QotD: SMH Edition

As a graduate of the University of Kentucky (M.A., 1992) who was there when the big basketball scandal broke in the late 80s, I try not to maintain any illusions about big-school sports. (I will say, however, that although I taught a number of athletes in my time there, I was never pressured about their academic performance.) Still, I have to admit taking a certain measure of delight in the recent exposure of the crime syndicate operating under the banner of the Athletic Department at UK’s intrastate rival, the U of Louisville. (Margaret Soltan, of course, can provide refresher courses in both schools‘ offensive actions — indeed, if you like any college sports at all, she’ll keep you humble.)

Ultimately, we’re talking about a branch of the entertainment industry, which we have always known to be sleazy — honestly, who hasn’t expected stuff like the current flood of sex scandals? That it has metastasized through higher education is sad, but not unexpected.

Where I’m going with all this is an article at ESPN’s website this morning. The title tells the story: “How a Midlevel School Became the University of Adidas at Louisville.” Having followed these developments for years, there wasn’t much there that surprised me. Still, I ran across a line in the story that tempted me to reach for a double Effexor neat with a Lexapro chaser:

“I can give $5 million to stem cell research and it’s gonna help stem cell research,” says Dr. Mark Lynn, an optometry-chain owner whose name adorns the soccer complex. “I give $5 million to a soccer stadium and it’s gonna help everything.”

John 11:35.

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In Which the Prof Drives, Reads, and Drives Some More

Today is something of an odd day, Gradeapaloozically speaking. My two upper-level classes had take-home finals today, and I’m grading them as they trickle into my e-mail. Tomorrow at noon, my last class of Freshpeeps will take their final, and then I’ll probably plow through the next couple of days and wrap up the semester on Monday. “But Mondo,” you ask, “what’s with the take-home finals?” A fair question.

I couldn’t do the traditional finals today because I was driving back from Durham, NC. Yesterday morning after my other bunch of freshpeeps took care of their final, I dropped off the drum hauler at the local car rental place, and aimed a nicely appointed Toyota Corolla in a northeasterly direction. I was scheduled to take part in a Noir at the Bar reading in Durham, and between the college and my department chair, I had enough funding to make the trip. I stopped for lunch at a burger joint in Charlotte that is a favorite destination when the Spawn and I go up there for HeroesCon. The counterman said he hadn’t seen me in a while, so I reminded him that I actually live a couple of hours away, and was just passing through. Frankly, I was impressed that he seemed to remember me at all, even though I’m pretty easy to spot in a crowd.

The chili cheeseburger and fries were terrific, but they always are, and on the way out, I told the man that if I was passing through at lunchtime on the way back to Newberry, I’d stop back in. It seemed to please him.

I made it to the Durham Marriott City Center at about 4 yesterday afternoon. I had actually driven a couple of laps around the hotel before I went in, but I couldn’t find a parking spot. It turned out there’s a good reason for that — the hotel uses valet parking exclusively. After checking in and saying goodbye to the rental car, I made my way to my room, which was nicely appointed, with plenty of electrical outlets and even a sofa/chaise upon which I could stretch as I got caught up on e-mails, student requests for mercy, and the like.

I had never stayed at the hotel before — as I’ve noted previously, my travel arrangements over the years have tended toward the Spartan — but this one happened to be just a couple of blocks from 106 Main, the bar  that was hosting the evening’s reading. So I gathered up a bag of my books and got there fairly quickly, only getting bewildered once thanks to Mapquest.

When I arrived, some of the other writers were already there, and Eryk Pruitt introduced me around, befitting his role as organizer. I had a coke and chatted with Shawn Cosby, who kept the stories coming at me until it was time to get rolling. Tracey Coppedge was our emcee, and warmed up the crowd nicely for Katy Munger, who led off with a selection from one of her Casey Jones mysteries, telling a tale of two vertically challenged strippers known as the “Tiny Dancers,” and their not-very-high jinks at a Christmas Day show. Although Katy was under the weather, she delivered her bit with surprising vigor, and was rewarded with lots of laughter and applause.

