This post will be the first of what I think might be a series on what I love so much about Chicago. Think of it as a sort of large-scale public brainstorming session for when I write my great Chicago-themed novel. Just so you know, James Joyce wrote the entirety of Ulysses traveling about Europe. He never once set foot in Ireland while writing the book. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right? Certain aspects of the city brighten and become vivid when remembering them from afar. I only mention this because I have a lot of things running through my mind, and I'm not sure how coherent this posting will be.
I'm writing because I miss Chicago. I miss Buckingham Fountain. I miss the Taste. I miss the lake and the Cubs and Pilsen and Rush Street. I might be in New York for awhile, and I might find myself quite happy here (so far, so good), but Chicago is one of the great characters in my life's story. It's difficult to say because it's only been a little over a month, but I get the feeling that I will always consider myself a Chicagoan. I'm proud of my city, proud to acknowledge it as a part of who I am.
Which brings me to my craving. I thought it was innocuous at first, but I only just now realized that it's quite nuanced. Let me divulge something to you. I might be a health-conscious marathon runner, but I have a weakness for Dunkin Donuts. Lately my desire for a buttermilk donut and medium coffee has been strong. I finally had that donut and coffee this morning (glazed because they were out of buttermilk, eh) when I accompanied my friend Beth to Penn Station. Beth was en route to Newark Airport en route to Tel Aviv. Maybe it was not having the buttermilk. I don't know. The donut experience left something to be desired.
Only fifteen minutes ago I realized that my craving ran deeper than a Dunkin Donuts buttermilk donut. I was in need of Superior Donuts. Superior Donuts is a play that premiered for review today at Steppenwolf Theatre. You can find the New York Times and Chicago Tribune reviews I just read here and here. It stars Michael McKean of Laverne and Shirley and This is Spinal Tap fame as well as budding star Jon Michael Hill. Jon Hill graduated from the University of Illinois a year before Zev, and I had the good fortune to see him on stage alongside my best buddy in the musical I Sing. I like to think I knew him "before he was famous" when in reality I probably shared two sentences of congratulations at a cast party after the show. Jon Hill is a stud, and I believe he's the youngest actor ever to be named an ensemble member at Steppenwolf. Now he's starring in the latest work from a writer who just won a Pulitzer and the Tony for best play. How 'bout them donuts?
I promise this has a point. If you read the reviews, you'll glean that the critics appreciate the fact that the playwright went back to his Chicago roots after earning international fame for his last play. Donuts might not be a staggering work of genius, but it is an honest expression of a Chicago writer's take on the dynamic of his city. It's a show that takes place in Uptown, and it is physically performed in Lincoln Park. It's about race and gentrification and changes and, best of all, those most delectable of all comestibles--donuts.
Which brings me back to my initial point. I wish I could be in Chicago right now to see Superior Donuts. New York is full of big-ticket shows with big-ticket stars, but Chicago has the best stuff. It has Second City and Improv Olympic. It has Uptown and Lincoln Park. It has the sights and sounds and people with whom I grew up. No matter how much New York has to offer, it will never be able to give me that. Tough donuts, I guess.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
NYC on the Run
Hello out there,
It's been a little while since I posted anything substantial in this space, and that's not going to change today. I have some bigger ideas in my head, but they're not quite fit to print. I wanted to take this time to say rest in peace, George Carlin. Never has such a sagacious human being started an act with lines like, "Have you ever picked your butt?" He was the best.
I also figured I would share this video I made of New York City. A lot of the shots are from the streets of Astoria and Astoria Park. Some are from the Queensboro Bridge and the edge of Manhattan. The rest are from Central Park and Brooklyn. As you're watching it, keep in mind that I made the entire thing without the use of a Macintosh computer. If I had a Mac, I probably could have made it in a tenth of the time. Here's the fruits of my labor:
It's been a little while since I posted anything substantial in this space, and that's not going to change today. I have some bigger ideas in my head, but they're not quite fit to print. I wanted to take this time to say rest in peace, George Carlin. Never has such a sagacious human being started an act with lines like, "Have you ever picked your butt?" He was the best.
I also figured I would share this video I made of New York City. A lot of the shots are from the streets of Astoria and Astoria Park. Some are from the Queensboro Bridge and the edge of Manhattan. The rest are from Central Park and Brooklyn. As you're watching it, keep in mind that I made the entire thing without the use of a Macintosh computer. If I had a Mac, I probably could have made it in a tenth of the time. Here's the fruits of my labor:
Friday, June 20, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Fleeting Impressions
I went for a run this evening after my first day of teacher school, and I experienced numerous thoughts and impressions which I will share with you now.
First, it's good to run. I feel free, unencumbered. I move through the world at my own pace. It was a beautiful evening to run. The temperature was perfect. The air smelled of barbecues and youth.
Kids playing little league baseball. A rush of memories--a maroon jersey in the park, a plastic bat, my Uncle Bert announcing a star is born in the backyard. A childhood.
Sunlight streaking across Manhattan, echoing between two bridges stretched across the yellow-blue river. Light shimmering in between buildings as the sun makes its descent. Harmony.
A couple huddling together in a sleeping bag on a grassy slope watching the sun go down. Men and women bathed in sunlight kissing along railings. Slow steps in rhythm. Held hands. Loneliness.
Rejuvenation. Freedom. The sun shines for you today. Shines so brightly through the towers. A gleaming Empire. The Emerald City and the brick path before me. So many children.
The sun sets first over Manhattan and then over Hell's Gate Bridge. I say goodbye and trod home. Running. Grateful. Glorious. Peace.
First, it's good to run. I feel free, unencumbered. I move through the world at my own pace. It was a beautiful evening to run. The temperature was perfect. The air smelled of barbecues and youth.
Kids playing little league baseball. A rush of memories--a maroon jersey in the park, a plastic bat, my Uncle Bert announcing a star is born in the backyard. A childhood.
Sunlight streaking across Manhattan, echoing between two bridges stretched across the yellow-blue river. Light shimmering in between buildings as the sun makes its descent. Harmony.
A couple huddling together in a sleeping bag on a grassy slope watching the sun go down. Men and women bathed in sunlight kissing along railings. Slow steps in rhythm. Held hands. Loneliness.
Rejuvenation. Freedom. The sun shines for you today. Shines so brightly through the towers. A gleaming Empire. The Emerald City and the brick path before me. So many children.
