Most Valuable Third Baseman

I started playing tee ball in the Maplewood rec league when I was six years old. My team was the Maplewood Tree Experts and our jerseys were bright red.

I can't remember whether or not we wore helmets. I can't imagine why we would have, but that doesn't necessarily mean we didn't.

Tee ball was essentially the same as baseball, but with a much softer, plastic ball, an abundance of players on defense (as many as had shown up for the game), and the presence of a tee, a plastic stand for the ball, instead of a pitcher. I had never seen a baseball or a tee ball game, and I don’t believe I knew the rules of either one yet. (I think I was, for some reason, under the impression that the defense had two shortstops on the diamond.) I knew I wanted to play third base though, despite not knowing what a third baseman actually did, because the Red Sox’ best player at the time was their third baseman Wade Boggs. At least that's what my dad told had told me. Having no way to verify this at the time, I took his word for it. When I told grown-ups that I was a third baseman, they told me I must have a good arm and sharp reflexes. A third baseman needed to have both. But in tee ball, such skills certainly weren't necessary, and probably weren't expected. As far as I remember, my main responsibilities included standing near a rubber base marker for an hour or so, and occasionally touching the ball.

For my ability to remain standing in one spot for the duration of the season, I was awarded a certificate at the end of the season bearing the words: Most Valuable Third Baseman. This despite not successfully helping my team to record a single out. My tee ball career coincided with the heyday of the much-maligned participation trophy. Even then, I felt my award was a little contrived, but it was my first athletic award I had ever received, and I certainly wasn't going to complain about it.

Otherwise, I don’t remember much of the actual games themselves, except for two specific memories. In the first of these, my team was batting and I had made it to third base, which was not a particularly notable achievement in itself, since the defense almost never recorded outs in these games. The ball was tapped softly back to the pitcher (whose job wasn’t actually to pitch but merely to cover his position), and with no consideration for the situation, how many outs there were, who was on base, etc., I blindly broke for home. The pitcher’s understanding of the rules was thankfully as limited as my own: he fielded the ball cleanly and ran to tag me out before I could touch the plate. He beat me there, but he tagged me with his left hand, and the ball was in his right. I was called safe, though I didn’t understand why until my dad explained it to me after the game.

In my other memory, I was playing my usual third base position, (although why the third baseman was apparently supposed to stand a few feet to the left of the bag instead right on top of it was beyond me). A ball was hit a few feet to my left and came to rest on the grass just past the infield dirt, a few feet away from where I had been standing. I nearly stepped over to pick up the ball, but then the gears inside my six-year-old brain started turning. Wasn’t someone else supposed to relay the ball to me from the outfield? If I went to retrieve it myself, wouldn’t third base be vacant? And wasn’t it my duty to guard the base at all costs? In the end, I did nothing but look at the ball, paralyzed, while two opposing runners scored. It was a decision that I'm sure baffled my coaches, my parents watching from the bleachers, and any of my teammates who happened to be paying attention.

This was my initiation into the world of sports, a place governed by a byzantine set of rules that demanded to be mastered. I was already learning that the price for ignorance of the rules, or for failure to adhere to them, was a palpable sense of confusion or even shame. I’m sure this wasn’t actually true – in fact, my memory of the pitcher failing to tag me out at home basically proves that there were other kids as ignorant as I was  – but to my mind, I was the only person in the world who didn’t understand the rules of the game I was playing. And more than any specific moment from any tee ball game, I remember the feeling that I was being left out of a group that I desperately wanted to join. I would recall this feeling years later during a trip to Costa Rica, as I tried to communicate using my high school Spanish.

My parents had to remind me of a third memory from my tee ball career. Apparently, I would race over to them after each game and ask, breathlessly, “Did we win?” There was no scoreboard in kickball, and the numerous runs scored in each game meant that I soon lost track of who was winning and who was losing. The advantage was that the confusion over scoring made it easier for my parents to lie to me. “It was a tie,” they would tell me every time. This answer was enough for me, and a postgame stop at Baskin Robbins would quickly divert my attention to other matters. But after one game, in which the Tree Experts had been thoroughly outscored by the opposition, my parents figured they couldn't get away with lying once again. “You lost,” they told me, after I asked my usual question, “The other team was just better this time.” I immediately burst into tears – and I didn’t stop crying until a mint chocolate chip cone was in my hand.