Then it was my turn, and since the evening had a Christmas theme, I broke out “Night Visitor“, a story that ran a few years ago at Out of the Gutter. Later in the evening, several of the attendees and other writers told me, “I liked your story — it was funny, but man, it was dark.” Mission accomplished.

Getting my read on. (Photo: Peter Rozovsky)

Durhamite and blues harpist extraordinaire David Terrenoire gave us a nod to literary history and con artistry with “The Grift of the Magi,” a tender tale of a pool hustler, her fella, and an unlucky college student.  Then we heard from the abovementioned Mr. Cosby, who rocked the house with the story of a man determined to recover a stolen Christmas ornament from a houseful of crack dealers.

Crimefic blog hero and king of the noir photo (and N@tB founder) Peter Rozovsky even came down from Philly to take pictures and tell a quick story about how at Christmas, not even Santa can count on quality help. Help of another kind was the subject of “Killing Krampus” by Nik Patrick, whose story of a young woman recruited by paranormal investigators (who were exactly as I would have imagined them — extra points for the “M’lady”, Nik!) was funny and exciting. It was a story the Spawn would have enjoyed reading — or writing.

J.D. Allen gave us a blend of reading and performance art as she delivered the story of a woman whose predilection for present peeking brings her information that makes Christmas less than merry for some people in her life. Her line, “Does this crappy town even have a SWAT team?” may have been the big laugh getter on the night.

Eryk wrapped things up with a short story about revenge porn and revenge porn revenge. He just wrapped up a tour to promote his latest novel, What We Reckon, and he demonstrated once again that he has an amazing command of the voices of “Rough Southern” fiction. After that, we sold a few books, signed some autographs, and took a few pictures:

Clockwise from top left: David Terrenoire, Katy Munger, Mondo, Eryk Pruitt, Nik Patrick, S.A. Cosby, Tracy Coppedge, Peter Rozovsky, J.D. Allen. (Photo: Lana Pierce)

But since I had a long drive ahead of me today, I headed back to the hotel (finding a new and different way to misdirect myself, but getting there eventually), had a snack at the hotel bar, and called it a night.

This morning in Durham was chilly with some clouds lowering, but I got on the road before the snow started. There were flurries along the way, but by the time I got to Charlotte, it was just cold rain. But it was also lunchtime, and well, I was in Charlotte, so back to Chubz. The counter guy saw me come in, and said, “On your way back to Newberry!” He paused for a second, and then said, “I don’t know why I remembered that.” Neither did I, but I thought it spoke well of him, and the food was just as good as it always is, so when I left, I told him I’d see him the next time I was in town. And I certainly plan to.

There was another pleasant surprise at lunch. Newberry’s mayor, the Honorable Foster Senn, put out a tweet:

Warren Moore @NewberryCollege gets glowing review of his short story in NYTimes book review. Congrats @ProfMondo

Thanks, Your Honor!

But now I’m ensconced in my favorite chair in my den, and another final exam rolled in a few minutes ago. Once again, I want to thank the good folks at the college for making it possible for me to develop this part of my career. And for the folks in Durham — y’all were great. Let’s do it again soon!

Weekend Potpourri: A Man of His Times Edition

Sorry for the radio silence, but I’ve been making my way through Gradeapalooza, and I’m about at the halfway mark. However, I figured I’d treat this as the eye of the hurricane and say a few words in a moment of calm. So…

***

On Tuesday, I got an e-mail from the publisher of Alive in Shape and Color. (I wonder if it will be Alive in Shape and Colour in Commonwealth countries?) The text was simple: “Well done, Warren!” I’m always happy to receive compliments, but wonder sometimes how — or even whether — I’ve earned them. When I looked at the attached PDF file, I saw that it was an advance version of an article in the New York Times Book Review.

