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This is a test. It is only a test.

Dusty Leave a comment

(How perfectly ironic is it that the above clip was preceded by an advertisement by HP that runs on the tagline “Every student learns differently.” Now let me talk about standardized testing of those different-learning individuals, shall I?)

 

It’s testing season again.

If only that meant we could shoot them.

I have been reluctant to write about testing from a teacher’s perspective, because it feels so obvious: of course we hate tests. Of course we do. Everybody knows it, right?

But in the last week I’ve been asked by two different people – one a current high school student, not one of mine but one who presumably knew I’d be good for a rant; the other an auditor for the state of Oregon, who sent me (and presumably thousands of others – but wouldn’t it be funny if it was just me? If some random number generator landed on my Roulette-wheel slot, and my answers were the only ones that mattered?) a link to a survey looking for feedback – about standardized testing. And I’ve had to give standardized tests to my students, and I am working to prepare my AP students for standardized tests that are coming up soon and that are freaking them out; and in my discussions of those tests with those students, I have been sending mixed messages. And presumably thousands of other teachers have done exactly the same.

So there is a reason to write about this. Because maybe it’s not so obvious that teachers hate standardized tests.

But it should be.

I know I’ve written about standardized tests before in terms of grades and evaluation, and that criticism holds true: we put too much weight on test scores only because they are easy to understand. We feel like knowing that someone scored a 1500 on their SATs, and a 142 on their IQ test, tells us something about that person’s capacity and ability and potential. But think of it this way: if I tell you that I scored a 92 on my driver’s test, does that tell you how well I drive? Of course not: it tells you how well I drive when there’s a DMV employee with a clipboard in the car watching my every move. The situation is artificial, and therefore the results are not representative of my genuine abilities or normal performance. And the testing people would say yes: we create a situation of artificial intensity in order to put someone to the test; that’s what a test is, a crucible that melts away the impurities and discovers someone’s purest essence, so to speak. My driving abilities under pressure should represent my best driving abilities, right?

But they’re not, are they? As I drive around town, I will not be driving the same way I did when I drove for the clipboard-man. I will not be as alert, and I will not be as cautious, and I will not be as scrupulous in following the rules. And because of that, I will not drive as well. I will not be using my full driving capacity because I won’t feel the pressure. And so which is my purest essence: the things I can do in an artificial high-pressure situation, or the things I do on a daily basis? Which is my verbal language ability: the 720 I scored on my SATs, or the successes and failures in my day-to-day reading and writing, my failure to comprehend reading material that I didn’t pay much attention to, my failure to make someone else understand my point in an email or a letter or a memo? Wouldn’t it be the latter? Will Durant wrote, “We are what we repeatedly do.” (Often attributed to Aristotle, because Durant was writing about and paraphrasing Aristotle when he wrote it. But Durant was the one who actually said that.) So I would argue that it is our daily practice that shows our actual skill level, not the level we can force ourselves to when put on the spot: that reveals much more about our ability to handle pressure. Even that is flawed: because test pressure is different from actual crisis pressure, because tests are expected and planned, and we can prepare for them, study hard, psych ourselves up, have a good breakfast, bring extra #2 pencils; whereas crises happen without foreknowledge and with infinitely more chaos. What does my ability to handle clipboard-man pressure reveal about my ability to drive in a haboob?

(Note to non-Arizonans: a haboob is a sudden and intense sandstorm or duststorm. It is one of the hazards that Arizona drivers face. But I only included that because I wanted to write “haboob.”)

Nothing at all. And that’s what tests give us in terms of useful information: nothing at all. The nice thing, I suppose, is that now the test companies aren’t even pretending to give useful information; because teachers don’t get to see the test questions.

That’s right. Standardized tests are, like all tests, supposed to tell us how well a student is doing, right? To show us where the student is struggling, so we can focus our instruction on that area and help the student improve? Right: except standardized tests don’t do that any more, because they don’t reveal their questions, nor do they show a student’s right and wrong answers. The scores on standardized tests are also becoming more obtuse: test companies wish to preserve their market, and so they make their score reports esoteric, in order to ensure that people require the company’s services to interpret the test scores. Students don’t get a 70%, a 95%, or an A; they get a number without any context at all. Either a percentile rank, which tells you how well you did in comparison with other students, or you get a raw score that means essentially nothing. When I taught in Oregon and pushed my students through the proprietary Oregon reading test, the OAKS (Oregon Assessment of Knowledge and Skills, isn’t that clever; if test companies and others who sell education materials excel at anything, it is generating semi-clever acronyms.), they got their score automatically at the end of the 54-question multiple choice test. The highest score I ever saw was a 274. The lowest score I ever saw was a 206. So you tell me what that means. Sure, 274 is higher than 206. But does the 206 mean that the student got nothing right? Did the 274 student get everything right? Does that mean the 274 needs no further instruction in reading? Does the 206 kid go back to elementary school? Who knows: the range of scores is wider than the number of questions on the test. It’s not even a matter of multiple points, or partial credit; it’s a multiple choice test. And even if I could know how many questions a student got right or wrong, I don’t get to see the questions, because of fears about test security, because the testing company doesn’t want to have to create entirely new tests every year because that’s expensive. So all I as the teacher know is: the student got a low score on the reading test. Tell me how I plan instruction to help that student improve.

