bearing false witness. In their unremitting campaign against birth control, they have devolved into little more than the Catholic auxiliary of right-wing opposition to the president and political propaganda is their second language (if not first). The Church's radio stations lard nearly every program with extreme conservative rhetoric. The Catholic Church in the United States used to have ample cause to look down its patrician nose at the antics of the religious troglodytes at the Moral Majority or Bob Jones University.

Not anymore!

Here be dragons

Not!

The competition for stupidest creationist argument is fierce, as any perusal of WildwoodClaire's “Dim Bulb of the Week” or Potholder54's “Golden Crocoduck” competition will amply demonstrate. Undaunted, they continue to strive to outdo one another.

I just stumbled across a most delightsome example of creationist inanity, laced with a generous dollop of cryptozoology. It's a video titled “The Secret History of Dinosaurs,” and you'll be charmed to learn that it has scraped together all of the spurious evidence for the survival of dinosaurs into the modern era (you know: dragons, Nazca, Ica stones, petroglyphs, la, la, la). In addition, however, it contains one of the loveliest examples of misinterpreted evidence I've ever seen. It's a small thing, but quite entertaining.

Apparently evolutionists have been suppressing the evidence related to dragons and sea monsters, now-endangered species of dinosauria that nevertheless linger in African jungles, Scottish lochs, and other obscure ecological niches. As the narrator explains, the coexistence of man and dinosaur has been disguised by shifts in language. He flashes a page from an old dictionary and points outs that “dragon” is now a disparaged term. At 3:55 into the video, he darkly observes that “dragon” is Now Rare.

The name that you are probably the most familiar with is “dragon.” Even up until 1946 the word “dragon” was found in dictionaries and has in its definition this telling description.

But do you see what the “telling description” really means? It's just a label on definition #1: A huge serpent. Apparently people seldom refer to big snakes as dragons. It doesn't mean that we nasty old evolutionists are suppressing the word.

And, yes, the rest of the video is just about as stupid. Big surprise.

Living in Inertiaville

In the state of Catatonia

The spring semester ground to a halt several days ago. As usually occurs after a prolonged stint of intense effort, I lapsed into a semi-coma when it ended. My grades filed, I folded myself up into a tiny space of inaction.

I'm resting. Or something.

Some of my colleagues treat the filing of semester grades as a starter's pistol. Bang! And they're dashing off to foreign climes or holding parties or gorging on movies. School's out! Party time!

I can barely move.

My friends barely suspect the degree to which I shut down when the school year ends. I'm afraid I get overwhelmed by all of the deferred secondary tasks that accumulated during the busy times. Buridan's ass is reputed to have starved because he was fortuitously situated at the midpoint between two identical stacks of hay. Two stacks? Heck. I feel encircled.

Thus it has been that books remain in unsorted stacks, sheafs of papers sit unfiled, laundry rests unfolded in baskets, newspapers pile up unread in the recycling bin, blog posts remain unwritten, and an entire residence awaits a much-needed top-to-bottom clean-up job. (And let us not speak of my office at school.) Instead of attempting anything on the long list of things to do, I've slouched on the comfy chair in the living room, remote control in a flaccid hand, chuckling at the inane antics of Father Ted, the hijinks of Rocky & Bullwinkle, and bits of Fry & Laurie. I've let Simon Schama lead me through British history. (My video tastes are eclectic.)

Of course, it's not all couch-potato viewing. I also take naps. And I have been plowing through lots of books. I do that all the time, but pick up the pace during the summer. Reading is a useful and constructive activity, but I fear I'm using it in alternation with watching television as a way to avoid performing other tasks.

What to do? What to do?

My past history suggests that my suppressed sense of personal responsibility will eventually generate enough pent-up pressure that I will—any morning now—explode into a spate of furious activity that will strike out big segments of the mile-long to-do list. But it hasn't happened yet.

Perhaps writing this post is a kind of mea culpa that will nudge my conscience closer to the trigger point....

Nope. Not yet.

The unfunny uncle

Who won't shut up

Most families have one. It's the relative who just has to share his “latest” joke (although, unfortunately, it's more likely a “late” joke — as in dead). He is a reliable blight on family gatherings and there's always jockeying for position at dinner tables and picnic blankets so as not to be the one who has to sit next to him.