I really wasn’t expecting that. I’ve always thought that mentions in the NYTBR were for Writers of Stature — me, I’m just a guy who writes sometimes, probably less frequently than I should. I mentioned how last year I was floored to meet Joyce Carol Oates, how honored I feel just to appear on pages with folks like her, or Lawrence Block, or Robert Silverberg, or, or, or…

Well, you get the idea. As I’ve said, the universe seems to be telling me to write more. I don’t think I’ll ever be a WofS (to borrow a term from Harlan Ellison), and I wouldn’t even know how to behave if I were one. But for a guy who writes sometimes, this is pretty heady stuff, and I’m grateful.

***

And speaking of writerly stuff, I’d like to remind everyone that I’ll be at 106 Main in Durham, NC, on 7 December for a Noir at the Bar reading. This one is Christmas-themed, and I’ve got one that might be a little out of place, but it fits the bill. With luck, I’ll even have copies of Broken Glass Waltzes to sign and sell. I’d love to see you there.

***

One of the highlights of the last week or so was getting to spend an afternoon with William Harris, an undergrad classmate of mine who is now Professor of Mathematics at Georgetown (KY) College. He was in Atlanta for the holiday, so we got together in Greenville last Saturday. I had the pleasure of introducing him to the Pita House (where I also scored some of their legendary hot sauce) and Mr. K’s used media store, where I picked up a few novels and a CD by the Posies. William is as much a music buff as I am — we both spent a lot of time at the campus radio station, and that’s one of the places where our friendship bloomed. He writes small slices of autobiography disguised as music posts at his blog, which you should bookmark.

***

On a far more serious note, blogger David Salmanson lost his wife a couple of weeks ago. In a blog post from 24 November, he discusses his movement into his Big Noise, and along the way says something I found both true and beautiful.

People keep asking me what they can do for me, and I keep answering that I don’t know yet. People also keep telling me that I seem so composed and that they cannot believe that I can write and think through all of this, but I can. Indeed, I’ve been training my whole life for it, for it’s times like this that the value of a liberal arts education is revealed. Since boyhood, I’ve read and watched Shakespeare and Rostand’s Cyrano and The Bible.  I’ve studied history and art and literature.  I’ve done science in the labs and in the woods and I’ve stared into the deepest recesses of the universe in the dark of night with astronomers and I’ve stared into the darkest recesses of my own soul with philosophers.  So when the unthinkable happened I was ready.  I have 10,000 years of human history providing me examples of how to handle myself in the worst times.  It’s a handy thing to have on your side.

This, then, is the true purpose of education.   We are, again, in one of those moments in history where the liberal arts is under attack for being irrelevant.  The calls for job training and “useful” majors is on the rise again.

Majoring in business cannot teach us how to deal with the unthinkable.  It may be a path to money, but it will leave you forever poorer.

David, I don’t know if you read this blog. But if you do, I thank you for saying this, and I’m so sorry you had the occasion.

***

The Spawn and I did the blood donation thing yesterday — we both have an uncommon blood type, so when I get the cards and phone calls letting me know they need me to come in, I encourage her to come along. I got done before she did, so I made a point of heckling her as I waited, telling her that I’ve been doing this for more than a year, and I’ve only seen one person lose an arm — stuff like that. She handled this with her usual aplomb, and as we left the “Blood Vessel” (Yes, that’s stenciled on the front of the bus) with our matching bandages, I was reminded of how proud I am of her.

***

Well, I still have grading to do, so I’d best close, but as is my habit, I’ll leave you with a bit of music. I had an urge to listen to the Doors this weekend, and I was reminded of the fact that for all the hype about shaman-poets and such, for my money one of the coolest things about the band was their command of dynamics. This track is as fine an example of that as one might ask — the volume drop after the solo still gives me chills. I hope you like it as well.

See you soon!

In Which Blessings Are Counted

It’s Thanksgiving morning. Mrs. M is getting ready to toss the turkey breast into the oven and then take her morning constitutional. The Spawn is claiming the time-honored right of the college student to sack in, and I’m in my usual spot in the den, thinking about doing some grading as the swell of Gradeapalooza draws nearer.