Which brings us, I suppose, to the real problem with standardized tests: students don’t care. It was extremely rare for the students who got the lowest scores to be the ones who actually have the most trouble with reading. Those students, aware of their troubles with the subject, tried harder than anyone else, because they wanted to do well, they wanted to improve, they wanted to succeed. In almost every case, the lowest scores came from those who simply didn’t try on the test, who clicked through the screens guessing randomly rather than paying attention to the (hideously boring) reading passages, because they didn’t think the tests mattered. And they were right: even when I attached a grade in my class to the test scores, it was only one grade, and it didn’t ever change much in the grand scheme of things. Besides, how many of my students really cared about their grades? Cared so much, that is, that they would take two hours to complete a test they could zip through in about twelve minutes? The students who did well were those who wanted to do well on the test; the students who scored the highest generally weren’t my very best students in terms of language ability, but rather my very best students in terms of diligence. What a shock: standardized tests reveal the best standardized students, the ones who respond best to the usual motivators, the ones who can put forth the most consistent effort on the most tedious tasks. The ones who can work without passion and never feel the lack. Essentially, the ones who are the best at not caring: because they can not care, and still complete the task.

Tests do not find the smartest people; they find the best cubicle monkeys, the best worker drones. And perhaps that’s what schools are for: we have surrendered the idea that education builds a meritocracy, that the cream rises to the top, that the very best students at the very best schools are the ones who should be in charge or our companies or our country; no, we’d rather have the guy who swills beer and watches football, the guy who goes to church, the regular Joe as our president, and we’d rather have the guy who shows results in charge of the company – tangible results. Increased profits. Higher test scores.

This is the real value of standardized tests. They allow people who profit thereby to manipulate the system. The new politician, the new superintendent, the new principal, they come in, they point to the low test scores; because no matter how successful a school is, there will be low test scores. Especially when test scores are reported as percentile ranks; because that means there has to be a bottom rank as well as a top rank – even if everyone who took the test scored 95% and above, percentile ranks simply compare those students to each other, so the ones who scored the 95% now get placed in the bottom rank of students, because other students scored 96% and above. So the new hired gun points at the low test score and says, “This is unacceptable. I will change this.” Then they do a few obvious things: maybe they dedicate more computer labs to the tests, or longer testing periods. Maybe they offer prizes, like pizza parties, to the students if they do well. Maybe they force the teachers to provide free after-school tutoring to students who are struggling. Maybe they buy a test-prep program – conveniently provided by the same company who runs the testing, because why wouldn’t you use them? They make the tests, of course they can tell you how to pass the tests! And then the scores go up. The new principal or superintendent or politician points to that raised score, they claim success, they collect huzzahs; then they parlay that result into a better position, moving higher up the ladder, lifted skyward by their new reputation as an Education Reformer.

Tests are very good at that. They are also very good at making profits for the companies that make the tests – mostly the College Board, which runs the SATs and the AP and ACT tests, and Pearson Testing, which makes pretty much every state assessment for public schools – who make billions off of their purported ability to reveal important information about a student’s learning, and about a school’s success in teaching, when they actually reveal nothing of the kind. At least the College Board releases their test questions after the fact. But they take a three-hour test, following a year’s intensive study, and boil it down to a number between 1 and 5. Then they return their test scores attached to advertisements for products, books and seminars and training and websites, that will absolutely no question guaranteed raise those 1’s to 3’s, and those 3’s to 5’s.

Teach those students more? Help them to learn? Pssh. Why would we do that? We can raise their scores. What else matters?

This matters: every minute, every consultant, every dollar dedicated to test prep is time and money and effort and people taken away from actual education. When students are learning how to succeed on tests, they are not learning how to read and write and think and calculate and plan and analyze and evaluate and hypothesize and create. They’re not even learning how to play dodgeball.

I’d rather they spent the same amount of time playing dodgeball. At least they’d have some fun and get some exercise. And when it’s a question of my tax dollars going to buy tests, or going to buy those big red rubber balls, I’d rather subsidize Wham-o than Pearson any day.

It’s just like health care, and the military. We spend more money on education than most other countries, and yet we don’t get good results.

In 2011, the United States spent $11,841 per full-time-equivalent (FTE) student on elementary and secondary education, an amount 35 percent higher than the OECD average of $8,789. At the postsecondary level, U.S. expenditures per FTE student were $26,021, almost twice as high as the OECD average of $13,619. Source

Why? Because this is capitalism. Our money funds profit. It funds profit for the companies that make the tests, and for the administrators and politicians who come in, raise scores, and then move on, without having actually improved anything, without having had any effect on education itself. I have no doubt there are teachers who do the same thing: who swoop in to low-performing schools, teach their students a good trick or two, bribe them with donuts on test day, and then reap benefits in the form of a reputation as a reformer, and maybe even merit pay bonuses. I myself have profited from my predecessor’s low test scores, because the fact that mine (and when I say “mine,” I mean “The scores earned by students I’ve taught”) are higher helps to ensure my job security. But the difference is, I actually teach. And I’ve never earned merit pay.

