National University and MFA Programs

I'm currently enrolled in an MFA program at National University and I am, for the most part, very happy with the program. But, there are inherent issues with an online program, and I am here to tell you about those issues.

The English electives are but four weeks long, and I normally don't see that as problematic, except that the university seems to think that it is acceptable to require students to read 125 pages of scholarly articles and digest them, each week. My experience is that it would be best to read five pages and to tear those five pages apart and kick them around a bit. But, NU has decided that quantity is better than quality.

The second issue is that the creative writing classes are eight weeks long. That means, in eight weeks you should write new fiction, submit it, have it work shopped, revise it, and re-submit it. This is ridiculous in an eight week class. You should really write it and then take six weeks before touching it again.

One of the most ridonkulos situations is the survey regarding a professor. They require you to assess the effectiveness of a professor by the Friday before your class is completed. How can I possibly assess a professor when I only have 15 percent of my grade? Fifteen percent of my feedback.

Now, remember, I have my teaching credential from National University, and a MA in English from National. I'm a loyal customer. But assessing a professor with less than 15 percent of grades provided is ridiculous.

Just saying.

Spike

KIDS!

KIDS!

When I was young, my brothers and I swam at a public pool in Ashland, Oregon where the Lifeguard would walk out to the end of the low diving board and yell "KIDS!" She was only trying to get our attention to admonish us for "picking the tar out of the bottom of the pool." But, my brother, sensitive to tone, came to believe that "KIDS!" was an epithet, a bad word not to be repeated. Later that same year, he would sneak out onto my grandparent's porch and yell "KIDS!" and run back in the house, convinced that he had gotten away with something nefarious.

Now, kids has a different connotation to me. I find it the most appropriate label for when my kids do or say something that amazes me. I'm fortunate that I have the opportunity to mutter "Kids" often. Sunday was no different, and today, I again had the chance to mutter "Kids." On Sunday, I took my kids, nine year old Lala and six year old Buddy Boy to Five Guys for burgers. It's become somewhat of a routine for us, after soccer, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, or any other child centered event when I want to spend some time with my kids.

My son, the six year old, was enjoying his burger and I asked him a question.

"Buddy, do you like that burger?"

"No Dad. I don't like it."

He then paused, smirked and added, "I love it. In fact, I want to marry that burger.

"KIDS!"

Tonight was my daughter's turn. My wife gets the kids out in the morning and, understandably, it's often a bit chaotic and confused. Tonight she asserted, "Tomorrow will be different. We will get up early, take our time and be prepared on time without the chaos.

Lala:     "That's a legend."

Me:      "What is a legend Lala?"

Lala:     "Something that is allegedly true."

Me:      "What's a myth?"

Lala:     Something that isn't true.

Me:      "So, is it a legend or a myth?"

Lala:     "Us getting out on time with no yelling, that's a myth."

Later, Lala outdid herself, in my eyes. Mom is and always has been a bit of a klutz. In college her pledge name was Spaz so it was no surprise tonight when she stumbled over the dog gate and rolled her ankle. What was a surprise was Lala's response.

"Mom, you are a hot mess."

KIDS! indeed.

Spike

Marriage, why?

Why Marry?

Like most middle aged men, this is a valid question, one I confronted yesterday when my brother in law tied the proverbial knot of death. He's in his mid-thirties, good looking, and he married his baby momma - that's New York code for a shot gun wedding. She's 31, attractive, has a good job and pregnant. He has been dating her for over two years. So why get married, why tie the knot of death?

I protested, silently, by wearing black. Okay, grey pinstripe suit, black shirt. Not exactly a signal protest, but I wore a tie with red and white - red for the passion to contrast with the black shirt, white as a ray of hope that this marriage might be different than every other marriage - where the husband capitulates in the interest of home harmony.

