Season Seven

Season 7 of Gilmore Girls has been in my DVD stacks, unopened, since last November. I didn't watch it until late last night and today when, as was my practice with the other six DVD sets, I wallowed in Stars Hollow virtually non-stop.



It's not like I needed to watch it anyway. I did not miss an episode of Gilmore Girls for more than six years, from the 19th episode of Season 1** to the very last show. Some of it was desire, a lot of it was luck, but the fact remains that when an original episode was on, I was in front of the TV. No tivo, no taping, no reruns. Occasionally, there were clashes. My friend Todd called me in May, 2004. "Hey, we're going to watch the Royals game at the _____ bar."

"Gilmore Girls is on," I answered.

Long silence on Todd's end. "John, we need to talk."

But we didn't. In his particular case, no talking would have mattered--it was "Raincoats and Recipes"...the final episode of Season 4. Kirk and the night terrors! Luke and Lorelai kiss at the Dragonfly! Rory gets it on with Dean!

Gilmore Girls hit some rough patches in its final two years. But the final season sorted out some of the crappy story lines introduced the year before, and got the mojo going for the final half of the year. Although less frequent than in previous years, the high points of that season were as good as the lofty peaks of other years...which is to say as good as anything I've ever seen on television. Watching Lauren Graham rip through dialogue at 90 miles an hour, running narrative circles around anyone and everyone, hurling literary, classic, and pop culture references at a mile a minute was off the hook. It was like the dialogue from 1930s screwball comedies, only quicker and just as arch and intelligent. It was the fastest, smartest thing I'd ever seen on the small screen. It was breathtaking. (As a guy, I have to add the fact that Lauren Graham was Hot Like a Nuclear Inferno was an added bonus.)

In general, I don't watch much TV. And few network shows really hit the mark with me. Arrested Development was truly awesome. I very much liked Sports Night, which lasted only a season or two. Nowadays, I watch a couple of shows...The Office, 30 Rock, Bones. When 24 is good, it's a terrific show (although it was really lousy last year). But none of them worked for me as well as Gilmore Girls did.

I hadn't watched the final season on DVD because I knew that watching it would be effectively saying that the show was over. Just seeing it shrink wrapped was a reminder that there was still one last big weekend with these people, one final fling before the circus left town. But I didn't want to put it off any longer. So I watched with sadness and joy, knowing that there was one less good thing in my life awaiting me, but reveling in the chance to spend time with something I truly liked.

**I was flicking through channels in April 2001, when I happened to see two teenagers discussing music.

"I like this song. It makes me gloomy."
"Gloom is good."
"No...Really gloomy."
"Like Joy Division Gloomy? Nick Cave gloomy? Robert Smith gloomy?"
"Johnny Cash gloomy."

You don't hear Joy Division and Nick Cave referenced on Network TV. You just don't. I never missed another episode.

Holiday Excitement on the Cooking Front

Being 45 and single has minuses. Lack of companionship heads that list. I don't want to go into the details of doing the friends with benefits thing, or the (in general) horrors of internet dating, or the way friends keep trying to set me up...as though being a 45 year old single heterosexual male means I can't recognize an appealing woman. No, those are the negatives. I can save those for future blogs.

I want to focus on the positive. I'm makin' Tamales for Thanksgiving!!!

Hey, I respect the rituals. And I know many of you American sorts will be having turkey, stuffing, etc. next Thursday and "enjoying" leftovers for some time after that. Well, I eat leftovers all the time because I cook for one. When I make any sort of normal recipe or use a slow cooker, it's days of food for me. I've got to really like Chicken with Mushroom and Wine Sauce, because I'm eating it two or three times a day for three days. (Please don't tell me to freeze things. Tried that.) And I don't like cranberries. Turkey is fine, but nothing special...come on, we eat Turkey all the damn time. Mashed potatoes? Please. Do we really want to talk about mashed potatoes being special in any way?

(I'm excluding the people who make from scratch mashed potatoes with extra sour cream and cheese...you're about one percent of the population. The rest of us use the boxed stuff or just crush boiled potatoes with salt.)

Tamales, on the other hand, are special. I'm talking about awesome tamales, the ones made from scratch with the killer Maseca Masa. I've made 'em in Mexico...used beef shoulder cooked with garlic and pico de gallo and a couple of other spices and some semi-sweet chocolate for the filling. They were scrumptious; they left turkey so far back in the dust, it was like Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote.

I'm gong to spend part of Wednesday cooking the filling, then make the masa and spread it on the husks and fill those bad boys up and cook them on Thursday. By 1:00 p.m., I'll be in Tamale heaven. A six pack of Dos Equis Amber--my favorite beer for good food--will top it off nicely, thanks.

People always invite me over for Thanksgiving. It's kind of a pity date. It's very nice of them. But the only family I like to spend Thanksgiving with is mine...and until I get married, that means I either go to California to see my Mom or Sister, or stay solo. And if I'm solo, I'm going to sleep late and wear the sweats all day and watch old movies (because the football games have sucked recently). And eat what I want.

A Teacher's Lament

I'm a teacher. My title is a little different, but I've got 81 students this semester. Let's call a spade a spade. I'm a teacher.

For all you parents out there... I know your kids. You know about your kids...you've fed them and clothed them and influenced them and talked to them and loved them. But you have to deal with the Heisenberg Principle. Whenever you're around, your kids aren't themselves. Not close. The only time you see your children is when you are watching, unannounced and unnoticed. It isn't often. Most of the time, you are relying on speculation and optimism and prayer. I feel for you.

