tomgnh's Blog

A Modest(y) Proposal

2009-06-24T17:36:36Z

Ah, New Hampshire politicos. We've come a long way from asking for nuclear weapons to deter street protest or plying islands with liquor to leave their families, but there's still a little curmudgeonly behavior being exhibited.
Witness Judd Gregg, senior senator from the Granite State, who fought through the disadvantages of having a father who was governor to success (unlike his former fellow senator John Sununu, whose father was a senator- we like our elected representatives self-made).

He is so tight with a buck- which we like- that those signs announcing your stimulus dollars at work gall him enough to propose legislation to stop this outrageous waste of money.

A terrible waste! Unlike other signs designating the "Judd Gregg Meteorology Institute," funded by $500,000 in federal money to Plymouth State University. Or "The Judd Gregg Library" sign, dedicated after Gregg secured $150,000 for the Nashua Policy Athletic League. Or the "Gregg Hall" sign at the University of New Hampshire, dedicated after Gregg secured $266 million in federal funds for the university.
Not that he is alone- Murtha Airport, Kennedy Library (the Ted one, in Mass.)... etc.

So I would like to support his legislation- with one amendment-

"No federally funded program may carry the name of any living member or former member of Congress, or any member of their families, living or dead."

Think of the savings!

A Father's Day Thought

2009-06-19T22:43:22Z

A few years ago I had four high school history classes- two high-level (college prep), two low-level (remedial). I was curious whether there was any commonality, and I had a little time to kill.
The kids had filled out information cards, and I began to hand-sort them.

Maybe zip codes, which could be class? Nope, no pattern.

The Lou Dobbs Effect? Ethnicity? No, that wasn't it.

Astrology?- Birthdays? No.

And then I had an idea. I created two piles. One was for kids who had listed as their guardian a male with the same last name. The other pile was everyone else.

And presto. That pile was my top classes, with one exception. The other pile was my low-achievers, again with one exception.

But the first exception was arrested in the winter and left school; the second was a Down Syndrome kid, who was flourishing despite that.

I post this with no conclusion drawn. Just an anecdote.

Happy Father's Day.

It's hard being a Red Sox fan

2009-06-12T03:20:32Z

It's hard being a Red Sox fan.

Not that it's not fun, mind you. Especially in the middle of sweeping a third series from the Yankees. Ortiz is hitting, the pitching is good, the Manny move worked out "wicked awesome," Bay and Pedroia are terrific- I could go on and on. And coming back in the eighth inning! Sweet!

But that's why it's hard. No one remembers that it's not supposed to be this way.

See, this is New England. Rock-ribbed. Dour. Tight-lipped. "You can't get there from here" people. Here in New Hampshire the state gem is granite. The state vine is poison ivy. The state bird is flipped in traffic.

It goes way back. Pilgrims and Puritans came here to be able to have less fun than others were having in "Merrie Olde England"- and they succeeded. OK, the Pilgrims first landed at Provincetown, on Cape Cod, but it was December. Ever been in P'town in December and you're not gay? no fun. So after agreeing in the Mayflower Compact that they would democratically enforce the no fun rules, they got back into the ship, even though they were out of beer, and went to Plymouth to survive and make a living.

Doing what? Well, fishing- catching cod in icy waters using hand-cutting nets, then salting the fish (and their hands) to create a culinary delicacy that goes "thunk" when you throw it into the pan. They ate it and they liked it. It suited them. If a people are known by their food, and you think Parisian crepes and Italian spumoni, think Boston brown bread. Boston baked beans. (baked beans on Saturday night, six hours of church on Sunday- you think that was coincidental?)

Or they farmed. In New England. (Remember "Granite State"?) The only thing tougher than the land were the trees that grew from it and the (not NY) Yankees who cut them down. It took 200 years to clear the land; those stone walls are where the farmer said "Screw it- that's far enough." ("Egad- that sufficeth.")

Then they invented (OK, stole) the Industrial Revolution. They let the stone walls slip back into the woods and moved off the cleared land into the new "slums" so they could work in "factories" and get paid "shit". A lot of them stayed behind to raise "sheep," an animal so dumb that if it does what you told it to do, it's because you guessed right. (And not nearly as good company as some would have you think.)

We were a mixed society. Immigrants came and stayed, welcomed by riots and exploitation, and they liked it. Oh, a lot said "This sucks- what's out West?" and sought an easier life in coal mines and on the Plains. But the ones who stayed were a sturdier breed. They bought the New England Creed- "Life is to be endured."