The sun sets first over Manhattan and then over Hell's Gate Bridge. I say goodbye and trod home. Running. Grateful. Glorious. Peace.
Monday, June 16, 2008
For my dad
Hi Dad!
This was supposed to go up yesterday, but I sort of fell asleep.... Happy Father's Day one day late!
This was supposed to go up yesterday, but I sort of fell asleep.... Happy Father's Day one day late!
Friday, June 13, 2008
Yes!
Now that the sports post is out of my system, I can tell you about my wild and wacky week, which just came to a thrilling conclusion. Actually, I encourage you to read the tail end of the last post, even if you don't care about sports. I went into a tangent on the future of news media, if that sounds interesting to you.
These past two weeks have been a fantastic learning experience, and not because I've been stuck in a classroom doing math for six hours a day. I went to a hiring fair last Tuesday, and I had the chance to deliver my spiel to a number of administrators who in turn told me about their school. I came away impressed by two schools, both of them very new and very different from each other. The future of education in New York City seems to be going in a direction where large dysfunctional schools break up into smaller themed schools. Any given high school building could be housing five or six individual schools inside of it. Both of the schools in which I was interested were smaller "themed" schools.
One school, for which I held my first demo lesson last Friday, made architecture and global studies its theme. Students are evaluated not only on their class work, but also on two large projects they present to a panel of judges each year. Their goal is to provide students with an interdisciplinary background and a confidence in public speaking. I was thoroughly impressed by the principal, a former Teaching Fellow who has a good idea about where he wants the school to go. He has his work cut out for him; the school received a "D" rating from the Department of Education last year (this is his first year as principal). However, I liked his direction, and I was prepared to sign up when he offered me the job on Wednesday. I was completely surprised. My interview with him was my first real interview, and I had no idea how to gauge my performance. I guess it went well.
The only reason I didn't accept on Wednesday was because I had an interview with another school on Tuesday. This was for the Bronx Academy of Letters, another small school with an emphasis on writing and verbal skills. I know I'm teaching math, but needless to say this school appealed to me. I was optimistic because they reached out to me to set up the interview. I arrived at the school Tuesday morning, looking pristine in my polished shoes, sleek dress pants, and sweat-stained undershirt. It was about 98 degrees outside on Tuesday, which translates to about 120 degrees in the subway. I had to take off my suit coat and my shirt to survive. I changed into my interview attire in the school's bathroom, and I must say I was looking dapper.
Quick comment: there should be a law against wearing suits when it's hotter than 90 degrees. It's just not right.
Anywho, I nailed the interview on Tuesday. I was prepared, I was clear, it felt good. I didn't have to teach a lesson, so I had the opportunity to sit in on a class. The whole thing was pretty hastily thrown together, and I only spoke to the assistant principal. She told me she would contact me later in the day about coordinating a follow up interview and a teaching demo. Later in the day passed, as did Wednesday, and I still hadn't heard from her. Then I received a call from the principal from the other school offering me the job. I asked him for a couple more days to make my decision.
On Thursday I checked a voicemail during my lunch break from class. It was the principal of the Academy of Letters. At the hiring fair I was given a photocopy of a magazine article written about this principal. She was an all-American lacrosse player at Yale, a high-ranking staffer for Bill Bradley's presidential campaign, a successful history teacher, and the founder of a school designed to prepare students for college and beyond by emphasizing writing skills. She's written a book about voting and the political process. She's sort of a big deal.
I returned her call, and she asked me to come in for an interview either later that day or the next day. I had my final for the math course and an introduction to my graduate studies, so Friday was out. It would have to be Thursday afternoon. I lobbied with my professor, and I was able to leave early from class. I shuttled across Manhattan on a bus and made my way back to the school. I met with the chair of the math department as well as several other math teachers. I was getting the impression that I had a chance at nabbing this job.
I was led back into principal Joan Sullivan's office, where she had to leave abruptly to tend to some other matter. I was left alone with a precocious sixth grader eating a slice of cake given to him by one of his teachers. I asked him about the school, his studies, how old he was, wanting to be polite. I was taken by a wise-beyond-his-years quality to his voice, especially since he was a particularly diminutive sixth grader. He showed me a copy of a free-form poem he had written earlier in the day, titled "Profane." It was pretty good.
Principal Sullivan walked in, sat down, and before her back reached the spine of her chair she had asked me the first question of our interview. Jacob the precocious sixth grader remained in the room. I was wearing a pair of jeans and a buttoned-down short sleeve shirt. I was loving every second of this.
Ms. Sullivan was everything I had expected of her from the magazine article--intelligent, direct, intense, but caring. She reminded me very much of Mrs. Goethals, my extraordinary junior year English teacher, unrivaled by any professor I had at Northwestern. She let Jacob sit next to her, and she let him ask me several questions. Unsurprisingly, his questions cut straight to the core of what's hardest about being a teacher, the things that great teachers overcome. I'm not much of a bullshitter, so I wasn't put off by his presence or his questions. You can't put anything past a kid, so I didn't try to. I answered him thoughtfully and candidly. I don't know if he was planted there on purpose, or if Ms. Sullivan thought he might as well stick around before meeting with his mother.
I came away from the interview feeling I could have expressed myself in a way truer to my thoughts and feelings. I might have just been hard on myself because I realized how badly I wanted this job. I also used to have the feeling that I never did enough or showed enough promise to Mrs. Goethals, and I think Ms. Sullivan had the same effect on me. Regardless of how it went, I had a blast. It was an ideal interview setting for me.
This was going to be a long-shot because the Academy of Letters is an "A" school. They have tremendous standards for their students despite being a Bronx public school like so many other struggling institutions. Apparently they also hire very carefully. I told Ms. Sullivan that I had another offer on the table, and she told me she would let me know about their decision by today.
I breezed through my math immersion final and at 12:05 I received a call from the assistant principal of the Bronx Academy of Letters offering me the teaching position there. I didn't give a demo lesson, I wore jeans to my final interview, it's one of the best public schools in the city, and they gave me a job. Whoa. I accepted in about half a second. I'll write more about the school at a later time. All I have to say right now is "whoa."