This week—God knows why—Bill Donohue decided he should demonstrate his comedic talents. I was immediately and powerfully reminded of my unfunny uncle. And—just to make the package complete—you can tell that Bill is powerfully proud of his cleverness. The preening just oozes from his prose:

Bill Donohue's Open Letter to Maureen Dowd

March 23, 2012

My Dearest Maureen,

In today’s New York Times, you write the following:

“The church insists it’s an argument about religious freedom, not birth control. But, really, it’s about birth control, and women’s lower caste in the church. It’s about conservative bishops targeting Democratic candidates who support contraception and abortion rights as a matter of public policy. And it’s about a church that is obsessed with sex in ways it shouldn’t be, and not obsessed with sex in ways it should be. The bishops and the Vatican care passionately about putting women in chastity belts.”

I have a confession to make. While some may think you sound like a delusional weepy woman, don’t listen to them. You see, I was in on those meetings with the bishops when we hatched plans to stick it to women and sabotage the Democrats.

This, you see, is side-splittingly funny because Donohue is pretending to be a sexist bastard. See how good he is at it?

We met over drinks. Plenty of them. Except for one bishop who said over time women could become our equal, all of us agreed that you gals need to be kept in your place. As you properly note, this means being subjugated to the lower caste, just the way we snookered Mother Teresa.

Now this part is funny because we've all heard that Mother Teresa eventually admitted that she lived a life of acute clinical depression. In case you've forgotten the details, here are her own words: “In my heart there is no faith—no love—no trust—there is so much pain—the pain of longing, the pain of not being wanted. I want God with all the powers of my soul—and yet there between us—there is terrible separation. I don’t pray any longer.” This is not, of course, the lesson we are supposed to learn. As Mother Teresa became more inured to her condition of dead faith, she prostrated herself before God's will: “I want it to be like this for as long as he wants it.” God didn't bother to answer back or ease her pain, but Teresa's reward is secure, since she's on the fast track to canonization by the Vatican. It's the perfect posthumous consolation prize after decades of misery.

Naturally, the heartwarming story of Mother Teresa's life makes her the perfect foil for Bill Donohue's winsome sense of humor.

You are only partly right about the Democrats. In fact, starting last year our goal was to rig the Republican primary so that Romney would win. Why? Because then we could pull his Mormon strings without being accused of running the government. So far, so good. Just don’t tell Mitt.

Not even Twain could have penned a more cleverly wry paragraph. Why, at times it almost sucks you into believing it and forgetting the writer's satirical purpose. Gasping for breath in the wake of uncontrollable laughter, we soldier on:

We are obsessed about sex. Indeed, when I meet with the bishops, it’s the only thing we talk about. Admittedly, it sometimes feels like I’m at a frat party, but boys will be boys. There is one difference: at frat parties, chastity belts for women are never discussed, but with the bishops, nothing is more important. The goal is to make a “one size fits all” belt, one that is not removable. Velcro works for all sizes, but it comes off. Not to worry, my dearest Maureen, we won’t give up. That’s because, quite unlike the stately New York Times, we’re obsessed about sex.

One wipes the tears from one's eyes while shaking the head in stunned admiration at the clever juxtaposition of bishops and chastity belts. The Velcro punch-line has all the impact of a sudden blow to the stomach.

I say without fear of contradiction that Bill Donohue's mastery of humor is all but unparalleled in the annals of political writing. We shall seldom—if ever—see its like again.

So give thanks.

But gay sex is icky in my head!

Whiny-ass bigots 

 “Serena Locksley” was a classmate of mine in graduate school a dozen years ago when we were both enrolled in a doctoral program. Another thing we had in common was our day jobs as teachers, although she was dealing with high school and I had the advantage of dealing with (ostensibly) adult college students. President Obama's mild-mannered and rather halting endorsement of equal marriage rights for all Americans—and the apoplectic reaction of the religious right—reminded me of Serena's serene response to a related controversy in her secondary-school classroom.

Her students were doing a unit on human rights in their senior social studies curriculum. The amicable consensus that human rights are a good thing was beginning to unravel as students began to draw lines in the sand. Sure, it was wrong to discriminate on the basis of race or religion, but sexual orientation? Trying to avoid crossing the lines of politically correct terminology, the dissenters made the point that “queers”—oops! uh, gays—were different from “normal”—oops! uh, most—people.

“But, Mrs. Locksley, what they do isn't natural!”

Years of experience had made Serena all but unflappable.

“What they do isn't ‘natural’?” she replied. “If it's inborn, how can it be unnatural? It is your argument that some people don't know their own sexual impulses?”

Students on both sides of the gay-rights aisle were writhing in agony, praying for the clock to run out on the day's excruciatingly sensitive topic. One student took a stab at making an irrefutable argument:

“Mrs. L, I don't care if people want to be gay, but I don't like it when they make a spectacle of themselves! That's not fair to the rest of us!”

Serena probed for more information.

“You mean, like prancing around in gay pride parades?”