But I have helped to create this problem. I have told my students, in all sincerity, taking advantage of my reputation as a trustworthy authority figure with their best interests in mind, that tests are important and they should try their hardest. I have attached grades in my class to test scores that I can’t predict, that I can’t really improve, and that I can’t even see, in some cases; I have given students grades in my class based on their effort on the state tests, based largely on how long they took to complete it while I watched. I have shook my head and gotten annoyed, and I have even lectured my students, when they blow off the tests as unimportant. Right now I have students who are paying almost $100 apiece and who knows how much in stress and anxiety to take the AP test simply because I have decided that those who take the AP test get an automatic 100% on the final exam in my class – and some of them have told me straight out that they’re doing it to buy the grade from me. I have taken money to fix grades, and I haven’t even gotten the profit myself. I should ask College Board for a bonus.

I have told parents that test scores matter. I have offered ways for students to improve their test scores. I have even given out those atrocious, terrible test prep books from Princeton Review and Kaplan and the like, and told people they can use them for practice in order to master the tests. Not the material: the tests. I have sat through meetings about test scores and discussed the reasons why they’re low, and ways to raise them. So has every other teacher I know, and presumably every teacher across this country.

When put to the test, the real test of understanding and caring about education, I and my fellow teachers have failed.

In his Letter From Birmingham Jail, Martin Luther King, Jr., said this:

“[T]here are two types of laws: just and unjust. I would be the first to advocate obeying just laws. One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws.”

“Now, what is the difference between the two? […] Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust. All segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality. It gives the segregator a false sense of superiority and the segregated a false sense of inferiority.”

Is there any better description of how test scores make us feel? A false sense of superiority and inferiority? A segregation between the haves and the have-nots?

“Let us consider a more concrete example of just and unjust laws. An unjust law is a code that a numerical or power majority group compels a minority group to obey but does not make binding on itself. This is difference made legal. By the same token, a just law is a code that a majority compels a minority to follow and that it is willing to follow itself. This is sameness made legal. Let me give another explanation. A law is unjust if it is inflicted on a minority that, as a result of being denied the right to vote, had no part in enacting or devising the law.”

So: students. Who, when it comes to having any real say in their own education, have been left behind.

 

I agree with Dr. King’s argument. I think he’s right, that we have a moral obligation to disobey unjust laws – and unjust policies – when we know them for what they are. And so I would like to call on my fellow educators to join me in finding ways to resist, non-violently, of course, the invasion of standardized testing in American schools. Let me quote Dr. King again:

“I hope you are able to see the distinction I am trying to point out. In no sense do I advocate evading or defying the law, as would the rabid segregationist. That would lead to anarchy. One who breaks an unjust law must do so openly, lovingly, and with a willingness to accept the penalty. I submit that an individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law.”

Or, in this case, the highest respect for actual education. I believe that we must defend education against the tests: we should begin simply, by telling the truth, by calling the tests what they are: a sham and a fraud. Useless. A waste of time and money and resources. A drain on students and teachers and schools and the entire country, perpetuated only for the profit of a select few. Say it. Say it in public, say it to your students, say it to their parents, say it to administrators, say it to your fellow teachers, and help them to start saying it, too.

We are teachers: we must be the leaders in this fight. We won’t have to risk jail, not for refusing to pretend the tests have value. We may risk our jobs, but there are ways to counter that, particularly if we are good enough teachers to help students learn and therefore improve, with or without test scores.

If I may end by quoting a less august source, but one no less poetic and no less accurate than Dr. King:

It has to start somewhere.

It has to start sometime.

What better place than here?

What better time than now?

All Hell can’t stop us now.

 

Redshirts Review

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Redshirts

by John Scalzi

When I bought this book, which is loudly proclaimed on its cover as a NYT bestseller that is a joy to read, with gushing blurbs from two authors I respect quite a lot (Joe Hill and Patrick Rothfuss), I was excited; but the clerk who sold it to me said something that cooled my ardor a little. “Yeah, I didn’t love this as much as everyone else did. I don’t really know why.” As I had been unaware that there was such a lot of buzz about this book, I was a bit puzzled by the comment; but now that I have read it, I completely agree.

I didn’t love this as much as everyone else did.

There’s something about John Scalzi’s writing that doesn’t speak to me. I don’t know what it is. I’ve read a book of his non-fiction, excerpts from his blog; and now I’ve read this Star Trek-themed novel; and I didn’t love either one. I feel like Scalzi is similar to what I’ve encountered in a lot of science fiction writers: their ideas are brilliant, but their prose leaves something to be desired. It makes for disappointing reading experiences, because I get excited about the book based on the concept, but then reading it leaves me a bit cold. Though it is entirely possible that this is my own subjective response, and not something that anyone else would experience. On the other hand: there are some real holes in the plot of this one, and even the short pieces at the end, the three codas that come after the main novel, don’t really spackle those holes in very well.