There's one more thing I wanted to say before I sign off. Earlier today, NBC's Tim Russert died of a heart attack at the age of 58. I don't know if anyone out there is a big fan, but he was the host of "Meet the Press" and the chief of the Washington Bureau. Like the way your taste buds develop to learn to like certain foods, it took me awhile to develop an interest in politics. Tim Russert made that transition palatable for me. "Meet the Press" is one of the few television shows I watch consistently, and I always went to Russert for election coverage. He had an uncanny knowledge of politics and an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. You knew when he was excited about something, which has pretty much been all the time since the primaries started. I loved watching his face light up when he talked about strategies and big issues. I cared about whatever he said, just because of how he said it. He was a tremendous journalist, and I'm certainly going to miss him.
These past two weeks have been a fantastic learning experience, and not because I've been stuck in a classroom doing math for six hours a day. I went to a hiring fair last Tuesday, and I had the chance to deliver my spiel to a number of administrators who in turn told me about their school. I came away impressed by two schools, both of them very new and very different from each other. The future of education in New York City seems to be going in a direction where large dysfunctional schools break up into smaller themed schools. Any given high school building could be housing five or six individual schools inside of it. Both of the schools in which I was interested were smaller "themed" schools.
One school, for which I held my first demo lesson last Friday, made architecture and global studies its theme. Students are evaluated not only on their class work, but also on two large projects they present to a panel of judges each year. Their goal is to provide students with an interdisciplinary background and a confidence in public speaking. I was thoroughly impressed by the principal, a former Teaching Fellow who has a good idea about where he wants the school to go. He has his work cut out for him; the school received a "D" rating from the Department of Education last year (this is his first year as principal). However, I liked his direction, and I was prepared to sign up when he offered me the job on Wednesday. I was completely surprised. My interview with him was my first real interview, and I had no idea how to gauge my performance. I guess it went well.
The only reason I didn't accept on Wednesday was because I had an interview with another school on Tuesday. This was for the Bronx Academy of Letters, another small school with an emphasis on writing and verbal skills. I know I'm teaching math, but needless to say this school appealed to me. I was optimistic because they reached out to me to set up the interview. I arrived at the school Tuesday morning, looking pristine in my polished shoes, sleek dress pants, and sweat-stained undershirt. It was about 98 degrees outside on Tuesday, which translates to about 120 degrees in the subway. I had to take off my suit coat and my shirt to survive. I changed into my interview attire in the school's bathroom, and I must say I was looking dapper.
Quick comment: there should be a law against wearing suits when it's hotter than 90 degrees. It's just not right.
Anywho, I nailed the interview on Tuesday. I was prepared, I was clear, it felt good. I didn't have to teach a lesson, so I had the opportunity to sit in on a class. The whole thing was pretty hastily thrown together, and I only spoke to the assistant principal. She told me she would contact me later in the day about coordinating a follow up interview and a teaching demo. Later in the day passed, as did Wednesday, and I still hadn't heard from her. Then I received a call from the principal from the other school offering me the job. I asked him for a couple more days to make my decision.
On Thursday I checked a voicemail during my lunch break from class. It was the principal of the Academy of Letters. At the hiring fair I was given a photocopy of a magazine article written about this principal. She was an all-American lacrosse player at Yale, a high-ranking staffer for Bill Bradley's presidential campaign, a successful history teacher, and the founder of a school designed to prepare students for college and beyond by emphasizing writing skills. She's written a book about voting and the political process. She's sort of a big deal.
I returned her call, and she asked me to come in for an interview either later that day or the next day. I had my final for the math course and an introduction to my graduate studies, so Friday was out. It would have to be Thursday afternoon. I lobbied with my professor, and I was able to leave early from class. I shuttled across Manhattan on a bus and made my way back to the school. I met with the chair of the math department as well as several other math teachers. I was getting the impression that I had a chance at nabbing this job.
I was led back into principal Joan Sullivan's office, where she had to leave abruptly to tend to some other matter. I was left alone with a precocious sixth grader eating a slice of cake given to him by one of his teachers. I asked him about the school, his studies, how old he was, wanting to be polite. I was taken by a wise-beyond-his-years quality to his voice, especially since he was a particularly diminutive sixth grader. He showed me a copy of a free-form poem he had written earlier in the day, titled "Profane." It was pretty good.
Principal Sullivan walked in, sat down, and before her back reached the spine of her chair she had asked me the first question of our interview. Jacob the precocious sixth grader remained in the room. I was wearing a pair of jeans and a buttoned-down short sleeve shirt. I was loving every second of this.
Ms. Sullivan was everything I had expected of her from the magazine article--intelligent, direct, intense, but caring. She reminded me very much of Mrs. Goethals, my extraordinary junior year English teacher, unrivaled by any professor I had at Northwestern. She let Jacob sit next to her, and she let him ask me several questions. Unsurprisingly, his questions cut straight to the core of what's hardest about being a teacher, the things that great teachers overcome. I'm not much of a bullshitter, so I wasn't put off by his presence or his questions. You can't put anything past a kid, so I didn't try to. I answered him thoughtfully and candidly. I don't know if he was planted there on purpose, or if Ms. Sullivan thought he might as well stick around before meeting with his mother.
I came away from the interview feeling I could have expressed myself in a way truer to my thoughts and feelings. I might have just been hard on myself because I realized how badly I wanted this job. I also used to have the feeling that I never did enough or showed enough promise to Mrs. Goethals, and I think Ms. Sullivan had the same effect on me. Regardless of how it went, I had a blast. It was an ideal interview setting for me.
This was going to be a long-shot because the Academy of Letters is an "A" school. They have tremendous standards for their students despite being a Bronx public school like so many other struggling institutions. Apparently they also hire very carefully. I told Ms. Sullivan that I had another offer on the table, and she told me she would let me know about their decision by today.
I breezed through my math immersion final and at 12:05 I received a call from the assistant principal of the Bronx Academy of Letters offering me the teaching position there. I didn't give a demo lesson, I wore jeans to my final interview, it's one of the best public schools in the city, and they gave me a job. Whoa. I accepted in about half a second. I'll write more about the school at a later time. All I have to say right now is "whoa."