Several students nodded their heads. One went further:

“Or hold hands in public!”

“You find it offensive when people hold hands in public?” asked Serena.

“Well, not when straight people do it. But when two guys hold hands, that's like flaunting it in your face. Then you can't help thinking about the stuff they do, and that's gross!”

“You have to think about what they do? You mean, besides holding hands?” asked Serena.

The student hesitated.

“Yeah ... cause, like, you can't help it. And it's icky!”

Serena let the moment stretch out for several seconds, but the students remained anxiously quiet.

“That's an interesting reaction,” said Serena. “So what about when a man and a woman hold hands? That doesn't force you to think about what they ‘do’? All of you call me ‘Mrs. Locksley’ or ‘Mrs. L,’ meaning that all of you know that I'm married. That doesn't force you to think about what my husband and I do together?”

“Ewwwww! Mrs. Locksley!”

Here endeth the lesson.

It's a headache!

And that's not all

A friend of mine is (figuratively) banging his head against a brick wall. The results are similar to what they would be if his activity were literal.

Interestingly enough, his medical condition began quite misleadingly. Eventually his doctors figured out that his symptoms of disorientation, dizziness, and weakness were the results of “silent” migraines. While migraines are most commonly associated with acute, debilitating headaches, this is not the only case. The headaches might be absent, while the victim nevertheless experiences the distorted vision and weakness that migraines induce.

The diagnosis of silent migraines resulted in my friend's introduction to the extensive pharmacopeia of anti-migraine medications. Problem solved!

Sort of. Temporarily, anyway.

Things began to change. For one thing, my friend's prescriptions worked for only a limited time. As he became inured to the therapeutic effect of one drug and the symptoms ramped back up, the doctors would move him on to another. He was now working his way through the list of drugs, wondering how long this could go on. For another thing, the pain showed up. Classic, stabbing, excruciating headaches. “Silent” no more. Fortunately for my friend, the sharp, stabbing headaches are intermittent—triggered by loud noises (he suffers from hyperacusis). Only the dull pain in his head is constant, day in and day out (and denying him sleep, because there's no longer any such thing as a soft-enough pillow).

Now he was getting passed around in the medical community. The UC San Francisco headache clinic looked into his case and shot him up with drugs to “reset” his pain level. It failed. UCSF was on the verge of confining him to a hospital bed for a days-long infusion of a drug that required 24-hour monitoring when a bad reaction to a milder form of the medication provided a very serious contraindication.

The UC Davis Medical Center subjected him to a series of tests, none of which proved definitive. It was clearly something more than just a migraine condition. My friend was wobbling about with a cane and it took a regimen of physical therapy to help him relearn how to stay upright and walk like a sober person. The migraines had laid waste to his balance system.

The standard migraine drugs were used up and then recycled at higher and more dangerous levels. Relief was still merely temporary and palliative. His doctors began a series of off-label prescriptions (where “off-label” means using medications to treat conditions for which they are not formally approved). It was, in a word, a series of experiments. Each experiment lasted as long as a month or two. Much shorter, of course, in the case of hallucinations or other serious reactions. Recently the doctors started mumbling about using botox, but I'm not sure what that's all about.

But that was merely prelude. This year his condition escalated in a completely unexpected way. Let him tell it in his own words. It's a total mystery:

In early March I started to experience swelling in the front center of my neck. A couple of days later there was a small lump on the back of my neck. The lump in the front of my neck has continued to swell and the swelling has grown into my jaw. This past weekend a new, fairly large lump has appeared at the intersection of my jaw and neck just below my right ear. The swelling in my neck has put enough pressure on my neck to cause difficulty swallowing, occasional difficulty breathing, and the loss of my voice. (I can only talk in a whisper.) I have also had swelling in both underarms and in my groin, but the doctors can’t feel anything in those spots that would warrant more testing.

Blood tests suggested that I have hypothyroidism, and I’ve been taking levothyroxine (50 mcg/day) for over a month to combat that potential cause. The levothyroxine has lowered my thyroid stimulating hormone level to normal, and I’m still taking it per my doctor’s orders, but that drug hasn’t lowered the existing swelling, kept existing swollen areas from growing, or prevented new growths from forming.

I’ve had three ultrasound tests of my neck and though these tests have found a slightly enlarged lymph node that hasn’t grown or shrunk in the subsequent two tests, the node is too small for a biopsy. I’ve also been to the ENT and to a gastroenterologist without any success or insights. My primary doctor is now at a loss about what to do next.

While lymphoma has been suspected because of the swollen lymph nodes, nothing has ruled it definitively in or definitively out. The constellation of symptoms is totally confusing.