That's why, for oh, God so long, the Red Sox were the perfect New England team. They were to be endured. Their history is full of "to be endured."

They won the World Series in 1918; OK, but what were Bostonians doing in the street that very day? Dying of Spanish Flu, and a lot of people died as a result of the Red Sox attracting that crowd. Not many victorious teams can make that claim.

And then the Curse. Babe goes to New York, "No, No Nannette" goes to Broadway, and Boston goes to pot. But we all know the story.

The Jews were the Chosen People who wandered for forty years; Red Sox fans weren't Chosen- they were Singled Out, and were lost for four score and six. They were the Duchy of Grand Fenwick to New York's New York.

And the losses! It wasn't just losing- it was losing with style. Winning ("tying for") the pennant but losing a playoff in '48 was the "high point" between by dad seeing the 1918 team and me meeting Don Buddin and Bob "he-runs-like-there's-a-safe-on-his-back" Tillman, who was once thrown out at first on a liner to right.

Rally caps? Please. The rallying cry in the Dark Years was to grab the empty seats on either side of you and bang them. The venders sold bread; the drink was vinegar; the Green Monster was envy.

Then success began to come- almost. Victory for the Sox was used as a masochistic tool to amplify the pain.

1967- "The Impossible Dream": win the pennant by sitting in the clubhouse watching two other teams lose more than you, go to the World Series, trail 3 games to 1, then come roaming back to be able to lose game 7.

1975- The Sox win game 6- "The Greatest Game ever Played" on Fisk's home run, just to blow the lead in game 7 in the NINTH INNING! (sorry)

1978- Come roaring back in the last week to tie the Yankees (after blowing a 14-game lead) to force the Yankees into a playoff. Bucky F---ing Dent. (BUCKY DENT???)

1986- The Game 6 collapse, Bill Buckner, when we were ONE STRIKE AWAY!!! (sorry.)

2003- He left Pedro in??!!?? Aaron Boone in extra innings. (AARON BOONE???) And what game? Game 7. What opponent? Yankees.

But then the Sun came out. 2004. Pennant. Series. Victory. (In my case the curse lasted just a bit longer; as Damon was hitting the Grand Slam against the Yankees I got a call that a favorite student was hit by a bus [she's fine, but I haven't completely forgiven her.])

2007. Pennant. Series. Victory.

And tonight the Sox take a ninth straight game from the Yankees.

All that's left of the Way It's Supposed to Be are the seats at Fenway.

It's hard being a Red Sox fan.

But it's fun! (knock on wood.)

Why I live in New Hampshire

2009-06-10T13:34:54Z

Why DO I live in New Hampshire? Why do I stay here?

I'm convinced that for most it's simply an accidental byproduct of Massachusetts tax law. If you look at a globe, the angle of slope at 45° latitude is- well, 45°, and that kind of slope shouldn't be tried. Better to stay further south and admit the effort isn't worth it. I mean, what do people say is fun in New Hampshire?

•Ice fishing. Sitting in a room you dragged onto the lake with your $30,000 Dodge Ram and hope to get back with your friend's $500 pickup because the ice is melting, fighting the carbon monoxide and smell of wool socks in the hopes that your line will jiggle and $10 worth of food will rise through the ice. (If you mention that the same effect can be achieved by dangling the cord of your robe onto the floor from the end of the bed, you will get stares.)

•The foliage. "The trees are dying again; where's the damn rake?"

•Swimming. From July until early August you can swim and still find your testicles.

•Skiing. We have some of the finest EMT's in the country.

•Boating. There's a state liquor store right where all those Jetskis are parked.

•Snowmobiling. I wonder why the hardware store sells so much chain to landowners in December.

•The Old Man in the Mountain. well, not any more; but the state legislature is maybe gonna put it back if they can figure out how to do it for free.

It might be for the ocean fun, if you can fit onto what John Hodgman called our "fifteen miles of novelty coastline."

When I moved to NH the Governor was Meldrim Thomson, who attempted to convince Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket to secede from the People's Republic of Massachusetts and join with the Granite State by placing a bottle of liquor on the podium and comparing prices (seriously), and whose idea of domestic tranquility was equipping the National Guard with nuclear weapons in case of insurrection. Seriously. When the Bay State sent troopers to packies (liquor stores to the rest of you) to catch people (customers/smugglers) loading their cars with what Mass. called contraband but we regard as a positive balance of payments, Thomson had them arrested for loitering. When Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman spoke at UNH he called out the National Guard and had the kid who invited them arrested. When a gay students organization surfaced he threatened to close the University. When speeders passed his official car he had his trooper driver pull them over so he could personally ticket them.

