I'm intensively working through the translation process with my home-schooled student, and am having her keep a list of problems she runs in to, to help her recognize them and repeat them less often.
At our last lesson, she had a hard time translating ablative absolutes, so we reviewed them, and then finally I asked her a question - what would be the first thing to think of that would help her recognize them, if she ever encountered one again?
"To remember that they exist," she was like (and she wasn't being smart-alecky, she meant it!).
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Stories of bars (4 of 4): More racism...
Like a week later I was biking on a Sunday and stopped through a bar.
The (white) (young) (female) bartneder had recently moved there from Missouri, and down the bar, it turned out, was her boyfriend she had moved in with and the (older) (female) (Appalachian) owner.
I ended up chit-chatting with them, and me and the younger folks had started talking about fun things to do in the city.
Since the bartender's boyfriend was into religious stuff, I brought up the one activist (white) priest who lives in an all-black parish in the city, and said they should go to mass there, since it would blow their mind.
Immediately, the the (older) (female) (Appalachian) owner got all withdrawn and looked suspiciously at me, and asked me what I thought of him.
I said he was too charismatic for his own good and there was something weird about his parish, but he latched on to a lot of the right issues, like how some major chain stores had had toy guys in Easter baskets, and he said it was inappropriate and they should withdraw them from sales.
"He's a rabble-rouser, that's what I think," she said, "He just likes to be on TV."
Then, she explained that the guns were brightly-colored anyways, and they didn't harm anyone.
An (older) (Appalachian) (male) friend of hers then sat down, and he agreed that the priest was a rabblerouser.
The (white) (young) (female) bartneder had recently moved there from Missouri, and down the bar, it turned out, was her boyfriend she had moved in with and the (older) (female) (Appalachian) owner.
I ended up chit-chatting with them, and me and the younger folks had started talking about fun things to do in the city.
Since the bartender's boyfriend was into religious stuff, I brought up the one activist (white) priest who lives in an all-black parish in the city, and said they should go to mass there, since it would blow their mind.
Immediately, the the (older) (female) (Appalachian) owner got all withdrawn and looked suspiciously at me, and asked me what I thought of him.
I said he was too charismatic for his own good and there was something weird about his parish, but he latched on to a lot of the right issues, like how some major chain stores had had toy guys in Easter baskets, and he said it was inappropriate and they should withdraw them from sales.
"He's a rabble-rouser, that's what I think," she said, "He just likes to be on TV."
Then, she explained that the guns were brightly-colored anyways, and they didn't harm anyone.
An (older) (Appalachian) (male) friend of hers then sat down, and he agreed that the priest was a rabblerouser.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Political volunteering!
I think I'm going to devote the next couple Saturdays and June 5th (election day) to volunteering for Wisconsin Democrats.
I don't think I'm going to be living near any states that will be competitive, and I really do believe in doing get-out-the-vote volunteering. It's important, and it gives me a sense of control over politics, where I can accept my side getting defeated, as long as I volunteered, and tried to get others to as well.
Plus, Dems might lose this election, if it isn't for good voter turnout.
The Saturdays would be enough, but I have election day free, so I figure, why not?
I don't think I'm going to be living near any states that will be competitive, and I really do believe in doing get-out-the-vote volunteering. It's important, and it gives me a sense of control over politics, where I can accept my side getting defeated, as long as I volunteered, and tried to get others to as well.
Plus, Dems might lose this election, if it isn't for good voter turnout.
The Saturdays would be enough, but I have election day free, so I figure, why not?
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
...got to see the Beach Boys!!!...
The Beach Boys were in town and I got to see them Monday night... I showed up and got a $60 ticket for $40 from a scalper, I think because the protests had scared a lot of purchasers off...
Overall, I wasn't so sorry I went, but I the concert was like a box of jawbreakers - nice at 1st, but towards the end, your whole mouth is sugary, and you're like, "Get this shit away from me."
They sounded great overall with their harmonies, esp. on slow numbers and on "Heroes and Villains" (what a song - no-one else can do it like them), but the low point of the concert had to be Mike Love announcing he was going to sing a song for someone who had taught him how to meditate, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, and that the song was based on "ancient scriptures"... I laughed, and so did the (older) (white) woman behind me, when he said that.
Interestingly, one of the later Beach Boys wrote the song "I Write the Songs", which they announced mid-concert when introducing him a bit more, and I was like one of a couple people to start clapping and whooping, and I was a bit ticked when they then segued into saying how you could hear his work at minimalls and in elevators everywhere.
They also had tributes to Dennis and then Carl (sp.?) Wilson, where they had a vocal track play where they sang lead play on screen, and then the singers and band backed them up. Carl sang "God Only Knows" live up there, and during the song, just like with Dennis, pictures of him alone and part of the group flashed on screen, but for some reason there were a couple pictures of just him and Dennis and Brian up there as kids, and after the second picture, I suddenly thought about Brian Wilson, and I was like, "He's all alone now," and it really hit me that he was up there on stage in front of all these people watching memorial tributes for his brothers.
Fortunately, that was toward the end of "God Only Knows", and you could see him get absorbed in the overlapping voices and play-conduct to himself over the grand piano.