But, I have little hope for this one, or any other one. Marriage seems to be an institution forced on us by our construct of religion. Men are not monogamous by nature; we need the socializing influence of a good woman. This is tantamount to asking a child to tame a bear. The bear will end up mauling the child, but because it's humans we are talking about, the bear will then feel guilty about mauling the child.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am not saying women are children - they just have the same chance of taming men as a child has taming a bear. And the bear has the same capacity for remorse as men have - none.

I believe we should have chits for children, like businesses have credits for pollution. You get two, spend them how you want to. If you are thirty five and have two chits left, you will be popular with women who have a biological clock. If you spent your chits in your twenties, those women will shun you.

"You got chits?"

"Nah, used 'em already."

"Have a nice night."

On the other hand, if a woman has already used her chits and meets a man with no chits, it would read like this.

"You got chits?"

"Nah, use 'em already."

"Me too."

"Wanna talk?"

"Yeah, what else would we do?"

Now, dudes would actually talk to women. We might actually act like humans then, because, there's no procreative pressure and you can approach marriage as an agreement rather than a contract, a contract signed by God Almighty.

So, I used my chits, you?

Spike

New School

It's September and that means back to school for me and my kiddies and that means stress levels will be reaching an all time high right about now. I'm a teacher, you know, that's my day job. I'm a father too, that's my real job. But, I'm in school too and figuring out where that job fits is proving to be a challenge for me, both in terms of time and priority. Grad school seems selfish - it steals from my students, from my wife, and from my kids.

But, it adds to my depth and breadth of knowledge, benefitting my children and my students, and adds to my income by virtue of a lane change at work, benefitting me and my children. So, why is my graduate school always at the bottom of my priority list, the last thing I do, the thing I do at midnight after feeding, studying with, and bathing my kids?

It's because it is my personal realization, my selfish pursuit. It really is all about me, the writing, the reading, the analysis and the angst. I do it for me, not for them, or them, it's solely for me. I like to pretend it's about my students, about making more money for my family, but it isn't.

Don't kid yourself. Me going to school does make me a better teacher, does make me a better writer, does make me a better dad. But, that's not why I do it. I do it because I love it. And, because I love it, and I do it, that fulfills me. The fulfillment of self actualization, of learning, that makes me a better dad, a better teacher, a better husband.

At least that is my story. And, I'm sticking to it.

Spike

Wow, this is weird. I wanted to write a new blog, but I guess I have to figure out how first. I always hate it when technology changes and leaves me in the figurative dust, but hey, I am an old man and that's what happens. First they get these newfangled boxes called televisions, next thing you know, we're all writing on these newfangled boxes called computers. I love the word newfangled.

I'm currently finishing up the school year with my students and my progeny. It's been a good year, albeit challenging. I had some health issues and was challenged by the MFA thang that I got going on, but it has been good otherwise. I gotta change the fish tank water and remember to put drops in my eye four times a day and my home is a load and I gotta write, a lot, and I gotta read, a lot, but hey, that's what I do anyway, right? I mean the reading and writing, not the fish and the eye stuff.

I'm excited about the summer, I mean, who wouldn't be, ya know, ten weeks off and all that jive. Gonna go West for three weeks and take my laptop so I can keep in touch and keep writing and keep doing my MFA stuff, but it should be fun seeing my family and my ancestral home and all that jive, you know? Gotta think up some new stuff to write about so I can keep up with the workshops and new stuff comes from new experiences and new people and new places and new feelings so I'm all in for that crap.

So, that's all I got for now and I will post this dreck and see what it looks like on the blogspot, whether it looks good or looks bad 'cause I only judge my writing on how it looks and not really on what it say because I'm 2 stoopid to actually read the crap I write, ya know?

Spike

Today I planted crops, fought dragons and soldiers, wrestled an Anaconda, and saved a crewmember on a crab boat in the Bering Sea. Just another day in the work of a writer. What? You didn't know that we writers did shit like that? Yeah, yeah we do.

On any given day, I plant crops. I plough the land and make sure the irrigation works. If I have to, I carry irrigation pipes across fields to ensure proper watering of my crops. And I fertilize whole acres with a sophisticated fertilization system.