The idea behind this book is great. For those who know Star Trek, I don’t even need to explain it: the book is written from the point of view of the Redshirts. For those who don’t know the original Star Trek series, I wouldn’t recommend the book; it makes far too many inside jokes and references for those not in the know (And maybe, considering how much we nerds love a good reference, that’s really the appeal of the book.). But essentially, imagine you were a low-ranking officer on a starship sailing grandly through the universe, going where no man has ever gone before, and you realized that every time the command crew went down to a planet’s surface, or over to a ship that had sent out a distress call, somebody died: and it was always, always, somebody like you. The low-ranking officer. The captain and First Officer, the head of engineering and the ship’s doctor – they always went on the away missions, always got in danger, sometimes got hurt; but they never died. It was always somebody else that caught the laser blast or the alien monster attack or stood too close to the explosion. Once you realized that, what would you do? And if you were assigned to the ship that had this record of chewing up and swallowing people just like you – how would you handle it?

That’s a great set up. And the first half of the book, while the main characters are figuring it out while trying to stay alive, really is hilarious. It’s when they figure out the answer that this book lost me. The last half of the book, when they find a way to solve the problem and their own lives, just kept going downhill. There are some funny moments, particularly when crew members meet their own doppelgangers from another universe, but the basic concept really didn’t work. It’s too unnecessarily complicated: the book is clearly, obviously a reference to Star Trek, and Scalzi goes away from that, connecting it to a different fictional universe based on Star Trek but not Star Trek. That was a mistake. The way the Redshirts get their way was too deus ex machina for me, even though that’s the point of it; I would have preferred an actually clever solution, and I didn’t think that was it. And then the protagonist’s final realization of the layers of truth and fiction in his universe was far too precious for me. I feel like Scalzi was a stage magician waving his hands to distract me from seeing how the trick worked – but really, it wasn’t that great a trick. The same went for the codas, which were not as clever as I think they were intended to be, and just ended up annoying me more than the book itself did.

So I don’t know if it was just this book, which suffered from being an idea that is brilliant but probably too difficult to pull off well; or if it’s John Scalzi’s writing; or if it’s just me. At any rate, I didn’t think much of it.

Targeted Marketing

Dusty 4 Comments

Going through my local grocery store checkout line. It’s a good store: Sprouts is the name of the chain; local and organic food are the specialties (in theory — I am suspicious of their prices, which seem lower than one would expect from a sort of organic food market. But I know that the brands they carry are good brands.), the location is very convenient for us, directly between work and home; the staff are polite and friendly and efficient. Only very rare problems with things being out of stock, and their produce is generally top-notch.

And so, it seems, is their demographic-specific marketing. Because while they clearly cater to the new age/hippie/free spirit subset of their larger mainly liberal consumer base, they are in Arizona, after all, which is a damned conservative place. So as we were going through the line, on one side — the left side — was this adult coloring book:

Pagan Coloring Book

“Activates the creative process of your imagination.”

 

And on the other side — the right side — was this one:

Jesus Coloring Book

 

Now I just need to find the aisle that has the atheist/Cthulhu coloring books. “Coloring Cthulhu activates the healing powers of your madness!”

The Foundling, and Other Tales of Prydain

Dusty 2 Comments

The Foundling: and Other Tales of Prydain

by Lloyd Alexander

I wish I had had this book the last time I re-read the Book of Three series, the stories of Taran the Assistant Pig-Keeper. Like any good fantasy buff, I read the books first when I was young; I was excited and then disappointed when Disney made The Black Cauldron and got everything wrong about the main characters (Though as I recall, the side characters were great, Gurgi and the Horned King and the three witches in the swamp.); I named my very first Dungeons & Dragons character “Taran.” Stole the name from my friend and fellow fantasy buff. I regret nothing.(Another side note: I met a guy, works at my local grocery store, named Taran. It was an exciting moment for me, because I am also named from a fantasy series of about the same era. He was not as excited. I believe his response was, “Is there anything else I can get you?”)

Anyway, I loved these books when I was young, but when I re-read them, I discovered something: they are terribly sad. They are based on old Welsh myths, and perhaps that’s the source of the sadness; but the general arc of the books tells the life of a young man who wishes for adventure, finds it, and then wishes he had never left home in the first place. It’s not all sad, he ends up well in the end of the last book; but especially in the third and fourth books, when he is feeling lost and directionless, trying to find himself and his purpose, there is a real angst that, after the sweetness of the first book, made me sad. There’s also a tendency in the books to see the villainous characters as not really that villainous, simply as victims of their own greed or shortsighted ambition or fear; this makes it much less fun to hate them and wish them ill. Which I suppose is the point, but fantasy is supposed to have villains, dammit. Villains who cackle as they twist their mustachios, and who get soundly and at least semi-permanently defeated by the heroes. And Lloyd Alexander didn’t do that.

But this book, which serves as sort of a coda to the five books of Prydain, makes up for that sadness. Because this book is delightful. It allows you to go back and revisit the characters once more, and to see them in other circumstances than in the series, most of which is taken up with the war against Arawn, lord of the land of the dead. It gives the backstory on Dallben (He’s the Foundling, raised by the three witches of the swamp, who are also the Three Fates), and Colm, and Fflewddur Fflam, and all of them. The stories are short, they are not sad (Other than Dallben’s, which isn’t all that sad because it leads up to the Prydain books, where he’s like a great big ice cream cake of awesome, and this tells how he got to be like that), and they help fill in a lot of the little gaps in the stories from the Prydain books. Basically, this is what The Silmarillion should have been, and it was wonderful.