Seriously. Served three terms. A good majority of the voters loved him.

We had our own little William Randolph Hearst for a time- William Loeb, who was called a lot of things but probably never Bill to his face. Terrorized any candidate who wanted to be president and had the temerity to challenge his beliefs, which were not unlike Thomson's, but extreme. And when he died his third wife Nacky- seriously- kept the fire ablaze.

Our state finances are managed by a kid who knows Quicken. No sales or income tax, but to hear natives talk the state pisses money, mostly paid by property taxes. And meals taxes. And hotel taxes. And gas taxes. And low cigarette taxes. And state-run liquor stores (but we aren't socialist!). By the way, if you think about it, they are all targeted at our favorite migratory animal- out-of-staters, who come for the skiing, and ice-fishing, and snowmobiling, and foliage, and...

The race track near my house burned down a while back, and the state balanced its budget by keeping the liquor stores open 24 hours a day. But no drive-thru- we have standards.

And I'm not worried about any deficits. Check the map- we hold Maine hostage. We have the most expensive 20 miles of toll road in the country, and if you want to get out of Maine you'll smile and pay.

So why do I live in NH?

I just told you.

Who IS Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

2009-06-10T01:17:46Z

Just an interesting story to add to my earlier post. I know all my fellow started-out-to-be-English-majors will appreciate it.

I went from a small working-class high school to a relatively prestigious East Coast liberal arts college, the product of many teachers who kept everyone happy by asking a little and grading us well. As a teacher, I later fought against this, but at the time I thought it was great. Except that I was totally unprepared. Just to give you an idea of the mismatch, most kids there were "preppies," because they were from prep schools. As the product of a public school, I and several others were- ready?- "pubies."

My freshman advisor- an English professor, of course- hosted a sherry party. Now, not having drunk for real before, I thought the idea of getting drunk on sherry was pretty classy, and the sick feeling that washed over me was my own failing. (There is a deeper significance to this I may explore later.)

The advisor approached two of us- probably because we looked the most uncomfortable- and said casually "You know the play 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" It was a play, too? I thought, but wisely said "Yeah, sure."

"See that couple over there?" pointing to the Chairman of the department and his wife, who (I later realized) was flouncing across the room with him in tow.

"Yeah?"

"They are George and Martha."

She *was* kinda flouncing. "Yeah, I get it."

No- THAT is George and THAT is Martha."

"Yeah, like the play," my soon-to-be-ex-fellow-English-major said. "We get it."

"Listen to me," the advisor said slowly. "That man is George, and his wife is Martha. For real."

And then he explained. Edward Albee's career as a student at my college was short-lived and memorable, but the decision to make it short was the decision of the English Department Chair. Albee was not so sweetly asked not to return, and later on got his revenge with the creation of his play.

So in highbrow circles, the couple was honored by inclusion in a major work of American literature, but I sometimes wonder if, in the quiet of his study, late at night, Albee wasn't working really hard and really well just to make sure they were well and truly punk'd.

An Introduction

2009-06-08T21:46:59Z

I just came back from a trip to Paris. Some kids, a couple of teachers, a terrific guide and more rain than I packed for, but that's not my point.

I made it a point to get to Père Lachaise Cemetery, in East Paris. No museums this trip, I was on a mission. No, not Jim Morrison, not Oscar Wilde, or Edith Piaf, or the other hot dead people. I was there to thank Marcel Proust for making me a history teacher.

Of course, I also had to see the Wall of the Communards; but Proust was my goal. I figured his grave would be huge, since his epitaph would so damned freaking long, but no, quite modest. He had a lot better editor dead than alive, is my guess. But I got to touch his grave, feel for any dreaded sign of life, and whisper a fervid thanks.

Let me explain.

]]> I began my academic career as an English major. My junior English teacher was hot, and at the bottom of my book report on "Catch-22" she scribbled "You should be a writer." If she had said "You should wear black socks with sneakers and shorts," I probably would have, but she was better than that. So I told Mr. D, my math teacher, the bad news, and off I went to become a writer. I thought that meant to major in English.

It was not an appropriate choice. My freshman English teacher was into "Transformational Grammar," a Noam Chomsky creation. Can you imagine studying grammar as seen by an English professor at MIT? (Besides being a radical, he's a sadist.) We diagrammed e.e. cummings. I found that I did not know how to speak or write, and could not diagram a sentence. If the prof hadn't been a pervert I would have understood nothing he said. It was a long semester.