Baltimore Coffee

I've vowed to use my summer break to some serious writing. (Haven't made a ton of progress yet, but hey, it's still June.) It's a task that will require lots of coffee.

I've found I'm pretty much the opposite of a creature of habit: if I try to work in the same location every day, I burn out quickly. I'll bounce between home and my office at school (where the maintenance staff looks at me quizzically, because I'm sometimes the only teacher on the grounds), but I tend to focus best at coffee houses, in part because it's harder to take a siesta in the middle of my work.

So my other plan for the summer is to check out a different Baltimore-area coffee spot every day. I feel strongly about the elements that make a good coffee spot. Coffee itself is one of several considerations. Location, atmosphere, food, and service are all factors. For a limited time, my blog (which generally has no theme, other than the disparate topics that appeal to me) will become a quasi-coffee review blog. I'll write quick blurbs about each spot I visit, and rate them in five categories, each worth five points. I should also stipulate that I'm doing this on my own dime, which means that I won't be exhaustively sampling menus. I'll order coffee and maybe a baked good or a sandwich, I'll sit for a half hour or maybe more, I'll soak in the atmosphere, and that will be that.

The writing didn't get off to the greatest start last week, but the coffee-hunting wasn't bad. Here were the stops I made:

ROGGENART
5722-5724 Falls Rd
Baltimore, MD 21209

Location - It's a convenient spot for me, because it's close to work, but man, the location does this place no favors. Falls Road can get super busy, and there's only parallel parking available, which can be kind of a pain. Also, it's a pretty easy spot to miss. (Accidentally drove by it yesterday.) 3/5

Atmosphere - Gives off a pleasant European vibe, although I'm sure part of that is the presence of a European family (Dutch, maybe?) on the day I visited. The owner is a Serbian who grew up in Austria, I'm told, so I'm sure that's part of it, too. Main floor is pleasant enough, with big windows overlooking Falls. Upstairs (which I almost missed because it's well hidden) was marginally more crowded, with some hipsters writing in spiral notebooks, and reading Kant or something. 5/5

Coffee - A smooth, pleasant cup. 5/5

Food - Roggenart is a bakery with an impressive range of flavored croissants. I just had a plain. Other snacks looked good too, although they looked kind of small in relation to their price. 4/5

Service - Perfectly adequate. Ordering is easy and quick. 5/5

22/25

DOVECOTE CAFE
2501 Madison Ave.
Baltimore, MD 21217

Location - On a lovely residential block near Druid Hill Park. Didn't hurt that I went there on a perfect, 74-degree day. It's the only business on the block. Parking is easy, though I feel that most customers are locals who walked there. 5/5

Atmosphere - Feels like all the folks in the neighborhood gather at this one neighbor's house every morning. Decor inside is funky and mismatched. There are a bunch of Adirondack chairs and tables outside. Funk music soundtrack. (Maybe a touch too loud, or I'm just old.) Interesting, diverse crowd. Maybe 60-40 black-white? 5/5

Coffee - Yum. 5/5

Food - I didn't try anything, but there are a bunch of baked goods underneath glass covers in front. (On my visit, an employee knocked over a platter with a bunch of muffins. So that was messy.) I also noticed they have a pretty large menu, including a "crabby patty." Based on not much, the food gets a 4/5.

Service - Quick and efficient. The staff gets extra points for just looking cool. I think some of them are artists, or at least artsy types. Lots of local art on the walls, much of it African of Black-themed. 5/5

24/25

CUPs
1301 North Broadway
Baltimore, MD 21213

It's really hard to rate this place without some context. Aside from serving coffee, its mission is "creating opportunities for local youth and to building community," which is obviously commendable and almost makes me feel bad about offering criticism. But...