And if I haven’t made it clear, this book really needs to be read as part of the larger series. I think it would be fine to read it first, as it gives a good idea of Alexander’s wonderful telling-stories-by-the-fireside writing style and it’s very short and easy to read; but I think it’s best to read it as I did, after reading the longer series, so that you can get a final grace note and a happy ending. That way seems the most satisfying to me. So for those Prydain fans who haven’t read this one, go get it now. Enjoy.

I’m that cow.

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Toni and I drive past a herd of cattle every morning when she takes me to work. We like to discuss what the cows are up to, and what they’re thinking. Toni is always amazed that they haven’t figured out body heat: because in the brutal summer heat, they all go stand under the shade trees on the edge of their pasture — but they all pack together, side by side, in the shade; we have no doubt that their shade is not in any way cooler than the sunshine. Nonetheless, every hot day: “Come on, everybody! Crowd in. Room for a few more if we squeeze. Man, is it hot! Well, at least we have shade!”

Toni and I like to make our own fun.

So this morning’s conversation went like this.

Dusty: I bet the cows discuss philosophical things while they’re grazing. I know if I was a cow, I’d do that all the time. I’d be like, “Hey, you guys ever wonder where the grass comes from?”

Toni: (Speaking for the other cows): “It grows out of the ground.”

Dusty (Speaking for the Wondering Cow): “Yeah, but where was it before that?”

Toni: I bet they’d avoid you. “Oh, no — here he comes again. Everybody turn the other way.”

Dusty The Wondering Cow: “Hey! You guys! You guys! You know what I was just wondering?”

Toni: You’d annoy them all, thinking too many weird things and asking too many questions. “Why? Why? Why?” You’d bug the crap out of the other cows.

Dusty: (After a lengthy pause) I’m like that now.

And then, silence.

I’m that cow.

Book Review: Silver Screen Fiend

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Silver Screen Fiend

by Patton Oswalt

I never wanted to be a standup comedian. Too introverted. Which is good because I’m also not that funny.

But after reading Patton Oswalt’s memoir of his early years as a standup, mostly in California, now I’m even surer that standup comedy is never a profession I would pursue. (Sorry, Midlife Crisis. Maybe there’s an over-the-hill grunge cover band you can try out for.) And I’ve also learned that I never want to be a film addict, what Oswalt calls a sprocket fiend and what I would probably call a cinema snob: someone who’s seen every movie starting with the 1920’s, only watches them in the theaters, prefers French and Swedish existentialist cinema, and knows the genesis of every film, the backstory of every director, the influences of every nuance. Someone who would tell you that Bruce Willis’s movie Last Man Standing is basically a remake of Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti westerns, which are basically remakes of Kurosawa’s Yojimbo, which are based on a novel that nobody has read. Except that guy.

You know that guy?

Patton Oswalt was that guy. The above paraphrase is actually from a conversation he relates in the book.

But here’s the thing: That Guy is generally insufferable because he believes that everyone else thinks like he does, or at least should; he can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to know the reason why a movie uses certain angles and certain shots, why certain lines are delivered in certain ways: he can’t imagine just wanting to watch a movie and enjoy it. And while Oswalt was that guy for a while, he actually recognized that it wasn’t a good thing. He describes his film habit as an addiction, and the description is apt: it was taking over his life, ruining his relationships, everything that an addiction does to a person while they are in the throes of it and sinking towards their bottom. He got into it with good intentions: he was going to become a director, a brilliant filmmaker, and he wanted to study his craft before he dove into it. But very quickly, it went too far.

This memoir is about that addiction. It is also about the other side of Oswalt’s life, becoming a working standup and then a television comedy writer during the 1990’s. And honestly, because I am neither a standup nor a sprocket fiend, there was a fair amount of this book that I couldn’t relate to. I don’t understand the experience of doing a good set of comedy and making an audience laugh; I don’t understand the pleasures of finding a new and different way to perform that doesn’t necessarily wow an audience, but impresses the hell out of the other comedians watching you. But it was nonetheless interesting to read about those experiences, as well as the life of a creative person, and about an unusual form of addiction – but still a harmful one.

My favorite aspect of the book was this wonderful analogy that Oswalt uses: the Night Cafe. The Night Cafe is a piece by Vincent Van Gogh, and for Van Gogh, it represents the beginning of his transition from talented painter to mad genius: and the beginning, too, of the madness that eventually destroyed him, while it produced some of the greatest art in history. Oswalt talks about the Night Cafe as a place that you can’t leave unchanged, that once you go in, once you see it, you cannot be the same person. He talks about the different Night Cafes he has experiences, at least three of which happen during the time period this book covers (He mentions two others, and references the final Night Cafe that we all enter but never return from, the clearing at the end of the path), and how those experiences jarred him so seriously that he changed the course of his life. I thought that was brilliant, and even if I couldn’t connect to the comedian or the sprocket fiend, I could definitely connect to the guy whose life was wrenched from one path to another by a single experience – and the guy who uses art to understand his world. I liked that guy a lot.

I liked the book, too. And I plan to give my copy to a young man I know who is already on his way to becoming a sprocket fiend just like Oswalt. Maybe it can be his Night Cafe.