There's one more thing I wanted to say before I sign off. Earlier today, NBC's Tim Russert died of a heart attack at the age of 58. I don't know if anyone out there is a big fan, but he was the host of "Meet the Press" and the chief of the Washington Bureau. Like the way your taste buds develop to learn to like certain foods, it took me awhile to develop an interest in politics. Tim Russert made that transition palatable for me. "Meet the Press" is one of the few television shows I watch consistently, and I always went to Russert for election coverage. He had an uncanny knowledge of politics and an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. You knew when he was excited about something, which has pretty much been all the time since the primaries started. I loved watching his face light up when he talked about strategies and big issues. I cared about whatever he said, just because of how he said it. He was a tremendous journalist, and I'm certainly going to miss him.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
I couldn't fight it any longer. The first sports post.
It has been a roller coaster week full of exciting new developments. Yes, I got to do trigonometry and calculus in the span of two days! Actually, this has been a fantastic week and I have tons to say about it, but I want to wait until it reaches its thrilling conclusion tomorrow. In the meantime, you get to enjoy the first sports-related post of the McQ Blog. Just what you've been waiting for.
I know that everyone will stop reading at this point, but it seems like nobody amongst my friends and associates likes basketball or baseball. I need a place to spit all these thoughts out, and guess what? It's my blog party, and I'll opine on a pop fly if I want to.
First, the Bulls. The Bulls just ended their search for a new head coach, a process that went on for about as long as the Democratic Primary. They needed someone to inject some life into their players, and they passed (or whiffed) on some big names along the way. After numerous false leads and much debate, they finally settled on Vinny del Negro. Vinny del Negro has never coached a basketball team in any capacity at any level in his entire life. To be honest, I don't particularly care. For some reason, I didn't want any of the big name coaches because they're expensive, and they tend not to stick around for very long. I was sort of pulling for Duane Casey, a coach who seemed energetic and capable but got the shaft a few years ago in Minnesota.
Vinny del Negro is an exciting choice for two reasons: One, he has an awesome name, and two, he kind of looks like Scott Baio. The Orlando Magic have a head coach who kind of looks like famous porn star Ron Jeremy, so when the two teams face each other they'll have opposing coaches who look like legendary "actors" who have scored with tons of women. But I digress.
I always liked getting Vinny del Negro's basketball card when he used to play for the San Antonio Spurs. Again, I really liked his name. People forget that Phil Jackson was a total nobody when Jerry Krause plucked him out of the CBA to coach the Bulls. Now he's the Zen Master. You have to start somewhere, and here's to hoping that this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship for Mr. del Negro and my beloved Bulls.
And now on to the Cubbies! I'm going to be honest. I miss everyone back home, but one of the hardest things about leaving Chicago was knowing I wouldn't be around while the Cubs were in first place. It's a different city when the Cubs are winning. As of right now, they have the best record in the majors, and they look like a machine. I would say more, but I just want to enjoy the ride.
This is my last sports-related train of thought, although it has less to do about sports than it does about journalism. I recently listened to a podcast featuring a writer for ESPN's web site named J.A. Adande. Adande graduated from Northwestern (like many prominent members of the sports media, actually) and quickly earned a major post writing for the L.A. Times. He recently left the Times to join ESPN full-time. I was struck by his eloquence, his humility, his way with words--sometimes journalists read great on paper but don't come off the same way in person. He's obviously very talented, and he chose to leave the big name newspaper for an online outlet.
Sam Smith, a longtime NBA writer and my favorite sports journalist, recently took a buyout from the Chicago Tribune and now writes for an independent basketball blog. Tony Kornheiser took a buyout from the Washington Post. He hosts a sports show for ESPN. In some ways it's odd that these venerated writers are being encouraged to leave their papers, but it's understandable from a business standpoint. What I find intriguing is that someone as young and talented as Adande would opt for the online gig over the newspaper job. It's part of a growing trend in the general decline of the printed word, at least the word printed in ink as opposed to digital pixels. Newspapers will still have their place, but they won't have the scope or depth they once had. How long will it be before the Huffington Post eclipses the New York Post? It's strange to think about how many daily newspapers used to circulate in the Chicago area alone. Now it looks like the Sun-Times might be on its way out, leaving the Trib and the Daily Herald.
I want to lament the erosion of the newspaper industry. I find it sad that I will no longer be able to flip open the Tribune sports section on Monday morning to read the Sam Smith column I've enjoyed since childhood. But to be honest with you, it's been years since I read his Monday column in a newspaper; I read it online instead. With the best young writers following J.A. Adande's lead and heading to the digital realm, the internet is obviously taking command of the evolution of the printed news media. It is lamentable because we lose something familiar, something I can relate to my childhood dreams of becoming a sports writer, but I haven't written a letter to the editor to express my grief. I've chosen to create a blog entry instead.
I know that everyone will stop reading at this point, but it seems like nobody amongst my friends and associates likes basketball or baseball. I need a place to spit all these thoughts out, and guess what? It's my blog party, and I'll opine on a pop fly if I want to.
First, the Bulls. The Bulls just ended their search for a new head coach, a process that went on for about as long as the Democratic Primary. They needed someone to inject some life into their players, and they passed (or whiffed) on some big names along the way. After numerous false leads and much debate, they finally settled on Vinny del Negro. Vinny del Negro has never coached a basketball team in any capacity at any level in his entire life. To be honest, I don't particularly care. For some reason, I didn't want any of the big name coaches because they're expensive, and they tend not to stick around for very long. I was sort of pulling for Duane Casey, a coach who seemed energetic and capable but got the shaft a few years ago in Minnesota.
Vinny del Negro is an exciting choice for two reasons: One, he has an awesome name, and two, he kind of looks like Scott Baio. The Orlando Magic have a head coach who kind of looks like famous porn star Ron Jeremy, so when the two teams face each other they'll have opposing coaches who look like legendary "actors" who have scored with tons of women. But I digress.
I always liked getting Vinny del Negro's basketball card when he used to play for the San Antonio Spurs. Again, I really liked his name. People forget that Phil Jackson was a total nobody when Jerry Krause plucked him out of the CBA to coach the Bulls. Now he's the Zen Master. You have to start somewhere, and here's to hoping that this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship for Mr. del Negro and my beloved Bulls.
And now on to the Cubbies! I'm going to be honest. I miss everyone back home, but one of the hardest things about leaving Chicago was knowing I wouldn't be around while the Cubs were in first place. It's a different city when the Cubs are winning. As of right now, they have the best record in the majors, and they look like a machine. I would say more, but I just want to enjoy the ride.