Location - Ok, this isn't an great area, which I know is sort of the point. Still... it's one storefront on a block that is otherwise a ghost town. I love that they're trying, but I'm not sure they can single-handedly make this a desirable location. On the plus side, parking is easy. 2/5

Atmosphere - As far as interior design is concerned, these guys have done a really impressive job. The place is pleasant and homey, and I love the Baltimore mural/sculpture thing on the wall. But both times I've been there, it's been empty. Empty of patrons, and very overstaffed. (I counted seven employees ready to bring me a cup of coffee and a wrap.) Again, God love the staff for putting this place together (the woman who founded the place seems particularly amazing). But the atmosphere reminded me of sitting in a mostly-empty school cafeteria (albeit a nicely decorated one). A bunch of kids were joking around with each other and I just sort of felt out of place. 3/5

Coffee - They serve Zeke's. 5/5

Food - I had a decent curry chicken wrap. Generic, but no complaints. 4/5

Service - Again, hard to judge. The girl behind the counter was charming and clueless. ("Don't forget to ask him XYZ..." her manager had to prompt her at least three times during our 60-second interaction.) The kids are learning. It seems mean to dock them points. But... 3/5

17/25

BALTIMORE COFFEE & TEA
9 West Aylesbury Rd.
Lutherville-Timonium, MD 21093

Location - This place has a bunch of locations, but Timonium is the flagship as well as the location of their coffee roasting plant. BC&T has a lot going for it, but the location does it no favors. It's in a weird, industrial part of Timonium, between York Rd. and light rail tracks. I drove around looking for it for a while, because I assumed I was in the wrong place. The actual store is ugly from the outside; it looks like a warehouse. It's part store-part factory, so I guess the look makes sense. Still, if you happened to walk by (which you almost certainly wouldn't anyway, because who would stroll around here?) it would never occur to you that there's a pleasant cafe inside. 2/5

Atmosphere - There is a pleasant cafe inside, though. On a random Monday afternoon, it was full of happy coffee-drinkers, most of them on the older side. The space doesn't have anything particularly interesting or idiosyncratic to offer, but it's clean and well put together, and as you might expect, it smells fantastic. 4/5

Coffee - Ultimately, the variety of coffee (and tea, if you like that sort of thing) is what sets this place apart from almost any other. There are a million varieties, include weird ones like "s'mores," and "cinnamon sticky bun." I bought a pound of beans, and I'm sure I'll do it again. This is cheating, but: 6/5

Food - I didn't try it, but for a place where food clearly isn't the focus, it has a pretty full menu. Based on nothing in particular: 3/5

Service - A small army of young baristas in BC&T shirts was very capable and attentive. 5/5

20/25 (I doubt I'll be stopping by with papers to grade, but chances are I'll be back when my pound of coffee runs out.)

** Note: This week, I also had a cup of coffee at Grand Grounds, inside Johns Hopkins Hospital. It should by no means be considered a proper coffee house. The place is half Hopkins souvenir shop, and you'd never go there unless you had reason to visit the hospital. Just wanted to let the record show that I went there. And incidentally, the coffee is pretty good. **

Way to Graduate!

Being a teacher is sometimes a little bit like being in the movie Groundhog Day, if it were a year instead of a day. The job requires you to attend the same events annually, and the effect is that these events run into each other and become indistinguishable over time.  Two weeks ago, I attended my thirteenth high school graduation in as many years. Add those to my own graduations, and my sister’s graduations years ago, and I hope you’ll forgive me for tuning out when another valedictorian starts talking about “the best years of our lives” and “the lessons we’ve learned here.”

I’ve become pretty jaded so perhaps this should be taken with a grain of salt, but it has to be said nonetheless: Graduating from high school is an incredibly overrated achievement, and the pageantry surrounding it is completely out of step with what has actually been accomplished.

Look, I know there are places in this country where graduating high school is not to be taken for granted. In Baltimore City, where I live, the graduation rate is %72, a figure that doesn’t take into consideration students who drop out before ninth grade. If a kid from such a school works hard and wants to pull out all the stops after they cross the stage, they should feel entitled to. But at most public and private high schools located in more privileged areas, graduation is essentially a foregone conclusion. My own high school, and the two where I’ve taught, fall into this category, so I’ve seen their graduation rituals firsthand – many times. For almost every student here, dropping out of high school was not even a remote consideration. It was obvious from the first day of their freshman year that they would graduate, and that they would do so in the standard four years.