And Hugh Laurie is busy wrapping up his final season of House and isn't taking new patients.

Any ideas, anyone? Know anyone who might? Perhaps you have a better clue than any of my friend's doctors. They keep passing him back and forth like a hot potato, cheerfully suggesting to him that his life isn't really at risk because they can always resort to intubation if his throat becomes too constricted to permit adequate breathing. It's a comfort, isn't it?

Please feel free to pass this post along, link to it, or otherwise bring it to the attention of medically savvy professionals who can solve this puzzle. It's a headache—and then some.

Come back, Harold Stassen!

All is forgiven! 

Once upon a time, an exciting young politician was elected governor of Minnesota. The 31-year-old “boy wonder” was clearly destined for great things, and within two years was giving the keynote address at his party's national convention—at which point he peaked.

Harold Stassen's high-water mark was that 1940 Republican National Convention, where he was part of Wendell Willkie's successful insurgent campaign for the presidential nomination. In 1944, Stassen was himself a presidential candidate. And in 1948. And 1952. He took a break in 1956, the year an incumbent Republican (Eisenhower) was seeking re-election, but Stassen was back at it in 1964 and every four years thereafter (except for 1972, when Nixon was seeking a second term). Harold Stassen died in 2001. However, his death had almost no impact on his election prospects. Those had predeceased him by nearly fifty years.

Today Ron Paul wears the mantle of perennial Republican presidential candidate, although he has a ways to go before he has as many lost crusades under his belt. In another distinction from Stassen, Paul is blessed with a visible and noisy coterie of devout supporters—supporters who live in their own special alternate universe. A letter to the editor of the Sacramento Bee is a case in point:

Don't count out Ron Paul in GOP presidential race

Re “Ron Paul wins majority of Maine GOP delegates” (Nation in brief, May 7): There's heated race going on in the Republican primary right now, but you wouldn't know it from the reporting by the mainstream media.

The MSM is reporting as if Mitt Romney has locked up the nomination already, which simply isn't true. The media is not reporting that there are huge turnouts of thousands at Ron Paul events all across the country; that Ron Paul has been winning delegates in many states, and that he has secured his name on the ballot at the Republican National Convention in Florida later this summer.

Ask yourself why the media is not covering this newsworthy information. Romney can barely draw 100 people to his rallies. It isn't over until it is over. Mitt Romney does not have 1,144 delegates yet, and Paul is gaining on him, fast.

—MN, Sacramento

By golly! You know what? Letter-writer MN is right! According to a recent Associated Press tally, Romney has only 966 delegates. As for Ron Paul, why, he has ... 104! (Note to mathematicians: the exclamation point is for ironic emphasis—not factorial notation.) As illustrated in a New York Times chart of the AP data, there are 821 uncommitted delegates. Given that Ron Paul is “closing fast,” we can easily see that a sweep of all remaining delegates will boost Paul to a staggering ... 925!

Ron Paul's supporters really can't do the math, can they?

Fill in the blanks

Template tests

I was flummoxed. Under normal circumstances, algebra students abandon the complete-the-square technique for solving quadratic equations as soon as they meet the quadratic formula. It is by a significant margin the least-favored of the solution techniques, trailing badly after formula and factoring.

Why, therefore, were so many of my students diligently completing the square when they didn't have to? Even worse, they were doing it on an exam problem, when time is at a premium. Worst of all, they were completing the square to solve a quadratic equation where its use was clearly contraindicated! I was at a loss.

As you may know, the solution of the quadratic equation is the great pinnacle and climax of your traditional introductory algebra class. The end of the semester wraps up with the astonishing revelation that one can now solve any quadratic equation. No exceptions! Such universality is rare, and I try to engender a little appreciation in my students for so powerful a conclusion, the big finish of Algebra 1.

Of course, I also try to get them to approach quadratic equations thoughtfully and methodically. First of all, does the equation factor easily? Then go for it! Is it (or does it appear to be) prime? Then one can apply the never-failing quadratic formula or—in certain specific cases—resort to completing the square. The specific case, naturally, is one in which the quadratic polynomial in question is monic (has a lead coefficient of one) and possesses a first-degree coefficient that is even (making it easy to take half of it and square the result, as required for completing the square).

Otherwise, don't even think of completing the square.

The problem that was puzzling me was monic, all right, but its middle term had an odd coefficient, making it a quite unsuitable candidate for square completion. Why, then, did so many of my students plow right in and start juggling fractions and slogging through more and more complicated expressions? They didn't know and couldn't tell me why they had done it.