This is my last sports-related train of thought, although it has less to do about sports than it does about journalism. I recently listened to a podcast featuring a writer for ESPN's web site named J.A. Adande. Adande graduated from Northwestern (like many prominent members of the sports media, actually) and quickly earned a major post writing for the L.A. Times. He recently left the Times to join ESPN full-time. I was struck by his eloquence, his humility, his way with words--sometimes journalists read great on paper but don't come off the same way in person. He's obviously very talented, and he chose to leave the big name newspaper for an online outlet.
Sam Smith, a longtime NBA writer and my favorite sports journalist, recently took a buyout from the Chicago Tribune and now writes for an independent basketball blog. Tony Kornheiser took a buyout from the Washington Post. He hosts a sports show for ESPN. In some ways it's odd that these venerated writers are being encouraged to leave their papers, but it's understandable from a business standpoint. What I find intriguing is that someone as young and talented as Adande would opt for the online gig over the newspaper job. It's part of a growing trend in the general decline of the printed word, at least the word printed in ink as opposed to digital pixels. Newspapers will still have their place, but they won't have the scope or depth they once had. How long will it be before the Huffington Post eclipses the New York Post? It's strange to think about how many daily newspapers used to circulate in the Chicago area alone. Now it looks like the Sun-Times might be on its way out, leaving the Trib and the Daily Herald.
I want to lament the erosion of the newspaper industry. I find it sad that I will no longer be able to flip open the Tribune sports section on Monday morning to read the Sam Smith column I've enjoyed since childhood. But to be honest with you, it's been years since I read his Monday column in a newspaper; I read it online instead. With the best young writers following J.A. Adande's lead and heading to the digital realm, the internet is obviously taking command of the evolution of the printed news media. It is lamentable because we lose something familiar, something I can relate to my childhood dreams of becoming a sports writer, but I haven't written a letter to the editor to express my grief. I've chosen to create a blog entry instead.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
No, thank you. 15 is my limit on schnitzengruben.
I just had a funny thought. Today's New York Times featured an article about Barack Obama's strategy to go into traditionally Republican-voting states and try to swing them to the blue side. His logic is that he built strong bases in these states during the primary season, getting tremendous turnouts to top Hillary Clinton. He can expand his efforts in states like Virginia, North Carolina, and Missouri to put added pressure on John McCain, also forcing him to divert his efforts from traditional swing states like Ohio and Michigan.
I know there's a strong bias against red states in big cities like New York or Chicago, and red-staters are often perceived as backwards, bible-blinded folks, which is unfair--but go along with me on this line of thought. Doesn't Barack Obama's venture into places like North Carolina and Virginia kind of remind you of Sheriff Bart going into Rock Ridge in Blazing Saddles? Obama is this eloquent, urbane, smoother-than-silk dude going into the land of good 'ole boys. Maybe this line sums up best why he should temper his expectations: "What did you expect? ... You've got to remember that these are just simple farmers. These are people of the land. The common clay of the New West. You know--morons."
Can't you kind of see Obama incorporating exploding candy-grams into his homeland security policy? John McCain as the over-matched Hedley Lamarr? George W. Bush as Mr. Taggart? Bill Clinton as Governor Lepetomane?
With this in mind, I think that Barack Obama should choose Gene Wilder to be his running mate. Hey, it worked in Blazing Saddles.
Enjoy:
Why not one more?
I know there's a strong bias against red states in big cities like New York or Chicago, and red-staters are often perceived as backwards, bible-blinded folks, which is unfair--but go along with me on this line of thought. Doesn't Barack Obama's venture into places like North Carolina and Virginia kind of remind you of Sheriff Bart going into Rock Ridge in Blazing Saddles? Obama is this eloquent, urbane, smoother-than-silk dude going into the land of good 'ole boys. Maybe this line sums up best why he should temper his expectations: "What did you expect? ... You've got to remember that these are just simple farmers. These are people of the land. The common clay of the New West. You know--morons."
Can't you kind of see Obama incorporating exploding candy-grams into his homeland security policy? John McCain as the over-matched Hedley Lamarr? George W. Bush as Mr. Taggart? Bill Clinton as Governor Lepetomane?
With this in mind, I think that Barack Obama should choose Gene Wilder to be his running mate. Hey, it worked in Blazing Saddles.
Enjoy:
Why not one more?
It was so hot in New York City today...
Greetings from my sun-soaked room in Astoria, New York, where I have resisted the urge to flip on the A/C despite temperatures that will escalate up to 95 degrees this afternoon. The intense heat of the weekend has forced me to re-arrange my running plans so that I run closer to sunset, which is very nice in its own right. Maybe, considering the conditions of last year's marathon, I should run in the middle of the afternoon to better prepare myself.
I last left you with news of my upcoming job interview, so I suppose I should fill you in on how it went. I felt relaxed the whole way. I did my research on the school, I had plenty of questions for the principal and assistant principal, and I had a solid 15-minute lesson planned for a 9th-grade algebra class. There must be something about being in a high school that calms me. Just like when I was a student, I felt so assured of my abilities that I had no problem being myself. I thoroughly enjoyed talking to the administration of the school, and I was impressed by the demeanors of the students.
Then came my teaching demo, my first time up in front of a classroom. I was laid-back from the get-go, joking about the pronunciations of my name and bantering with students. I wanted to establish classroom rules and practices, I wanted to let everyone know that they were free to make mistakes and to learn together, but I didn't know a single student and I only had 15 minutes. I couldn't ignore the desire to make the classroom my own. It turns out that my lesson was pretty much review for the students, which was somewhat difficult because I wanted there to be a sense of discovery. I think I did a good job of getting lots of students to participate in the lesson, calling on those who raised their hands and those who didn't. We had fun but also covered all the content.
I imagine I had most of my best and worst qualities on display. I fostered an open but studious environment, and for the most part I was clear about what I was teaching. I was so happy to be there that my enthusiasm was infectious--students were applauding other students after they came up to the board to work on a problem. I also think it's a safe bet that a good 20% of what I said was completely lost to them because of my incessant mumbling at the end of phrases. I am going to spend this next week in front of my video camera working on keeping my voice audible throughout a five minute lecture. It needs to be done. When I come back home to see everybody, that will be the biggest difference you'll notice in me. I won't be a mumbler. At least not as much. I can't leave my mumbles behind completely; they're too much a part of who I am.