(He was a little out of it; he played the piano a bit and even got up with a bass guitar at the end; but they were more for him to occasionally form a chord on, they weren't hooked up to the sound system or anything.)
Also toward the end of the concert, I thought about all the songs glorifying cars, and about how we're facing global warming. I flashed back to the commuter rail this fall that took me back to the San Francisco airport after my conference there, and looking out at just wave upon wave of cars on the highway.
Overall, I wasn't so sorry I went, but I the concert was like a box of jawbreakers - nice at 1st, but towards the end, your whole mouth is sugary, and you're like, "Get this shit away from me."
They sounded great overall with their harmonies, esp. on slow numbers and on "Heroes and Villains" (what a song - no-one else can do it like them), but the low point of the concert had to be Mike Love announcing he was going to sing a song for someone who had taught him how to meditate, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, and that the song was based on "ancient scriptures"... I laughed, and so did the (older) (white) woman behind me, when he said that.
Interestingly, one of the later Beach Boys wrote the song "I Write the Songs", which they announced mid-concert when introducing him a bit more, and I was like one of a couple people to start clapping and whooping, and I was a bit ticked when they then segued into saying how you could hear his work at minimalls and in elevators everywhere.
They also had tributes to Dennis and then Carl (sp.?) Wilson, where they had a vocal track play where they sang lead play on screen, and then the singers and band backed them up. Carl sang "God Only Knows" live up there, and during the song, just like with Dennis, pictures of him alone and part of the group flashed on screen, but for some reason there were a couple pictures of just him and Dennis and Brian up there as kids, and after the second picture, I suddenly thought about Brian Wilson, and I was like, "He's all alone now," and it really hit me that he was up there on stage in front of all these people watching memorial tributes for his brothers.
Fortunately, that was toward the end of "God Only Knows", and you could see him get absorbed in the overlapping voices and play-conduct to himself over the grand piano.
(He was a little out of it; he played the piano a bit and even got up with a bass guitar at the end; but they were more for him to occasionally form a chord on, they weren't hooked up to the sound system or anything.)
Also toward the end of the concert, I thought about all the songs glorifying cars, and about how we're facing global warming. I flashed back to the commuter rail this fall that took me back to the San Francisco airport after my conference there, and looking out at just wave upon wave of cars on the highway.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Stories of bars (3 of 4): Surprising pleasantness.
Later I walked up back away from that (Irish-American) neighborhood into a slightly richer (Irish-American) neighborhood and stopped at this old bar-restaurant...
The kitchen was closing, but I convinced the old (white) waitress to bring me a bowl of their stuffed pepper soup, and she brought me a cup of it, and I settled in to watch a piano trio, an old (white) guy playing piano and a young (white) guy playing trumpet and an old (white) woman singing Burt Bachrach's "Walk on By".
The music was quite affecting, and then the woman sat down and another old (white) woman got up, and I realized it was liveband karaoke, with a crowd of people my grandmother's age.
This other old (white) woman was in her 80s and sang "Hey Big Spender" and then something else, and then an old (white) guy with a little goattee got up, and he started singing "Swanee River", and was a ham, but the way he held his hand up and shook it and was like, "My mother's praying for me/ Swanee" was very affecting...
Then, later, the first old woman got up again, and sang some song about redeeming yourself through true love, and it had this really affecting chorus that she kept singing -
Fame/ it comes and goes in a minute.... / Fame....
It was really quite something. She said it with such authority, like life had taken her and shaken her up, and she had been around the block and never found happiness.
Later, I asked a younger (white) couple there if I could see their book, and they said there was no book, that was lyrics they had written down.
They also said the piano player had played with Wayne Newton and knew 900 songs, and if he didn't know the song he wanted, he could fake it for you.
The kitchen was closing, but I convinced the old (white) waitress to bring me a bowl of their stuffed pepper soup, and she brought me a cup of it, and I settled in to watch a piano trio, an old (white) guy playing piano and a young (white) guy playing trumpet and an old (white) woman singing Burt Bachrach's "Walk on By".
The music was quite affecting, and then the woman sat down and another old (white) woman got up, and I realized it was liveband karaoke, with a crowd of people my grandmother's age.
This other old (white) woman was in her 80s and sang "Hey Big Spender" and then something else, and then an old (white) guy with a little goattee got up, and he started singing "Swanee River", and was a ham, but the way he held his hand up and shook it and was like, "My mother's praying for me/ Swanee" was very affecting...
Then, later, the first old woman got up again, and sang some song about redeeming yourself through true love, and it had this really affecting chorus that she kept singing -
Fame/ it comes and goes in a minute.... / Fame....
It was really quite something. She said it with such authority, like life had taken her and shaken her up, and she had been around the block and never found happiness.
Later, I asked a younger (white) couple there if I could see their book, and they said there was no book, that was lyrics they had written down.
They also said the piano player had played with Wayne Newton and knew 900 songs, and if he didn't know the song he wanted, he could fake it for you.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Stories of bars (2 of 4): The forbidden bar.
