So today was busier than normal, a complete workout before hopping off to “research”, two interviews without me bursting out by saying, ‘well, can we hire somebody who isn’t white for once?’, some catch-up pints with Laser, Japanese with Mark, and now unwinding quietly at home.

So Mark (clever, handsome devil that he is) has managed to find this blog by googling some of the SIPs which were in a month’s worth of posts I sent him. So, hi, honey. I won’t go back and sanitize the silliness, drama, sadness, flippery, and so on, but now blog with perhaps a bit more discretion and a little less gushing.

I’ve been really phoning it in in terms of work of late, but that’s okay, I think, because it’s very phone-in-able, although I would say this week is rough given the parents coming in, and that entire report card mess, which involves all sorts of paperwork–it always astounding to me how people just don’t get this thing called mail merge.

That aside, it’s been a good week as far as the dating and so on are concerned (do you hear that, Mark?–Okay, I’ll stop the shout-outs, it’s annoying), but it’s odd to think how quickly the sharp snappiness in kendo can leave you with just a week off. Saturday was also extremely pleasant weather-wise (with eventual facebook photos to follow), but it’s sad how the Manhattan girls find ordinary people’s ordinary lives so damn “festive.”

So more and more in my old age I realize I should have been some species of a sociologist. Rob and I went snowboarding yesterday, and I finally understand why the Japanese are so damn good at kendo.

The representation in terms of New York City-ers was relatively low despite the perfect weather, coldly crisp and still lightly snowing with no wind to attack my delicate pores. What was interesting to watch throughout, however, was the ways in which the teaching of skiing and boarding was taught, the socialization throughout.

I started out in a group lesson, with three kids whose combined age just might have exceeded my own. My instructor couldn’t even shave, and the emphasis was on language (toes, heels) rather than on the real effects, and on communication, something I paid especial attention to since there didn’t seem to be all that many ELL’s hanging out on the slopes. The idea of a group lesson and the lack of reiho were notable, in that the goal was transmission and all learning was at a distance, done by speech.

The difference might have been the ways in which the local parents were training their little ski-kids with harnesses or cradled between their legs, steering their way, and yelling out things like, “Pizza slice” (in order to slow down, apparently), which of course as a culturally-sensitive/relevant/responsive teacher I find offensive to our Sicilian students, or even weaving down “Lover’s Lane” holding a little kid’s hand, exclaiming, “Isn’t this fun?” Of course, private tuition costs a lot more, and there was a mix of parents who were doing their own teaching and a stable of redcoated instructors who of course got preferential treatment in line.

From the point of view of teaching and Mountainous Education, however, I found it helpful to look at these contexts with fresh eyes, and thinking about the ways in which the “model” or philosophy of instruction is far different from the transmissionist ways in which we are still stuck in schooling. Further, I’m deeply jealous of the ways in which little kids can just take things up, in ways that they have a hard time describing or even articulating (as my instructor shows), with a confidence that adult learners like me lose in our self-questioning and doubting….

So my parents send me the following news, from the cutting edge of subversive leftist activity. The old subdivision in metro Detroit is being taken over by blacks, much to the chagrin of the longtime-resident rich Jews. After a landscaping dispute with our neighbors on the hill, my parents have decided to exact their revenge by selling the house (which is an imminent transaction, it sadly seems–where will my books go?) to only black families at what they term to be a “Bad Neighbor Discount.” Take that, whitey!

So back again from a night at the Beer Garden, this time with Joephet and his fam and birthday boy Dannis. Not to mention Betsy. Or at least I try not to. A good set to have fallen in with. No subequatorial stirrings of note despite the proximity to Joephet, which is indeed well-due progress, I must say. So it’s going to be OK, and already is. Difficult to imagine a week ago, which was so marooned and desolate and without hope. Now there is sort of passing acrimony matched with nurturing friendship, which was probably the way to go anyway. New joke, “This is the monoGAMest I’ve ever been.” Must be the buzz talking. It’s a joke because of the acronym GAM. If this needs further explanation, maybe you should read the handbook. Am I hardcore, or do I just pretend? I guess a whiskey, a Lucky, and a Zippo are all that I need. But no, drunkenness is ineffable, even from the inside–and of course a roving eye is always good, though the lighting is not Web-quality: the red lights at the Web make everyone look white. But not quite right.

White makes right.

The 60s managed to win equal whites.

So it goes.