The reason finally came to light while I was paging through my collection of quiz keys. I paused to consider the quiz containing the combined-work problem (or “joint effort”—computing the time a job takes if two or more people pitch in and you know how long it takes each person to do the job alone). This was exactly the kind of problem that had caused so much square-completion grief on the exam.

I noticed that I had solved the resulting quadratic equation on the quiz's solution key by completing the square. The polynomial had been monic with an even linear coefficient, so completing the square gave a quick and easy solution ...

... and my students had learned the lesson that combined-work problems are solved by completing the square! After all, the teacher had demonstrated this in a quiz solution key that he had posted on the course website. Did he not constantly encourage them to emulate his example? Follow his lead? Write solutions like he did? Indeed! Indubitably!

Damn.

They learned a lesson I wasn't teaching. They had studied my solution to a particular combined-work problem and then followed it slavishly when next they encountered a problem of the same type—even though the resulting quadratic equation had different characteristics and argued for a different solution technique.

I failed to banish the template problem. My fault!

You know what a “template problem” is, don't you? I'm sure you do. Lots of books are full of them. It occurs when a section of the text presents a carefully worked-out problem in Example 1, you turn to the homework section, and Exercises 1 through n follow the prompt “See Example 1.” And then all of the problems are exactly like Example 1 except that the numbers got tweaked a little. Or maybe Example 1 was a word problem about Sally and Exercise 1 is about Sam. Trivial changes. You can copy the solution of Example 1 as a template and go through filling in the old numbers with the new numbers.

Hardly any thought necessary.

I don't want to be too harsh. Routine drill problems are useful for building basic skills. They are, however, too bland for a steady diet and do not do much (if anything) for building conceptual understanding. Students, however, often prize them for their dull predictability and lack of challenge. They even ask for more, as when they beg for a “practice test” before a big exam. The most favored practice tests are those full of templates for the real thing. Woe betide the instructor who gives in to the pleas for a practice test and then changes the problems too much in the actual exam! Students will feel betrayed.

I refuse to give practice tests. I decline to channel my students' attention too narrowly to specific kinds of problems solved in specific kinds of ways. I want them to consider each problem independently, with a minimum of prompting, examining their knowledge of solution tools and picking the most appropriate one to apply.

The complete-the-square affair demonstrates, I'm afraid, that I have discouraged template thinking less than I had hoped. Perhaps I should ask my colleagues how they avoid it and then do exactly what they do....

Professor Google

Live and interactive!

This is not a rant about students relying on things like Google and Wikipedia for their schoolwork. It's not that at all. It is instead a rumination about the tendency of some students—at least one in particular—to rely on an information-at-your-fingertips approach to education. The student I have in mind appears to have lost—to a remarkable degree—the trait of self-reliance. Let's call this student “Shawn.” He took my algebra class. He took it twice, having flunked it the first time. In both semesters I was treated to Shawn's pop-up arm, which waved for my attention at the least provocation. As a highly interactive instructor, I welcome student questions and want them to feel that their queries are welcome. Shawn, however, was trying my patience (along with that of his classmates).

It took me a while to figure out what was going on. Ever in the moment, Shawn had abandoned thinking. If something—anything—gave him pause, his arm shot up. He wanted immediate clarification from the instructor in preference to actually thinking about it himself. Somewhere along the line he had discovered that the path of least resistance involved asking the professor.

Back in the old days before the World Wide Web and Google, I sometimes fussed for hours (or even days), wracking my brain trying to recover some odd bit of information. I'd pull books off the shelf and page through them. Did I read it in this one? Should I dig out the encyclopedia? Did a friend mention it to me in conversation? Should I try calling him? (Which one?) As you may have heard, we call these the “good old days.” I confess, however, that the Internet and Google have become two of my most cherished friends. Facts and factoids are at my fingertips and I discover or rediscover things with alacrity and pleasure.

Shawn doesn't have Google in the classroom. He has me: Professor Instant Gratification. (I had a lesson to learn as much as Shawn did.)

The starkest example of Shawn's abandonment of thinking arose during a lesson on nonlinear systems of equations. I had created an elementary introductory problem involving a parabola and a line, writing their equations on the board and telling the students we were going to discover the points where their graphs crossed each other. The computations were straightforward (amazing, isn't it, how simple the answers are for Example 1?). Then I told the students we were going to examine the plausibility of our solutions by graphing the two curves and considering their appearance.

I plotted two points (the axis intercepts!) that satisfied the linear equation and sketched the line. Shawn was keeping his peace and presumably keeping pace. The quadratic equation was a little more challenging to graph, but it was still pretty elementary, so I created a short table of values to find some points that would help us sketch the parabola. In rapid succession, I plugged in x = 0, x = 1, and x = 2.