Book Review: The Aeronaut’s Windlass

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The Aeronaut’s Windlass

by Jim Butcher

I’m tired, now.

I’m not tired because it’s Monday (Okay, no, I am tired because it’s Monday – but that’s not the main reason.), but because I just got finished being dragged along, like a dinghy tied to the back of a battleship, in the wake of probably the best action writer working right now.

Jim Butcher.

The Aeronaut’s Windlass is the first book in a new series, The Cinder Spires; it is science-fiction, and it is steampunk. It is set in a world where the people live in impossibly tall structures, called Spires, that stand miles into the atmosphere; people travel between Spires on airships that fly using electrical currents in the atmosphere which they catch with great webs of silken ropes, like solar sails. The main characters include the captain of the fastest air ship on the planet – which is not Earth; it seems to be a planet with a much denser atmosphere, as the ships are described as sinking down into the permanent mist, or sailing up out of it in order to navigate or to fight – as well as a pair of what might as well be called wizards, master and apprentice Etherealists with strange powers and the strange penalties that so often accompany power. There are also a selection of nobles of the main Spire in the story, Spire Albion; nobles both wealthy and poor, honorable and deceitful, beautiful and deadly. They duel, they backstab, they fight for position and prominence and power. There are several soldier characters, as well, as this is the story of a war between Spires, or at least the beginning of the war: and the first strike is not only the deadliest, but it carries deeper meaning, as well. There are wheels within wheels, here, and fires within fires. There are also some of the nastiest villains I’ve read in quite a while: an evil Etherealist and her bodyguard, and they are extraordinarily vicious and disturbing. All I’ll say is: their allies of choice are enormous alien arachnids that skitter up walls before they leap down and tear limbs off with their giant insectoid jaws, wrapping up their human opponents in strands of sticky web-silk. And those are the less-frightening ones.

But hold on: because all is not lost. As confused and desperate as these humans become – and the heroes really do sink pretty low, though I’ll spoil this: they don’t lose every fight – they still hold onto hope.

Because some of the characters in this book are cats.

That’s right: steampunk, airships, war, magic, battle, alien spider-monsters – and talking cats.

And because it’s Jim Butcher, the battle scene starts about a third of the way into the book: and then it. Does. Not. Stop. Even on the last page, we are finding out about new betrayals, new dangers, new challenges that face our heroes. It is enormous fun to read, because Butcher does it the right way: he has his characters face setbacks and surprises and even awful defeats; but then the right person with the right ability is in the right place at the right time, and out of that good fortune or good planning comes– victory. At least a small one. Sometimes a large one. And you’re cheering for them the whole way, because Butcher also writes wonderful characters, complex and intriguing and genuine, and of course, Butcher has that wonderful sense of humor, which sparkles through the whole book – particularly the scenes with the cat interacting with his human companions (and inferiors, as he sees them; he is, after all, a cat.).

It’s not flawless; the way the airships function was hard for me to follow at times, and the world is larger and more complex than could ever be covered in one book unless that book was nothing but history and atlas. This one isn’t, so there are things I want to know more about and things I don’t yet understand. But this was tremendous fun to read. And for the rest?

You’re durn tootin’ I’m going to read the next book to find out. And the one after that.

When I Was Homeless

Dusty 1 Comment

I don’t actually know this woman personally, but we’re connected, connected enough for me to find this post, and connected by enough shared humanity (of which she has too much and I not enough) for me to want to share this. And I am disconnected enough to feel guilty about sharing it, because it’s not my story, not one I could live and not one I could write. But I’m sharing it anyway because this is a story I want to keep for myself, and to give as well. I don’t know what else I can gove in return for it.
I hope you all read it.

Cat Jones's avatarBeyond the Barbed Wire

By Cat Jones

I'm all right now, but this is a story about where I've been recently. I’m all right now, but this is a story about where I’ve been recently.

People who have never been homeless don’t know shit about it. And the real problem is, they don’t know that they don’t know shit. The ignorance around this issue has real and painful consequences for people impacted by poverty. This point has been underlined to me recently, with a spate of incidents and conversations involving friends of mine whose normally compassionate natures were suddenly and inexplicably shrouded by ignorance, entitlement, and lack of understanding when it came to people who are homeless (not to mention the ridiculous spectacle of a couple of New York senators making asses of themselves by insisting we need them to limit the ability of food stamp recipients to buy “luxury items” with their SNAP benefits, as IF that were even a thing). I’ve been thinking about this a lot…

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The Worst

Dusty Leave a comment

You cannot appreciate light without darkness; you cannot appreciate Chris Cornell’s singing without hearing Neil Young whinge, and the tiny tickle as your eardrums begin to bleed. So as I have done four days of the best of music — and because good pedagogy tells me that teachers should give four positive comments for every negative comment — I have now earned a little negativity. So here it is. Times ten.

For this list, I’m sticking with singers who have longer careers, people who think they can sing even though they can’t. I have no doubt that there are nobodies out there, wanna-bes who won’t be, who have hyperinflated self-images and manage to record something; this is the reason YouTube exists. But for this, I’m strictly looking at successful singers who can’t actually sing. This means that all of these people have fans; usually of their music in general, but often of the singing, in specific. So I know that others will not agree with all of my choices.I sympathize, I really do. But I’m still right. These people really can’t sing. And this list is in order, with the very worst saved for the very last.