The other challenge was keeping people focused. I was so intent on getting through my lesson plan that I tuned out idle chatter from the students. I noticed several shushes from the teacher and looks of reprimand from the principal. I made a couple of efforts to get people to quiet down, but I certainly didn't establish myself enough as an authority figure. Again, another thing to work on.
All in all, I think it went very well, and I am excited to get more experience in the classroom. I have such enthusiasm for doing this work, more than I realized at the onset. Being back in school makes me very happy. I've also had the opportunity to meet some of my fellow Fellows, and I'm looking forward to going through this training period alongside them.
My last bit of fantastic news is that I recently discovered some of the discounts I get now that I'm a part of the NYC Department of Education. Not only can I get a decent discount off Mac products, I get 15% off at J. Crew. Now, I've never actually bought anything from J. Crew before, but if I'm going to have to dress professionally, I might as well do it in style. Plus, if I ever take up yachting I won't look out of place. One other thing about J. Crew: my former coworker Betsy (I miss you so much, Betsy) told me about how her husband Jim rocks J. Crew because he used to work there as an undergraduate at Madison. Jim is an English teacher at my old high school, which is sort of my dream job, and he's a lean, gangly basketball fan from the suburbs to boot. Anything that makes me closer to Jim works in my book.
I miss everyone a whole lot, and I think the homesickness is starting to set in a little bit. I'm having a fantastic time in New York, and starting this work gives me a tremendous sense of purpose, but I miss spending time with all of you. Anyone who is reading this is a big part of who I am. Wish me luck on getting through the second half of high school math this week. Also, send me your good vibes because I have a couple more interviews on tap as well. I'll be back soon, most likely with my first sports-focused post on the Chicago Bulls when they hire their new coach. Oh, and just for fun because it's been stuck in my head all week:
I last left you with news of my upcoming job interview, so I suppose I should fill you in on how it went. I felt relaxed the whole way. I did my research on the school, I had plenty of questions for the principal and assistant principal, and I had a solid 15-minute lesson planned for a 9th-grade algebra class. There must be something about being in a high school that calms me. Just like when I was a student, I felt so assured of my abilities that I had no problem being myself. I thoroughly enjoyed talking to the administration of the school, and I was impressed by the demeanors of the students.
Then came my teaching demo, my first time up in front of a classroom. I was laid-back from the get-go, joking about the pronunciations of my name and bantering with students. I wanted to establish classroom rules and practices, I wanted to let everyone know that they were free to make mistakes and to learn together, but I didn't know a single student and I only had 15 minutes. I couldn't ignore the desire to make the classroom my own. It turns out that my lesson was pretty much review for the students, which was somewhat difficult because I wanted there to be a sense of discovery. I think I did a good job of getting lots of students to participate in the lesson, calling on those who raised their hands and those who didn't. We had fun but also covered all the content.
I imagine I had most of my best and worst qualities on display. I fostered an open but studious environment, and for the most part I was clear about what I was teaching. I was so happy to be there that my enthusiasm was infectious--students were applauding other students after they came up to the board to work on a problem. I also think it's a safe bet that a good 20% of what I said was completely lost to them because of my incessant mumbling at the end of phrases. I am going to spend this next week in front of my video camera working on keeping my voice audible throughout a five minute lecture. It needs to be done. When I come back home to see everybody, that will be the biggest difference you'll notice in me. I won't be a mumbler. At least not as much. I can't leave my mumbles behind completely; they're too much a part of who I am.
The other challenge was keeping people focused. I was so intent on getting through my lesson plan that I tuned out idle chatter from the students. I noticed several shushes from the teacher and looks of reprimand from the principal. I made a couple of efforts to get people to quiet down, but I certainly didn't establish myself enough as an authority figure. Again, another thing to work on.
All in all, I think it went very well, and I am excited to get more experience in the classroom. I have such enthusiasm for doing this work, more than I realized at the onset. Being back in school makes me very happy. I've also had the opportunity to meet some of my fellow Fellows, and I'm looking forward to going through this training period alongside them.
My last bit of fantastic news is that I recently discovered some of the discounts I get now that I'm a part of the NYC Department of Education. Not only can I get a decent discount off Mac products, I get 15% off at J. Crew. Now, I've never actually bought anything from J. Crew before, but if I'm going to have to dress professionally, I might as well do it in style. Plus, if I ever take up yachting I won't look out of place. One other thing about J. Crew: my former coworker Betsy (I miss you so much, Betsy) told me about how her husband Jim rocks J. Crew because he used to work there as an undergraduate at Madison. Jim is an English teacher at my old high school, which is sort of my dream job, and he's a lean, gangly basketball fan from the suburbs to boot. Anything that makes me closer to Jim works in my book.
I miss everyone a whole lot, and I think the homesickness is starting to set in a little bit. I'm having a fantastic time in New York, and starting this work gives me a tremendous sense of purpose, but I miss spending time with all of you. Anyone who is reading this is a big part of who I am. Wish me luck on getting through the second half of high school math this week. Also, send me your good vibes because I have a couple more interviews on tap as well. I'll be back soon, most likely with my first sports-focused post on the Chicago Bulls when they hire their new coach. Oh, and just for fun because it's been stuck in my head all week:
Friday, June 6, 2008
My first lesson
This week has been a rush of activity--mostly of the slow, boring variety doing six hours a day of elementary math problems. I started my math "immersion" on Monday, and it has been non-stop high school math ever since, with the exception of our one-hour lunch break. The active element of my activity has been my burgeoning job search, which kicked into high gear on Tuesday. I went to a job fair for Bronx schools after class, and I had the chance to do my best impersonation of a high school math teacher for numerous principals and hiring officials. It must have worked. I have at least two interviews next week and my first real full-fledged interview tomorrow morning.
Part of the interview will be a teaching demo in which I will actually teach a classroom full of ninth-graders how to solve a system of equations by using the elimination/combination method. I am so stoked. It's a pretty juicy topic, eh? Eh? Well, I'm excited because I came up with a very logical and interactive way of teaching the material, and I think I can do it well. Mostly I'm excited because I will be Mr. McHugh for the first time. Or Mr. M. Or Q-Ball. Whatever feels right.