Up went Shawn's hand.

“Yes, Shawn?”

“How did you compute those values?”

“The values in the table?”

“Yeah. Where did those come from?”

Mind you, we had done the parabola to death in the previous chapter. We had graphed vertical parabolas and horizontal parabolas. We had found their axis intercepts with the quadratic formula (if necessary). Several old quizzes and the most recent exam had featured the parabola most prominently. All of the students, including Shawn, had had multiple exposures to the mundane task of plotting a parabola. He had had even more examples of plugging in conveniently chosen numbers to evaluate algebra expressions for graphing. Shawn's question was extraordinarily lame.

“Shawn, I want you to think about that.”

“What?”

“I want you to think about that. I'm finding points that lie on the graph of a parabola, picking x's and computing y's. You've done that yourself, right?”

“Lots of times.”

“Okay. Do it now.”

Long pause.

“Oh,” he said.

“Right,” I said, hoping that he was indeed right in what he was thinking.

It was not easy, but “think about it” became a standard response to many of Shawn's too-quick questions. By degrees, he eventually became more self-reliant instead of instantaneously asking the professor. He never learned to postpone gratification to quite the degree I would have liked, but he got a little better. He stopped asking questions without thinking and I stopped answering so automatically.

And Shawn's classmates got more rest for their eye-rolling muscles.

The disconnections

Hawking my wares

I have a long list of summer events in California's Portuguese-American community. It looks like I'll be doing a modicum of traveling this summer to promote my book at some of them. Since the small university press that is publishing the novel is without a generous travel budget or promotional expense account, this is going to be a shoestring operation. Every bit of free publicity is going to be valuable and social media will play its part.

Last year I started to try to drum up endorsements of the type that might play well as cover blurbs or as quotes in promotional materials. While my favorite quote is my sister's prediction that I'm going to get into “a lot of trouble” (but it's fiction—honest!), I also managed to get positive comments from a few real-life professional authors. Just enough to give my work a smidgen of credibility.

Of course, not everyone who I approached was interested in plowing through a 350-page manuscript from an unknown author. (Imagine that!) I did, of course, offer more modest samplers of selected pages, reducing the time commitment substantially. Clever writers, however, figured out that the best way to reduce the time commitment was to politely (or brusquely) decline the privilege entirely.

A couple of my friends were classmates with Joan Didion at UC Berkeley, working with her on student publications at the university. “Go on, write to her!” they said. “What could you lose?” Nothing, certainly. Which is also what I gained. The inquiry via Didion's publisher was absorbed into a black hole of silence.

I got a more substantial reaction from Joyce Carol Oates: a terse note from her assistant explaining that Prof. Oates reads only the papers of the students in her writing class and if only I had inquired before sending a packet of pages, I could have saved myself the trouble. Heck. I knew that! I sent the pages in the long-shot hope that they would be tempted to peek at them (and discover a masterpiece!) before consigning them to the recycle bin. The professor's gatekeeper, however, discharged her responsibilities meticulously. That is, of course, why she has that job.

In October, as I recounted previously, I boldly bothered Jonathan Franzen during his speaking tour of northern California. When he admitted to reading “just about anything,” I naturally thanked him and promptly shipped off a few dozen pages in care of his publisher. As the weeks went by, it seemed that I had run into another Didionesque black hole, but this week I discovered otherwise.

It simply takes Franzen a lot of time—unsurprisingly—to plow through all of his fan mail. He did, however, eventually run into my packet, opened it up, found the stamped, self-addressed postcard that accompanied the sample manuscript pages, and decided it was worth taking a couple of minutes to scrawl me a note and drop it in the mail. He said my novel was “a worthy and entertaining project”! Huzzah! Another useful book blurb! From the bestselling author who garnered the National Book Award for The Corrections!

Um. Not really.

Franzen was being polite. A more extensive quote from the postcard makes this clear:

[Your novel] seems like a worthy and entertaining project, but I'm afraid it's too far from the mode of fiction I produce & support for me to be able to help you. I appreciate your thinking of me, though.

Shucks! See how much better that is when trimmed down to five words? Or, with a judicious ellipsis, even better: “a worthy and entertaining project ... I appreciate.”

If only I had a conscienceless public relations person (is that redundant?), we could make hay of this. But no.

Speaking of hay, though, reminds me. Jane Smiley isn't returning my messages!

Solved: The Barsoomian spaceship mystery!