The irony is that the schools where graduation from high school is taken for granted are the ones that raise the biggest hoopla for their graduates. There’s prom, school-sanctioned activities for after-prom, the graduation ceremony itself, and other assorted senior year activities. (Senior Picnic at one of the schools where I taught, a four-Day Senior Retreat at another. Plus Senior Breakfast, Senior Skip Day, Beach Week, and a smattering of other events throughout the school year.) Under-performing schools don’t offer the same lavish slate of activities. At the graduation ceremony, their families may sometimes bring impressive lung power (see below), but this pales in comparison to spending power.

Much respect to this guy. (Play it til the end.) Although, I wonder if his kid was embarrassed...

Prom is surely the capstone of these annual end-of-year events. Those who don’t work at schools, or who don’t have high school age kids themselves might not be aware of all that it now entails. Senior prom, in privileged communities, is not your parents’ school dance with some streamers in a gym. Competition between neighboring schools has ratcheted up the “prom arms race” in recent years. It now includes the often elaborate “Prom-posal,” the search for an obscenely expensive dress, the requisite limousine, and then the dance itself, which more and more frequently, takes place at a fancy hotel or social club. (Here in Baltimore, a popular venue is the Center Club, an elegant ballroom located on the top floor of the city’s tallest skyscraper, with views overlooking the Inner Harbor and beyond.)

All this to celebrate the kid who may have just eked out a 2.0 GPA, at a school with a 99% graduation rate.

I don’t mean to be a curmudgeon, nor do I mean for this to come off as one of those tiresome screeds against spoiled “kids these days” and their entitled parents. Costs may be climbing as communities compete to outdo each other, but the truth is that the festivities surrounding my own high school graduation, almost twenty years ago, were plenty excessive in their own right. My parents wisely talked me out of renting a limousine to travel the five and a half miles from our house to the prom venue. But that venue in question was the Short Hills Hilton, easily one of the area’s most expensive event spaces. Our after-graduation celebration included an all-night cruise up and down the Hudson River, aboard a ship outfitted with an all-you-can-eat buffet (pointless, by the way, since I had just been out to eat with my family), a DJ, a dance floor, a caricaturist, a karaoke both, etc.

The following morning, after I had caught a couple hours of sleep, my mom woke me up to take me to the camp in Pennsylvania where I would be working for the summer. I was understandably exhausted once I got there, and probably not in the best state to try to make friends with the other counselors, none of whom I knew, and many of whom came from abroad to work in the US for a summer.

I remember telling a British guy the reason why I was so tired.

He blinked. “You Americans are crazy,” he said.

“Why? What did you do after you graduated?”

Pause. “Went down to the pub for a pint.”

I get that high school is challenging, and that for most, its challenges extend beyond literally just graduating. The vast majority of my classmates and the students I’ve taught have tried not merely to earn a diploma but to take the most challenging classes, to shine in these classes, and to excel in sports and extra-curriculars, all in the hopes of getting into a good college, or putting themselves in the best position to succeed at whatever they do next. Plus, the transition from high school to college marks the most important shift in many of our lives, one that brings us from our parents’ house to a freshman dormitory. It is, for so many, the most important and most visible coming-of-age moment. At such a moment, it’s natural for students and their families to want to mark the passage of time. And by all means, they should – with more than a mere celebratory pint, if they like.

All I’m saying is maybe we can dial it down a notch. There’s got to be a happy medium between the local pub and the Center Club.

Be Careful What You Wish For: Thoughts on Game of Thrones

Some thoughts before I begin:

1 - Everyone and his brother has an opinion about Game of Thrones. Most of these opinions can be found online somewhere. Buzzfeed seems to churn them out at a rate of one per hour, and even more in the immediate aftermath of an episode. The market is over-saturated. It's probably not advisable for me to add to the white noise. And yet...

2 - I love this show and I have a lot to say about it. At the risk of sounding like an insufferable hipster, I was into it before it got big. I binge-watched the first season over the course of a week at the end of the summer of 2011. And then - partly because I wanted to keep all of the characters straight in my mind - I re-watched the season with Maya.