It turns out tomorrow is national ditch day. Oh, how I miss national ditch day, an unofficial national holiday in which I indulged several times during my own high school days. This might be a blessing for me because I'll have a smaller class to handle, and the nerds, I mean students, who are there might actually want to be there, unless they just have strict mothers. I might also have a class full of students who are wondering why they're listening to me instead of following their bolder compadres (who will probably be sleeping--that's what I'd do). Oh, well.
One other thing before I get some much-needed rest:
Happy 21st Birthday, Holly!!!!!!!
Part of the interview will be a teaching demo in which I will actually teach a classroom full of ninth-graders how to solve a system of equations by using the elimination/combination method. I am so stoked. It's a pretty juicy topic, eh? Eh? Well, I'm excited because I came up with a very logical and interactive way of teaching the material, and I think I can do it well. Mostly I'm excited because I will be Mr. McHugh for the first time. Or Mr. M. Or Q-Ball. Whatever feels right.
It turns out tomorrow is national ditch day. Oh, how I miss national ditch day, an unofficial national holiday in which I indulged several times during my own high school days. This might be a blessing for me because I'll have a smaller class to handle, and the nerds, I mean students, who are there might actually want to be there, unless they just have strict mothers. I might also have a class full of students who are wondering why they're listening to me instead of following their bolder compadres (who will probably be sleeping--that's what I'd do). Oh, well.
One other thing before I get some much-needed rest:
Happy 21st Birthday, Holly!!!!!!!
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Barack and me
As I'm sure everyone knows, Barack Obama secured the Democratic Party's nomination for president last night. When I watched the news unfold last night, I had a euphoric feeling usually reserved for Bulls championships or Cubs--well, the feeling I imagine I would have if the Cubs won the world series.
I have to run to class in a couple of minutes, but I wanted to say something quickly. I read through the transcript of Obama's victory speech, and I pored over his emphasis on changing a culture and making a college education accessible to all. Part of the euphoria comes from the idea that what I'm doing right now as a teaching fellow is part of something larger, part of this national movement vocalized by Barack Obama. You can say what you want about his policies, his experience, his future--but from his distant post in Washington (or on the campaign trail) he's managed to inspire me with the sense that there is a greater meaning to the work I am doing. I've never been able to say that about a president or a presidential candidate from my lifetime.
Yes we can!
I have to run to class in a couple of minutes, but I wanted to say something quickly. I read through the transcript of Obama's victory speech, and I pored over his emphasis on changing a culture and making a college education accessible to all. Part of the euphoria comes from the idea that what I'm doing right now as a teaching fellow is part of something larger, part of this national movement vocalized by Barack Obama. You can say what you want about his policies, his experience, his future--but from his distant post in Washington (or on the campaign trail) he's managed to inspire me with the sense that there is a greater meaning to the work I am doing. I've never been able to say that about a president or a presidential candidate from my lifetime.
Yes we can!
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Harlem
Tomorrow marks the beginning of my training as a teacher. I will report to the City College of New York at 9 a.m. to commence my immersion into mathematics, whatever that means. City College bears some significance to me for two reasons. The first harkens back to my youth when I watched an HBO documentary on the 1951 CCNY basketball team. Their team of blacks, Jews, and immigrants defeated Adolph Rupp's all-WASP Kentucky Wildcats team en route to a national title, which was a big deal on all sorts of social levels. They were later found to fix games for gamblers, which also was a big deal on all sorts of social levels.
The second reason is that CCNY sits in the heart of Harlem. I've been fascinated by Harlem ever since reading Langston Hughes in middle school, my interest stoked over the years by jazz recordings and James Baldwin's essays and Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. I thought about Harlem while I read James Joyce's take on Dublin, the sow that eats her farrow. There was a common struggle for agency, a struggle to persevere despite drinking the poison of a system gone bad.
Now I get to experience Harlem for myself this summer, albeit some 70 to 80 years beyond Hughes' Harlem, 50 years past Ellison's, and about 40 years later than the Harlem with which I'm familiar through James Baldwin. Now, with Elton John's "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" playing in my mind ("And now I know Spanish Harlem are not just pretty words to say"), I leave you with this Langston Hughes poem, aptly titled "Harlem."
The second reason is that CCNY sits in the heart of Harlem. I've been fascinated by Harlem ever since reading Langston Hughes in middle school, my interest stoked over the years by jazz recordings and James Baldwin's essays and Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. I thought about Harlem while I read James Joyce's take on Dublin, the sow that eats her farrow. There was a common struggle for agency, a struggle to persevere despite drinking the poison of a system gone bad.
Now I get to experience Harlem for myself this summer, albeit some 70 to 80 years beyond Hughes' Harlem, 50 years past Ellison's, and about 40 years later than the Harlem with which I'm familiar through James Baldwin. Now, with Elton John's "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" playing in my mind ("And now I know Spanish Harlem are not just pretty words to say"), I leave you with this Langston Hughes poem, aptly titled "Harlem."
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
My last night in Chicago
I have been a New Yorker for one and a half weeks. To be honest, that's about one and a half weeks longer than I ever imagined being anything else besides a Chicagoan. It's not that I couldn't fathom leaving Chicago; I probably would have bolted for Cambridge or New Haven or Manhattan after high school if the opportunity presented itself, and I never had a terrible aversion to leaving. It's just so strange to be anywhere besides Chicago. In some ways, it feels like I haven't left. I still read the online sports page of the Chicago Tribune every morning, I check Tom Skilling's forecast from time to time, and I talk to people back home fairly often.
One of the reasons I'm happy to have stayed in Chicago for as long as I did is that I was finally able to make it home. I'll explain what I mean by that. I've always thought of myself as something of a contradiction--a loner who gets along easily with people and makes great friends, an intellectual who prefers a pickup game of basketball in the park to the stacks of a library, a Guinness-and-Jameson's-drinking hardcore Cubs fan who bakes pies in his free time. With my interests pulling me in so many different directions and my mind continually cluttered with thoughts and opinions and re-evaluations of who I am and why I do the things I do, it's difficult to feel genuinely at peace. To put it another way, and I often do in my verbal encapsulations of these scatter-brained thoughts, it feels like looking for home. Those moments of contentment can be few and far in between. I had one of those moments before I left for New York, and that's when I realized the extent to which I had truly made Chicago my home.