At the first (Irish-American) bar I went to, there were a lot of older (white) cops, and some little kids showed up pulling a cooler to sell pop to everyone and stood on the bar's porch, and you could tell they were back from walking up the stadium and trying to sell to the crowds.
I talked with the (mid-40s) (female) (white) bartender a bit, and I casually mentioned that I had heard about a (black) bar that was a block down and 3 blocks over.
She said there might be one, that'd make sense, but she's never been that way.
She also said she's lived in the neighborhood all her life.
I asked a bit more, and she said the (Irish-American) neighborhood was low-crime, except when gangbangers sometimes came over.
After that, I walked south, and when I was a block south, I could look under the vydock and see beyond it a liquor store sign sticking out...
I walked a block up to the vydock, past all these nice little houses of (white) people, and then I actually walked under the vydock, and on the other side to the left was a fenced off parking lot/industrial yard of a factory, and to the right was some (black) projects.
It was getting towards 8pm and I was on foot, so I didn't go, especially since I could see a couple people walking way up near the liquor store.
So, I turned back, and then walked to another (Irish-American) bar.
They had all sorts of signs out against gangcolors, but I was pleasantly surprised to see a few younger (black) guys who looked sort of fat and fratty with the fat and fratty (white) (presumably Irish-American) guys who could turn violent at any time.
I talked some with the (fat) (tattooed) (presumably Irish-American bartender), and he said he'd lived in the neighborhood 35 years, and there might be another bar the other side of the vydock, but he really didn't know.
I talked with the (mid-40s) (female) (white) bartender a bit, and I casually mentioned that I had heard about a (black) bar that was a block down and 3 blocks over.
She said there might be one, that'd make sense, but she's never been that way.
She also said she's lived in the neighborhood all her life.
I asked a bit more, and she said the (Irish-American) neighborhood was low-crime, except when gangbangers sometimes came over.
After that, I walked south, and when I was a block south, I could look under the vydock and see beyond it a liquor store sign sticking out...
I walked a block up to the vydock, past all these nice little houses of (white) people, and then I actually walked under the vydock, and on the other side to the left was a fenced off parking lot/industrial yard of a factory, and to the right was some (black) projects.
It was getting towards 8pm and I was on foot, so I didn't go, especially since I could see a couple people walking way up near the liquor store.
So, I turned back, and then walked to another (Irish-American) bar.
They had all sorts of signs out against gangcolors, but I was pleasantly surprised to see a few younger (black) guys who looked sort of fat and fratty with the fat and fratty (white) (presumably Irish-American) guys who could turn violent at any time.
I talked some with the (fat) (tattooed) (presumably Irish-American bartender), and he said he'd lived in the neighborhood 35 years, and there might be another bar the other side of the vydock, but he really didn't know.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Stories of bars (1 of 4): Lost.
The other month I was getting ready to go on a night of barhopping in this (white) (Irish-American) neighborhood south of the baseball stadium, where the racial lines are really prominent and a young (black) kid had gotten beaten to death within the past decade, I think, for biking to a park that wasn't on his side of the neighborhood.
There was a baseball game on, and as I was walking south by the stadium parking lots, I noticed the neighborhood was getting (black), which confused me, since there was a bar indicated on maps I had located online 5-6 blocks south, and the neighborhood had the same name as the (white) (Irish-American) neighborhood.
I asked a (black) parking attendant, and they said they weren't sure if a bar was there, but to walk 4 blocks west and then continue walking south, if I wanted to get to the (Irish-American) neighborhood....
I did that, and the neighborhood turned (white).
I started walking to another bar on my list, but I wasn't clear of neighborhood boundaries, and there was this one street that looked industrial and all these teenagers in hoodies walking up it, so I walked past, and glanced back to see if they were (white) or not.
They were, so I casually started walking back to intercept them, and see if there was an (Irish-American) bar farther south.
They said there was, and I was like, "Thanks, I don't know this area really well, and I'm afraid of getting into a bad neighborhood."
Then, like a 12-year old boy said, "Hey, just don't go past the vidock [sp.?], that's where the n*gg*rs live."
And then the kids said bye and left.
There was a baseball game on, and as I was walking south by the stadium parking lots, I noticed the neighborhood was getting (black), which confused me, since there was a bar indicated on maps I had located online 5-6 blocks south, and the neighborhood had the same name as the (white) (Irish-American) neighborhood.
I asked a (black) parking attendant, and they said they weren't sure if a bar was there, but to walk 4 blocks west and then continue walking south, if I wanted to get to the (Irish-American) neighborhood....
I did that, and the neighborhood turned (white).
I started walking to another bar on my list, but I wasn't clear of neighborhood boundaries, and there was this one street that looked industrial and all these teenagers in hoodies walking up it, so I walked past, and glanced back to see if they were (white) or not.
They were, so I casually started walking back to intercept them, and see if there was an (Irish-American) bar farther south.
They said there was, and I was like, "Thanks, I don't know this area really well, and I'm afraid of getting into a bad neighborhood."
Then, like a 12-year old boy said, "Hey, just don't go past the vidock [sp.?], that's where the n*gg*rs live."
And then the kids said bye and left.
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