We uncover the cover confusion

It took nearly fifty years, but at last I have the answer to a niggling question that has been stuck in the back of my mind since grade school. The question arose when I acquired the Ballantine paperback editions of the Edgar Rice Burroughs novels about Mars—or “Barsoom,” as Burroughs rendered it. The cover art was by Bob Abbett, whose work was generally evocative of the adventures contained in the books' pages. One cover, however, was just plain wrong. And it was wrong in a way that made no sense at all. I could not figure out how Abbett had messed up so significantly, and that puzzle stayed with me—unresolved until this year.

Abbett established in my mind the figure of John Carter of Mars, the greatest swordsman on two planets. Abbett's painting for the cover of the third Mars book, The Warlord of Mars, is iconic for me, illustrating the stalwart and brooding warrior, sword in hand. The leather strap across Carter's chest is studded with the metal device (similar to the horned chevron of the Cadillac logo) that I took to be the symbol of the Prince of Helium. Abbett's depiction became for me the quintessential John Carter. (Sorry, Taylor Kitsch; you're not quite in that league.)

On the cover of the first Mars book, A Princess of Mars, Carter is plying his sword in defense of the incomparable Dejah Thoris (who apparently trademarked “incomparable” as her personal adjective). On the cover of the second book, The Gods of Mars, there's John Carter floating in space next to a spaceship!

Huh?!

Something is terribly, terribly wrong. Burroughs had no spaceships in his Barsoom books. John Carter made the transition between Earth and Mars via a strange kind of teleportation, which Burroughs did not deign to explain. No spaceships. But Abbett painted a very recognizable rocketship, fins and all, for Mars book #2. Where the heck did that come from?

I now know it came from 1918. It came from a simple misreading of Frank Schoonover's cover art for the book's original publication. Abbett mistook Schoonover's Barsoomian flier for a spacecraft. Ballantine's cover artist took too casual a look at his predecessor's illustration.

Actually, I'm not surprised that Abbett wasn't too impressed by the original cover art. It's rather disappointing. Schoonover's art for The Gods of Mars is extremely faithful to an incident bridging the end of Chapter 6 and the beginning of Chapter 7. That's the main point in its favor. John Carter is clinging to the anchor chain of a flying war vessel manned by the First Born of Barsoom, a proud and handsome race of black Martians who fancy themselves the original intelligent life on the planet (with all other races being their debauched and devolved descendants).

I commenced to climb slowly up the anchor chain toward the deck above me.

One hand had just reached for the vessel's rail and found it when a fierce black face was thrust over the side and eyes filled with triumphant hate looked into mine.

For an instant the black pirate and I remained motionless, glaring into each other's eyes. Then a grim smile curled the handsome lips above me, as an ebony hand came slowly in sight from above the edge of the deck and the cold, hollow eye of a revolver sought the centre of my forehead.

Simultaneously my free hand shot out for the black throat, just within reach, and the ebony finger tightened on the trigger. The pirate's hissing, “Die, cursed thern,” was half choked in his windpipe by my clutching fingers.

The First Born mistakes Carter for one of Barsoom's therns—despised fair-skinned rivals of the First Born—because Carter is still wearing the blond wig he used in his escape from the clutches of the therns. Schoonover paints a rather chunky looking (and practically middle-aged) Carter clinging to the anchor chain, comical blond wig on his head, and a coal-black antagonist getting the drop on him. Abbett dispensed with the wig, painted instead his more robust version of John Carter, and replaced the flier with a rocket ship in orbit about Mars.

Poor John Carter, of course, must be holding his breath as he floats weightless next to the spaceship, high above Mars and its thin atmosphere. His red kilt seems hardly a proper substitute for a pressure suit. A hatch atop the ship is ajar, but no First Born has yet emerged to shove a gun in Carter's face.

Never mind. Abbett simply made a whopper of a mistake. The cover for The Gods of Mars is the one egregious error in the Ballantine edition of the Mars books. One could even say that Abbett redeemed himself when he rendered the cover of Mars book #7, A Fighting Man of Mars, which shows some properly air-bound flying vessels much more in keeping with Barsoomian fliers. That's more like it!

I can rest easy now, with one less nagging mystery gathering dust in my mental archives.

Creationist word salad

What a tosser!

The latest issue of Acts & Facts from the Institute for Creation Research offers its usual collection of antievolution essays and articles. A one-page “research” piece (that's how the page header describes it) by Jeffrey Tomkins offers yet another in a long series of ICR pokes at natural selection, a concept that ICR really seems to think they have on the ropes. Once again, evolution is on the brink of utter demolition. Surely it cannot stand much longer!

It's a good thing that creationists are about as patient in anticipating the demise of evolution as they are in awaiting the return of Jesus Christ. I believe that the one is just as imminent as the other—and I'm sure they agree with me in that statement (if not in my interpretation of it).