Once I am out of the classroom, I am next to invisible. Your kids say things they would never say when I am in class with them. It's like people in cars who pick their noses and perform personal tasks and rituals that make them appear boorish and disgusting. They think they're cut off because they're in cars. People, you are surrounded by glass. We can see you. And students that walk out of my classroom immediately get in the cars, so to speak...only I can see and hear them. They talk about life and people (and me, occasionally and sometimes disparagingly) as though they are in a bubble from the world. I move among them like a ghost.

The average grade in my classes is a mid to low B. To be technical, the GPA in my courses is around 2.75. It doesn't vary much--sometimes I'll have a semester with a terrific upper division class filled with English majors. Sometimes I'll get a Freshmen comp class filled with the slackers and athletes who are having a second go at a class they failed previously. If I've got 20 people in a class, it's rare that I have more than 3 or 4 As. That's 15 to 20 percent. All parents think their kids deserve or should get As. 15 to 20 percent do. That's a good class. Most of the students that get As are doing it in all their classes. They're driven.

The other ones--the other 80-85%--are largely aimless and unfocused. And totally unconcerned about it. Maybe half of the students getting As actually work hard to get those grades...maybe 2 or 3 of the others put in an effort to get a well-deserved B (or C). The vast majority just sit there and let eduction wash over them, hoping that when the tide pulls back it will leave as little trace as possible. Half my students get grades of C or below. Almost none of them care about it.

I teach writing, for God's sake. I teach rhetoric. I teach students how to form reasonable arguments, and support their ideas. I teach them how to write professional documents, including resumes and cover letters. It is not an esoteric subject. I love history, but it's not common that an employer will ask you to talk about Robber Barons in the Gilded Age. She or he will, however, ask you to submit a travel report, or a project overview, or an in-house memo. You will be asked for your opinion about the project your department is working on, what to do about the break schedule, or how to improve the lunch buffet. I teach students how to do these things, how to do them better. Practical things. I tell them that a resume that gets a B will not get them a job, because someone will submit a resume that's an A. I tell them coming in five minutes late to a fifty minute class on a regular basis, or missing 10% of days for vague, inspecific reasons won't be accepted in the workplace and they will be unable to get or keep a job. Doesn't matter. Almost none of them care.

They are good kids. They are adults, but I can't help but think about them as kids...partially because of their incredible naivete about how to function in the real world, a job I am supposed to be preparing them for. I get along with students. I genuinely care about them. I like them. But they don't care; I know this. I see it every day. The passivity about their own future. The lack of concern about thinking as opposed to memorizing. The frighteningly narrow world view and inability to articulate their part in it.

One out of a hundred is truly different. He or she thinks about what is going on. These aren't necessarily the best students, but I hear from them on occasion after they have gone. "I got my job because of the stuff I learned in tech writing." "I joined the Peace Corps because of what we talked about in World Lit." "I'm going to grad school because I want to know so much more about what's going in this area." One in a hundred.

I know your kids. I care about them. But, like all teachers, I live for that one. Otherwise I'd go crazy.

Dropping F-Bombs With Joe Scarborough

Confession-- I was watching. I get up early. I like Joe Scarborough’s show. It’s chatty. I like Mika Brzezinski because she seems like the best sort of centrist. (And because of her famous lighting-the-story-about-Paris-Hilton-on-fire-rather-than-reading-it-as-headline-news escapade. Check it out here! Man, good for her!) I kind of like Joe Scarborough, too. Is there anyone who looks more like a politician than this guy? Don’t think so. I don’t agree with him often, but he’s sincere and consistent and not totally aggressive, and that puts him in the upper ranks of modern politicians and commentators. He also seems to genuinely like Mika, which is nice. I even like Willie Geist, because he’s essentially helpless and worthless…he’s Tucker Carlson lite, something I never would have dreamed possible.

Still, the fact that Joe dropped the F-bomb on the air kind of made my 7:00 a.m. post dog walking morning.

Styx makes a CD about a Giant Carrot.

Well, now that Barack Obama has won the Presidency, I guess we can all get back to the important stuff.

So...Styx made an album about a giant carrot!



Look, I was a teenager in the seventies. I liked Styx. In the great battle of the one word name Seventies/Early Eighties bands (Journey, Kansas, Toto, Foreigner, Boston, Loverboy), I was in the Styx corner. I was a fan. They made some good music. I actually saw the Kilroy Was Here tour. You know, the one with "Mr. Roboto." There was a 20 minute movie directed by Ridley Scott that set up the entire concept of the album/concert. (Bet Ridley leaves that one off his resume!) It was a daring concept considering the band's primary fan base was 16 year old girls who wanted to hear "Babe" over and over and guys like me who were busy getting stoned and wondering when the fuck they were gonna stop all this weak shit and play "Miss America."

Later, Dennis DeYoung worked with Liza, and Tommy Shaw did a record with Nugent and one of the guys from Night Ranger. So, yeah, there was a lot of bad to go with the good.

Which brings us to today. Leaving out the kind of charming idea that Styx was still recording new music as of 2003 (without, alas, Dennis DeYoung, proto Power Ballad Meister)...what's up with the carrot? What does it mean? What could it possibly mean? Since I probably won't see them again unless they play for free or I'm at a state fair and seriously drunk, it will remain a mystery.