 

#10: Rebecca Black: I know, I know: it’s a cliche.  Everyone spent years ripping on this song and this singer. But as I have often noted, things become cliche because they are so frequently true that everyone makes the same observation, the same judgment, the same statement about it. An apple a day (Or at least regularly eating fruit) really does keep the doctor away. You really can’t buy love.

And Rebecca Black really can’t sing. It’s not just the song — though this might be the worst song ever written, and I’m including “Barbie Girl.” She really can’t sing.

I also realize I am breaking my own rules about people with longer careers and avoiding one-hit wonders who suck; so take this as the one who represents all of the people who become singers because they really, really want to be singers; not because they have a calling, or because they love music, or because they have real talent. They just REALLY, REALLY WANT TO. And their parents have enough money to hire a production company.

 

#9: Eminem: I said this before: Eminem is a brilliant rapper. I love his music, admire his talent and his honesty in his lyrics; the man has an incredible sense of rhythm, and a playful, innovative creativity when it comes to setting words to rhythm and rhyme. Amazing.

But oh my god, somebody tell him he can’t sing. Please? I mean, listen to this song. The rap in the verses is so smooth, so rapid-fire and yet soft and sensitive, as fits his subject, and he packs so many words in there, all in rhythm, all in rhyme, and none of it dropping back to the traditional filler syllables, like “Aw yeah!” or “Gangsta!” or something similar.

And then it turns to the chorus and he sings. And I want to run away and hide.

 

 

#8: Geddy Lee: This one’s more personal, and less likely to have other people agreeing with me. So the truth is, I really like prog rock. I’m a longtime fan of King Crimson, and I love Tool. I love the complicated rhythms, the musical virtuosity, the experimental weirdness that sometimes goes too far and keeps it from even sounding like music; I like all of that.

But I hate Rush. Can’t listen to them. Even though they are one of the premier examples of this genre: they are incredible musicians who do all kinds of weird, complicated stuff, ten and twelve and twenty minute songs, with (often pretentious, but that’s a side issue and not unique to Rush) lyrics that draw heavily from literature; all of it requiring great skill. I would love all of that. Except for this one, leeetle thing: I can’t stand Geddy Lee’s voice.

I can’t! Not even for a minute. Even as I write this, I’m listening to the song in the background, to make sure it is the one I want to use as my example, and yup: it’s driving me nuts. It’s like nails on a chalkboard. His voice is just too high, too squeaky, with absolutely no muscle behind it. I hate it. If only he had stood back and played bass and sang background for some other singer, I would probably love this band.

But he didn’t. I don’t. This is why.

 

 

#7: Bruce Springsteen: You know, I get it. I’ve known a lot of people who are Springsteen fans. He  writes good music — though it’s not really my preference, I can see the draw. And he does a great live show, sure, yes.

But the dude cannot sing. He can’t. He sounds terrible. He mumbles everything. He has to reach for every high note, and when he can’t reach it, he sings it flat and lets it trail off into silence like he meant it to sound like that. Listen: here he is butchering a U2 song. And just listen to how much better The Edge (You know, the guitarist? The backup singer in the band?) sounds than his lead.

 

 

#6: Fred Durst: This is a bad singer who needs no argument from me, other than this.

 

 

#5: Biz Markie: Worst rapper ever. Maybe that’s the gag, but it doesn’t make it any less terrible to listen to. And he sings, too.

 

 

#4: Willie Nelson: This one is a combination. I don’t like country music. I don’t like nasal singers. I don’t like singers who trail off and swallow all of their long notes. Any one of these things, I wouldn’t have much of an opinion: but Mr. Nelson is all three. Sort of the epitome of all three. (I will say that after listening to all of the other singers on this countdown, I suddenly don’t think that Willie is all that bad. I think my ears are crying.)

 

 

#3: Tom Petty: This one was tough to place on the list. Because I like a lot of his music. I sing along when he comes on the radio. But the thing is, I sing along loudly: because I can’t stand hearing his voice. I will never understand why people who have genuine musical ability, who write good songs, but who cannot sing, insist on being singers. I liked playing drums, but I was not good at it. So I stopped. I like playing basketball, too — but I don’t play that either. Because I suck. Tom Petty sounds like someone slowly opening a large, extremely squeaky door; and yet there he’s been, for thirty plus years now, squeaking and caterwauling away. Like this.

 

 

#2: Neil Young: Okay: Tom Petty I blamed for deciding to be a singer. I blame society for this one. How could anyone with functioning ears like the way this man sounds? I mean, for forty years, people bought his albums and went to his concerts! For this! FOR THIS!

 

 

 

#1 Bob Dylan: The granddaddy of them all. The reason, I believe, that so many bad singers think they can have successful careers if they can write well and perform well. And as I’ve been saying all along, I think the music is fine, some of it is great; but there is no reason — no reason — why any of these people decided they needed to sing. Why any of them could listen to themselves singing these songs and think, “Yeah — that song would suck if someone with a rich, full voice and a good tone were to sing it. What it really needs is a nasal whine, an irritating accent, and crappy enunciation. That’s the stuff!”