This recognition of home happened the night before I left town. Making good on a long-standing promise to celebrate Holly's 21st birthday with a fishbowl filled with Swedish fish and more margarita than should ever be in one place at one time, I was in great spirits. Such great spirits, in fact, that Holly convinced me I should entertain Zev's invitation to play whirlyball that evening despite not being remotely close to finished packing for my imminent departure at 9 am the next morning. (For those of you who don't know, whirlyball is a combination of bumper cars, basketball, and lacrosse; it's the sport of champions.) So we made our way to the whirlyball "court" in Zev's car. I was chirping away from the passenger's seat in a tequila-induced splendor while Holly was in the back patiently trying to keep the buildings and street lights and other cars from whizzing around quite so nauseatingly fast. (Note to self: when you're making a margarita that's the size of a fishbowl, there's really no need to make it a strong margarita).
We reached our destination, and when I walked through the door I was quickly ambushed and engulfed by a flood of silly string. For the first time in my life, at least the first time in which I was old enough to savor it, I had a surprise party thrown for me. This was a big deal. You see, I've taken part in going-away parties and I've been on the surprise end of surprise parties, but I honestly never thought I would be on the surprised side. It's just not who I am; at least I thought so. It goes back to what I wrote about contradictions. I have plenty of friends, but I don't have one distinct crew that would band together to arrange something like this. Also, despite my generally outgoing personality, I don't like to draw a ton of attention to myself, and I hardly feel worthy of the effort that goes into a party. This was a big deal.
The entire event caught me totally off guard. I should have learned by now to expect the unexpected from Kristina. She put the whole thing together--making sure everyone could come, tabbing Zev to deliver the set-up, and getting Holly to seal the deal (poor Holly, I don't think she remembers anything that happened after the car ride that night other than her headache the next morning). Kristina has always had a way of making the best things come to fruition, and it turns out she had one more trick up her sleeve before I left.
So there I was, surrounded by the people I love the most, people who displayed their love and affection for me the best way they knew how--with silly string. Beneath the shock of the moment, the taste of the Swedish fish, and the worries about whether the silly string would stain my clothes, I was left with one feeling, undeniable in its clarity: home. This was more than one night of bumper-car-generated euphoria; this was the past ten years harmoniously converging. This was all the adventures, the stories, the late night conversations, the timeless moments spent with each person in that room. It was the love.
The feeling extended to people who were not playing whirlyball that night. It extended to my mom, who will always be my map and my guide; to my dad, who knows how to make sharing time feel like home; to my grandparents, who love me always; to my aunts, uncles, and cousins, who I miss more than I express; and to new friends, who inspire and astound me.
The next day I packed up my rental car and drove across the country. I am so unabashedly happy to know that when I make my way back I'll be coming home.
One of the reasons I'm happy to have stayed in Chicago for as long as I did is that I was finally able to make it home. I'll explain what I mean by that. I've always thought of myself as something of a contradiction--a loner who gets along easily with people and makes great friends, an intellectual who prefers a pickup game of basketball in the park to the stacks of a library, a Guinness-and-Jameson's-drinking hardcore Cubs fan who bakes pies in his free time. With my interests pulling me in so many different directions and my mind continually cluttered with thoughts and opinions and re-evaluations of who I am and why I do the things I do, it's difficult to feel genuinely at peace. To put it another way, and I often do in my verbal encapsulations of these scatter-brained thoughts, it feels like looking for home. Those moments of contentment can be few and far in between. I had one of those moments before I left for New York, and that's when I realized the extent to which I had truly made Chicago my home.
This recognition of home happened the night before I left town. Making good on a long-standing promise to celebrate Holly's 21st birthday with a fishbowl filled with Swedish fish and more margarita than should ever be in one place at one time, I was in great spirits. Such great spirits, in fact, that Holly convinced me I should entertain Zev's invitation to play whirlyball that evening despite not being remotely close to finished packing for my imminent departure at 9 am the next morning. (For those of you who don't know, whirlyball is a combination of bumper cars, basketball, and lacrosse; it's the sport of champions.) So we made our way to the whirlyball "court" in Zev's car. I was chirping away from the passenger's seat in a tequila-induced splendor while Holly was in the back patiently trying to keep the buildings and street lights and other cars from whizzing around quite so nauseatingly fast. (Note to self: when you're making a margarita that's the size of a fishbowl, there's really no need to make it a strong margarita).
We reached our destination, and when I walked through the door I was quickly ambushed and engulfed by a flood of silly string. For the first time in my life, at least the first time in which I was old enough to savor it, I had a surprise party thrown for me. This was a big deal. You see, I've taken part in going-away parties and I've been on the surprise end of surprise parties, but I honestly never thought I would be on the surprised side. It's just not who I am; at least I thought so. It goes back to what I wrote about contradictions. I have plenty of friends, but I don't have one distinct crew that would band together to arrange something like this. Also, despite my generally outgoing personality, I don't like to draw a ton of attention to myself, and I hardly feel worthy of the effort that goes into a party. This was a big deal.
The entire event caught me totally off guard. I should have learned by now to expect the unexpected from Kristina. She put the whole thing together--making sure everyone could come, tabbing Zev to deliver the set-up, and getting Holly to seal the deal (poor Holly, I don't think she remembers anything that happened after the car ride that night other than her headache the next morning). Kristina has always had a way of making the best things come to fruition, and it turns out she had one more trick up her sleeve before I left.
So there I was, surrounded by the people I love the most, people who displayed their love and affection for me the best way they knew how--with silly string. Beneath the shock of the moment, the taste of the Swedish fish, and the worries about whether the silly string would stain my clothes, I was left with one feeling, undeniable in its clarity: home. This was more than one night of bumper-car-generated euphoria; this was the past ten years harmoniously converging. This was all the adventures, the stories, the late night conversations, the timeless moments spent with each person in that room. It was the love.
The feeling extended to people who were not playing whirlyball that night. It extended to my mom, who will always be my map and my guide; to my dad, who knows how to make sharing time feel like home; to my grandparents, who love me always; to my aunts, uncles, and cousins, who I miss more than I express; and to new friends, who inspire and astound me.
The next day I packed up my rental car and drove across the country. I am so unabashedly happy to know that when I make my way back I'll be coming home.
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