But sophomore year I was able to get into literature. I had two classes- English Lit and Great Novels. I was, in Great Novels, the first week assigned a massive 1/20th of "Remembrance of Things Past". I don't know if you are familiar with it and hope you aren't, but he tastes a biscuit and goes on for TWENTY VOLUMES about it. Now, yes, it was the 60s, but I was young, and had not yet experienced that magic something that could prompt the same reaction from seeing an episode of "George of the Jungle"- the classic version, of course. The English Lit class assigned Virginia Woolf. To 19-year-old boys. In 1968. It turned out I was afraid of Virginia Woolf.

Stream of consciousness does not lend itself to serious study, I am convinced. The closest thing I can compare it to is carving jam. I had no idea what the significance was of what she was saying, and I was appalled that the professor complimented my perception, but recommended we read more closely. Blood flowed that weekend.

But it allowed me to be present at a remarkable event. At our next class we rebelled. It began with the professor mentioning that Woolf committed suicide, and we applauded. The professor defended her, and said, "You have to remember that she wasn't writing for the general public, but for a small group of her friends."

Jay stood up from his seat in front of me and announced "I am not- and do not want to be- one of her friends." He closed his notebook and walked out of class to change his major. I was one week later, and all my life I wish that had been me.

How to Create an identity?

2009-06-08T11:13:04Z

I awaken and find I have a public! Three are following me. The responsibility is crushing; what do they expect? Am I to be a part of their morning coffee?

But what am I to be? As something of a cynic who teethed on "Catch-22", Mad Magazine, and Steve Allen I would love to make this a humor blog.

But as a retired history teacher who sees so any parallels between now and then, and who has been trained to fill 50-minute blocks with content- shall I do that?

Maybe I can do both. A training in history requires one to look behind- well, everything- to find the real meaning, or cause, or interests. That's a bit cynical.

Maybe historical context with a twist. Voltaire wrote that "The greatest sin of an historian is to be boring- I mean, the story is so freaking interesting!" or words to that effect.

And I can re-cycle some of my handouts. "Being green that would be," in Yoda-speak. But will the Wobblies and Stephen Douglas and Helen Keller and all those old cool dead people hold up in the 15-seconds-of-fame world of cyberspeak?

Well, if they don't I'm only disappointing three people; in schools kids get disappointed in much larger groups.

My First day as a Blogger!

2009-06-08T00:44:04Z

Well, wasn't that interesting; this is my third attempt to post, and having lost the first two I feel just a bit like a troglodyte.

But I was invited to a limerick contest by a seemingly-friendly cohabiter of my new cyberspatial digs, so what the hell, I gave it a shot.

It turns out limericks are about the perfect length for me to tap into the depths of my five-line-maximum writing skills. I churned out a few, and, in a display of egotism I am told is not a bad thing for a successful blogger, let me say that I'm a bit impressed with myself.

]]> My political rhymes are appalling;
My skills are just up to crawling.
But Bill-o and Rush
Make such a big fuss
I might try to make this my calling.

O'Reilly's a big Smarty Pants,
Who denies with a song and a dance,
But on he's been picked,
And off he's been ticked,
By those who recorded his rants.

Coulter's a bitch with a sneer,
And conservatives ogle and leer;
But she's mean and she's vile
And I wonder the while
If there's a kind bone in her rear.

Hannity's a kisser of ass
Even if it's not under a lass;
And he gets a bit stiff
At the littlest whiff
Of the smell of Republican gas.

Glenn Beck really wants adulation;
But I wish he'd just take a vacation
From his cynical tears
And his paranoid fears
And quoting the Book Revelation.

Fox and Friends helps makes me wise
And I don't believe liberal lies.
But I really objected
When directors rejected
Those skirts that displayed those fine thighs.

Rush Limbaugh is hard to surpass
In the ratings; he's top dog in his class.
But I ask my friend Gary
"How does his voice carry
With his big head so far up his ass?"

Michael Savage is no loving kitten;
His hatred has made him quite smitten
With militias and such;
But in saying as much,
He gave up his welcome in Britain.

Jon Stewart created a bit
In which Dick Morris took quite a hard hit.
But to defend Dick's good name
Jon deflected the blame-
"He is just a pile of shit."

My muse is a bit fatiguee
And I'm wearying of the word play
So I need to retox
With an hour of FOX
To keep thoughts of kindness at bay.

Welcome!

2009-06-07T15:25:36Z

I just accidentally found out that by registering here at TPM, I'm now a blogger.

Never having done this before, but having written before, I'll give this a try, if only to avoid the label of troglodyte.