Acts & Facts contributor Tomkins boasts a Ph.D. in genetics from Clemson, but apparently failed to grasp the context in which genes operate. He seems to have studied them without managing to recognize them as the mainspring of evolution. Tomkins has, however, a explanation why evolution through natural selection cannot be the creative force responsible for today's diversity of life on planet earth. Brace yourself for this key paragraph from his article:

Environmental stresses and stimuli cannot exercise the creative causation of highly complex pre-coded genetic information that underlies irreducibly complex systems of adaptation. Organismal interaction with the environment involves highly complex and dynamic physiological and genetic responses to a wide range of physical and chemical sensory cues. These environmental cues are perceived by complex systems of cell sensor networks that interact with an organism’s highly engineered genetic system. While adaptation systems are complex and flexible, they are not evolvable on a grand neo-Darwinian scale. They are pre-engineered, pre-programmed, and irreducibly complex in the strictest sense of the term, and they unequivocally imply the infinite intelligence of our Creator God.

Well, that was clear, wasn't it? It takes begging the question to new heights of redundant prose.

Dare we try to unpack some of the word salad that Dr. Tomkins tossed for us? Let's give it a shot by considering specific words and phrases:

• highly complex: the warning shot across the bow!
• pre-coded genetic information: “pre-coded” implies a coder!
• irreducibly complex systems: it's Behe time!
• highly complex: What I tell you three times is true!
• complex systems: so four times is a total clincher!
• highly engineered genetic system: the coder has transmogrified into an engineer now.
• pre-engineered, pre-programmed, and irreducibly complex: the engineer, coder, and Behe in three-part harmony.
• unequivocally imply: no room for doubt!

Are you as persuaded by the author's argument as I am? Yes, that's what I thought.

It figures

Or perhaps it doesn't

I'm still disappointed when it occurs, but I'm no longer surprised. Sometimes, such as when I give an exam on the last day before spring break, I send out a grade update via e-mail so that my students don't have to wait till school resumes to find out their status in the class. My report, which pops up in student e-mail, presents the latest grade distribution in descending order. The closer to the top you find your secret student ID number, the better off you are.

I also provide the weighted components that go into computing each semester score (and grade): homework, quizzes, and exams. I present averages rather than individual scores, and therein lies the rub. Students write back when they receive the grade report and ask, “What was my score on Exam 5?”

Let us consider this. What does the student have in hand?

The student has his average exam score: the grades on Exams 1 through 5 all added together and divided by 5. The student has his old exams, numbers 1 through 4.

How on earth is an algebra student supposed to figure out the unknown value of his score on Exam 5? It is a puzzlement, is it not? If only they had a better teacher, perhaps they could do it for themselves, but I'm afraid the classroom door is a portal to real life, beyond which nothing in the classroom has any relevance. It's not as though the stuff I teach them can actually be used for anything! (Not even for classroom-related applications!)

I recently responded to an inquiry from a student who was earning a B:

Didn’t you realize you could have computed it yourself? You have your average exam score from the grade distribution I sent out. Multiply your average exam score by 5 and then subtract your scores from Exams 1 through 4. What’s left is your Exam 5 score.

He gave me a cheery reply:

I should of know but thanks I'll make sure I put that in my notes.

I'm thinking of forwarding that to his English teacher.

April 1

Where fools rush in

“Fool me once, shame on—shame on you. Fool me ... you can't get fooled again.” —George W. Bush

I have no use for April Fool jokes. They are, as a rule, nasty little things. Most of them are—mercifully—painfully obvious and stupid. They do rather little harm. There is, however, a particular type of April Fool joke that I find especially noisome. Jokes of this type are crafted, perhaps unthinkingly, to sound completely true, without even a hint to give the hearer a sporting chance of penetrating the ruse. These are just callous excuses to slap an unwarranted label of fool on someone. There is scarcely a better way to get me to put you on my list of persona non grata.

Examples include such choice items as

• “Jenny won't be in class today. She's in the ICU after a car accident.”
• “Grandpa fell down and broke his hip!”
• “I just heard on the news that there's a fire in your apartment complex!”
• “My doctor told me yesterday that I have melanoma.”
• “Did you check your in-box? There's a memo from district office about layoffs in our department!”

Now how would you feel after expressing alarm or concern, only to have someone grin like an idiot and then yell “April Fool!” at you? Yes, I want to slug people like that (but I don't—usually). I actually experienced two of the above “jokes” and my response to “April Fool!” was an understated “Jerk.” In both cases I froze out the inane prankster for an extended period of time. One was a cousin. It was a small loss.

A form of humor based entirely on telling lies and then insulting the people who believe them. What's not to love?