But before I do that, best to acknowledge the purpose of the day. While I tend toward a Housmanesque or Robinsonian view of life’s larger picture, that doesn’t mean that I’m unaware of beauties and blessings as they arise. Housman also wrote “Loveliest of Trees,” after all. And so…

First of all, I’m thankful for my family, the one I had and the one I have. Each member has given me gifts of one sort or another, and even the burdens that come with loving people are weights that have made me grow in order to bear them.

I’m grateful for my job. I know the odds against getting to do what I do, and I know how few people get to have jobs they enjoy. As I approach the end of a semester in which I’ve developed a new course, I’m thankful that I’ve had students who have been able to rise to the subject, and who remind me that the big questions of life have value, even if we never entirely agree on the answers.

I’m thankful for art, music, and writing — for the day I spent at the Metropolitan Museum of Art last December, for the nights I got to spend making music with the Berries and helping people have a good time, for the stories I’ve been able to write and the people who value them. I’m thankful for the music and writing I’ve discovered this year, and for the songs and stories to which I return time and again over the years.

I’m thankful to have turned away from the madness of politics as much as I can. I’m thankful that few people behave in life as they do on social media. I’m grateful for friendships, for connections, whether obvious or inscrutable, that draw and bind us together.

And I’m grateful to and for each of you reading this — for you who take a few seconds or minutes to listen to what I have to say, for those of you who comment and those who don’t. Our world contains so much noise that it’s a miracle that we have any attention to share at all; I’m humbled that you choose to share some with me.

May today and every day bring you things for which to be thankful. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Your Milestones May Vary

Today is the 54th anniversary of the deaths of John F. Kennedy, Aldous Huxley, and C.S. Lewis. As I point out to my friends, with what they no doubt consider disturbing regularity, everybody dies sometime. But of course, not every death carries generational heft. Kennedy’s did for my parents’ generation — Dad was 20, Mom 19, and I wouldn’t be born for another 22 months.

I don’t know that I’m an expert on the “where were you” moments for my generation, because I have an unusual memory and might include stuff others my age wouldn’t. But I suppose my “safe list” might include Apollo 11, John Lennon’s death, Challenger, and 9/11. Some — not all — of my students remember the last, and within a couple of years, I’ll be teaching kids for whom the World Trade Center will be what JFK was for me. Ou sont les neiges and all that.

But while I wasn’t around for the JFK assassination, it gave me the chance for this. On 22 Nov 1998, I was at my folks’ house, chatting with Dad. I said, “Do you remember what you were doing 30 years ago today?”

He started telling me about the assassination. I let him finish, and said, “Well that’s nice, but that was thirty-five years ago. I asked what you were doing thirty years ago. You know, the day the White Album was released.”

Dad looked at me. “Asshole,” he said. It still makes me smile.

I hope your day is a memorable one for good reasons.

Not A Moment Too Soon…

So Charles Manson died yesterday at the age of 83. While I’m not typically the grave-dancing sort, I can’t say the world is a poorer place for his departure.

I do have to say, however, that he’s connected to one of the greatest music reviews I’ve ever read. The reviewer (whose name, alas, escapes me) was considering Lie, the album Manson recorded in 1967 and ’68. Here’s the review, in its entirety:

“Charles Manson is as fine a musician as he is a human being.”

On the other hand, he did inspire a pretty cool song by Klaatu (a group widely considered to have its own Beatles issues, though of a much different nature.)

As the saying goes, may he rest in peace… after a decent interval. (And I was sorely tempted to add a “Family” tag to this post, but managed to refrain.)

Weekend Wrap-Up

There was a little breathing space in my grading schedule this weekend, so have some potpourri…

***

I went to a couple of Mondoville basketball games over the weekend, as we hosted a four-team tourney. The home team won their first game before falling in the championship matchup. No one will ever mistake these games for the ones I attended at Rupp Arena, or even Worthen Arena, in my grad school years, but I find myself enjoying the more intimate setting as the years go by — and of course, I also like seeing the kids, many of whom I’ve taught over the years. I buy a snack or a drink from the student athletes working the concession stand — they raise funds for their squads that way — and sit at midcourt, just behind press row. It can make for a nice time.