I fought scary dragons today too. Brown, with a hard shell and terrible pincers, they attacked me relentlessly as I tried to reclaim my castle. Each one I slayed gave way to another willing to take the last one's place, hard shelled dragons with pincers that were just relentless, continuously attacking me. I fought them all off before facing the army.

The enemy's army attacked relentlessly. I had a great weapon and kept hitting them as they came out of their fort, but they almost overwhelmed me with their numbers. They had giant maws with gnarly jaws that kept snapping and snapping. Their numbers were impressive and I decided to let the chemical weapons I had unleashed take their toll. I needed to focus on the crewman overboard in the Bering Sea.

I skillfully manipulated the crane over the lost crewman and released the hook, yelling to him to grab it. I knew the cold water had taken its toll and that he was a cork in the wine at this point. I grabbed the net, nestled it gently under him and pulled it to the surface. We were close enough at that point to reach out and grab him and pull him to the side. Whew, another life saved.

That's when I was attacked by the fifteen foot Anaconda. I managed to sap it's strength by killing it's drive. Carefully, I rolled it into a coil and placed it gently in its cage. Just another day as a Superhero.

My Diary entry will read: Planted some basil, sprayed some earwigs and ants. Scooped out the vacuum head from the pool and put the hose away.

Dakota RIP

Dakota

Yesterday, April 12th, 2012, the world lost a noble soul. I'm sure that if you are plugged in you felt a shift in the force. That shift was when Dakota Mayo checked out. She was 13 years old and was an honorable dog, a dedicated friend, and a loyal hound.

We arrived home from break at four o'clock and Dakota was glad to see us, wagging tail, barks of delight. She had been on a two day hunger strike, which was not uncommon when we traveled, but seemed in good spirits. We unpacked and Dakota made her usual rounds, outside, inside, bark, lay down and get loved. Her caretakers during vacation, an aunt and a neighbor, let us know that she had not eaten in a while and that her eye had been acting up, but that was standard operating procedure for Dakota. She was, after all, almost 14 years old.

We picked her out of a milieu of Rottweilers and Pit Bulls in 2001, saved her from the pound in Orlando. She happened to be the first dog on the right and the only dog we considered, in spite of the fact that we had decided against dogs that shed, were high energy or had a wet mouth. We went against our gut instinct and went with an emotional decision and took her home. That decision yielded 12 years of joy and pleasure.

She preceded my children and suffered their attentions and abuse stoically. They would accidentally step on her and she would growl, but never bite. She pushed the door open to my infant daughter's room and slept at the foot of her crib, and later, at the foot of her bed. When my son was born, she welcomed him with the same attention, rising in the middle of the night to sleep at the top of the stairs between the rooms, standing guard, watching over her children.

Last night, she tipped over. She waited until we got home from vacation, and then tipped over. I think it was her heart. She had loved as much as she could for as long as she could and she waited for us to get home. Then, she tipped.

She was struggling and crawled into our room to be next to me. She was never a dog for hugs and kisses, but she always wanted to be near. I carried her to my side of the bed and read. Her breathing became labored, so I rubbed her belly. It got worse, and I scratched her stomach, rubbed her back and told her I loved her. I took a brief break to look up an emergency vet in case I had to put her down. Like the noble animal she was, she saved me the trouble. While I rubbed her tummy, she raised her head, looked me in the eye, grimaced, and went slack, her head flopping to the ground.

I wrapped her in a pink flannel sheet with princesses, courtesy of my daughter, placed her in two garbage bags and loaded her into the backseat of my car. The emergency vet's office was gentle and kind. I drove around back while they wheeled out a stainless steel gurney. Andrew offered me a room and time, but I just asked that I be the one to place her on the gurney.

I picked her up for the last time, wrapped in my daughter's sheet and two Hefty bags, knowing her orientation, letting her slack head fall on my shoulder one last time. I hugged the still warm but limp body of my best friend and laid her gently on the gurney. I rubbed her belly and kissed her head and Andrew took her away.

I got in my car and sobbed.