So thanks for that, Mr. Dylan.

Here: the top two together. I would advise you not to listen to this. Certainly not all eight minutes. It would be fatal.

 

 

And now, for the worst singer of all.

Me.

 

 

I rap badly, too.

 

 

We shall this day light such a candle that I trust shall never be put out.

Dusty Leave a comment

Tired of these lists? Don’t worry: this one will be over quickly.

Because these are the best singers whose careers didn’t last very long.

Whether because of the breakup of a band, or the failure to recreate magic, or the tragedy of death, these are talented people who became essentially one-hit (or one-album) wonders. Their musical success was small and short-lived; yet they burned bright enough to leave a legacy. At least in my mind.

We’ll do this chronologically, starting with the most recent. Because that way, we’re going back to the good old days, and reliving the past glories. Seems appropriate.

Although looking up all of the dates for these songs is making me feel like an episode of I Love the 90’s on VH1. Jeeze. Should have just called this “My high school and college years.” Well, anyway, here they are — not all from the 90’s!

 

Los Lonely Boys (2003)

Loved this song. Couldn’t understand why these guys didn’t have a crapton more hits. Great voice, good music, and they’re actually a trio of brothers, so if they hadn’t killed each other within the first six months of performing together, then they’re like the BeeGees, and they can go until they die. But at least this is a great song.

 

 

Afroman (2002)

All right, this is a stupid song. I admit it. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t catchy as hell, or that his singing isn’t good — because it actually is. He’s got an interesting voice and this one is quite well done. Plus, who doesn’t like Jay and Silent Bob?

 

 

Monster Magnet (1998)

This is still one of my favorite songs from the 90’s. I own the album, and the rest of it isn’t as good, so I never looked for more of their stuff — but damn, I love that guitar riff and the singing. The goofy lyrics are just a plus. (Wikipedia calls this band “stoner rock.” Which explains a lot.)

 

 

Sublime (1996)

This is one of the reasons why drugs piss me off: Brad Nowell. So talented. And he never had the chance to grow into it, and keep making music like this — and fewer songs like “Wrong Way” and “April 29, 1992 (Miami)” which are not as good.

Plus, there is nothing sadder than this video, his former bandmates catapulted to stardom two months after their frontman’s death trying to act like they’re not broken. And they put his dog in the video, too. Jesus wept.

 

 

Jeff Buckley (1994)

This is a singer I wasn’t aware of at the time of his life and death; but the song is heartache in musical form.

 

 

Izzy Kamakawiwoʻole (1993)

I will never remember this man’s full name. But I will never forget this song.

 

 

4 Non-Blondes (1993)

Everybody makes fun of this band. Everybody made fun of them when the song came out, too. But I loved this song then, and I love it now — and Linda Perry is one badass singer.

 

 

Crash Test Dummies (1993)

This is another one we all made fun of. But I always liked. This guy’s voice is just amazing. Though somehow, I have a memory of mocking this song, and still liking it, with my high school friends; are we sure that’s the right date for its release? Huh. False memory, I guess. Mmm hmmmmmm.

 

 

Blind Melon (1992)

Yet another drug-related death, another remarkable singer lost. I remember first catching this guy on the Guns and Roses song where he sings backup to Axl Rose, and sings even higher than Rose could. And then this song came out, and it was just so freaking awesome. Aaaaand then he died. Dammit.

 

 

The Verve Pipe (1992)

To be honest, I still don’t understand why anyone would write a song trying to justify sexual assault, or humanize the rapist’s experience. But I love the way this song sounds, and I love Brian Vander Ark’s voice.

 

 

Deeelite (1990)

I don’t understand why people don’t love this song. Though I admit it isn’t just the singing that put it on this countdown; it’s also that funky, funky beat. Though she does sing well — and Bootsy Collins, I mean, come on. It’s Bootsy Collins!

 


Sinead O’Connor (1990)

What a voice. And this song is magnificent — though the English teacher in me hates Prince for using “2 U” instead of the actual goddamn words. Oh — and she was always right about the Pope, and screw Frank Sinatra for bringing all of his weight down on her. Like that’s a fair fight.

 

Alannah Myles (1990)

I always felt like this video hit the “Ain’t I sexy?” a little too hard. I mean, come on — chaps? Seriously? But the song is cool and her voice is fantastic. And okay, she is pretty sexy. But that’s not why I picked it! It’s not!

 

 

Skid Row (1989)

I love this song. I loved it when it came out, I loved it when we all found out just what a tool Sebastian Bach is, I loved it when all of the band’s other music sucked, I loved it when they failed to make good music ever again, I love it now. I love this song. And I had one of the strangest dreams of my life about Sebastian Bach — who was, in the dream, in love with me and heartbroken that I did not share his feelings. And maybe that’s why I love this song so much. Though really, he does have a good voice, and it’s never sounded better than on this.

 

 

Ben E. King (1961)

No better way to end this than with one of the greatest songs in the history of rock, which has never been performed better than the original. This is kind of a cheat for the one-hit-wonder thing, since King sang with The Drifters who had many hits; but this was his only solo hit, and it is a masterpiece.