On the other hand, over the years I’ve come to be puzzled by some of our fans. There’s a portion of the crowd at every game that seems to attend for the sole purpose of venting spleen. They’re far more likely to berate even their own players than to encourage them, but their most frequent targets are the referees. Sometimes the zebras do mess up — again, this isn’t the big time. But in my experience, they tend to call the games pretty evenly, overall; they’re imperfect for both sides, if you know what I mean. However, to a sizable section of the crowd, every call (or every non-call) is an opportunity to scold and jeer three people who probably just got to the game after a day of selling insurance or dispatching truckloads of widgets. The grief they give the officials isn’t obscene or profane — at least not that I hear — but it’s constant, and lately I wonder if those fans really take any pleasure in the experience of attending at all. Of course, there’s also the fact that it’s an appalling display of sportsmanship, and there’s something depressing when the student section shows better decorum than the folks who pay to get in.

And from a practical standpoint, I wonder if it’s counterproductive. If an official makes a bad call and the crowd yells at him, it’s one thing. But if it’s just incessant billingsgate, I can’t help but wonder if an official (who is human, after all) might occasionally be tempted to spite the crowd. At the very least, I wouldn’t expect to get many close calls in that environment. That the striped shirts remain as professional as they do speaks to their love of the game and the players.

But I think there are limits. While I can’t speak to how this is done everywhere, it’s my understanding that around here, the better officials are given their choice of games and venues to work. I wouldn’t be surprised if the better ones figure out that there are easier gyms in which to make a few bucks, and venues where they won’t be treated like war criminals when they call (or don’t call) a foul. But since all games must be officiated, this would suggest that the refs who work our games aren’t necessarily the cream of the crop, even at our level. That in turn would mean that we get refs who are more likely to make mistakes, and that makes the more abusive fans feel more justified in their harassment, and the feedback loop becomes obvious.

I’ll still go to the games, of course. As I said, I know many of these kids, and I want them to know that I support what they do even when they’re outside the classroom. But when things get this hostile even at a place like Mondoville, it can be a bit dispiriting.

***

On a lighter note, after Saturday afternoon’s game, I went downtown to Mondoville’s Ritz Theater, where the local community players mounted a production of John Cariani’s Almost, Maine. It’s a relatively recent work, and although it’s apparently widely performed (including, I’m told, at the college), I hadn’t seen it before. I was particularly looking forward to it as several friends and former students of mine (including two erstwhile Berries) were involved both as actors and directors of the vignettes that make up the play. I was also lucky enough to attend for free, having volunteered to sit in an exit row and direct traffic should an evacuation be necessary. Fortunately for us all, my services weren’t needed, and so I got to enjoy a nifty little play.

The scenes range from cute to poignant, but a layer of absurdism keeps things from ever getting cloying. The performances were uniformly solid, and the scenes and transitions well paced. I don’t know if this is typical for performances of the play, but during blackouts, as props and scenery were moved as much as the minimalist staging required, bits of ’70s love songs played over the house sound system. Selections included “Close to You” and “We’ve Only Just Begun” by the Carpenters, Player’s “Baby Come Back”, and other songs of that ilk. I was slightly disappointed, however, that the version of “Love Hurts” was neither the Everlys’ nor Nazareth’s renditions.

I’ve talked before about how I’m glad to see groups like the Newberry Community Players — people who are in it for the love of the game, as it were, and who share that passion even in the middle of our cynical era. And shows like the one I attended last night remind me once again that the root of the word amateur is love.

***

This afternoon, I went ahead and booked my rental car and room for my trip to Durham, NC in a couple of weeks, where I’ll be reading as part of a Noir at the Bar event on 7 Dec. If you can make it, I’d love to see you!

***

Finally, I’ll wrap things up with a bit of music. I was listening to a hard rock stream over the weekend, and ran across this track from a band about which I basically know nothing. But I like what I heard, so I’ll pass it along. From the banks of the Mersey, here’s Enamel Animal, with “Red is for Danger.”

See you soon!