When I was little, I used to love the medieval fantasy genre. My He-Man figures were some of my most prized possession, and trips to Medieval Times were among my fondest memories. But as an adult, I generally haven't been that interested. It took me until 2014 to finally watch the first installment of Lord of the Rings, and I still haven't seen the others. I wouldn't even call myself a big tv guy. I've watched most of the important shows of the past ten to fifteen years (The Wire, Breaking Bad, Mad Men, The Sopranos, etc.) but I almost never tune in to any show to watch it as it airs. And it tends to take me a while to get through a full show.

So it's a testament to quality of Game of Thrones that it hooked me so completely. It captured my imagination in a way I didn't know it could be captured any more. The show even compelled to read the first two books in the series, in spite of my generally snobbish literary tastes. (I quit after those first two, when it dawned on me that I probably knew more of the history of Westeros than I did of my own non-fictional country.)

3 - At this point, complaining about Game of Thrones is pointless, not to mention boring and kind of pretentious. Griping about the world's most popular tv show just seems kind of snobby - the underlying assumption being that the complainer can't deign to enjoy a show enjoyed by the rest of the masses. It also seems kind of ungrateful to complain too much about a show that has essentially offered me a decade's worth of enjoyment. I feel like the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons.

----------------------

But ok - let's address the elephant in the room. Game of Thrones clearly isn't what it used to be. That's not to say it's not entertaining, or that I'm done with it. I'll still keep watching to the end. But if I had entered at the beginning of this season, or even last season,aside from being very confused, I wouldn't have seen what all the fuss was about.

To be fair, the show is more visually stunning than ever. The battles are bigger and more epic in scale. The CGI feels lifelike (to me, anyway. Some chronic malcontents will still complain). Nothing's wrong in the visual department - notorious Starbucks cup notwithstanding. But at the end of the day, the quality of any show is always determined by its writing. Lately, GOT's writing has felt stale and uninspired both on the micro level of dialogue and the macro level of plot. It feels like fanfiction, like the work of a writer other than the original author trying to pick up the pieces and guide a massive, sweeping story to its conclusion. And of course, that's exactly what's happening. It's tempting to blame the writers/showrunners, Dan Weiss and David Benioff, and plenty of fans have done just that, but blaming them seems kind of lazy to me. These guys are talented writers. I read David Benioff's novel City of Thieves a few years ago and couldn't put it down. But they're essentially faced with an impossible task: to finish George R.R. Martin's epic work, and to do it quickly and neatly, in a way that will satisfy both hardcore fans and dilettantes. Martin himself has been famously slow to finish his series, leading some to suggest that he's been distracted with other projects. But my theory is this: this story is nearly impossible to finish writing. At least, it's impossible to finish writing it in a satisfying way. Part of the appeal of GOT - both the novels and the show - is that, time and time again, it dashes its audience's expectations, which is exactly what keeps us coming back for more. Of course we want a happy ending, but not at the cost of the story's integrity. Then again, a devestrating ending (Cersei and the Night King jointly rule Westeros?) just seems nihilistic and needlessly abusive to the audience. And then there's this question: how can the writers unite all of the audience's favorite characters in a way that doesn't feel contrived? The answer, I think, is that they can't. There is no good way to end this thing. The author himself can't do it, and to expect it from Weiss and Benioff just seems brutally unfair.

The show worked best when it withheld satisfaction from us. We in the audience all knew what wanted. We wanted Ned to remain capitated and to take down Cersei in glorious fashion. When we couldn't have that, we wanted Robb and Catelyn to avenge his death.We wanted the Red Viper to kill the Mountain. We wanted that inbred coward Joffrey to die miserably. And in the early going, we wanted Dany to fly across the Narrow Sea and kick some butt. Basically, we wanted good to be rewarded and evil to be punished. Again, the show made a name for itself by dashing our expectations. It almost never gave us what we wanted - and we loved it for that. The execution of Ned, as brutal and heartbreaking as it was, helped launch the show to legend status. Who was going to give up after that? And on the rare occasion that our prayers were answered, as they were with Joffrey, they immediately created some sort of complication (in case, a false accusation directed towards Tyrion).

So now we're getting what we wanted all along. Tearful reunions between all of the remaining Stark children. The long-awaited consummation of relationships between beloved characters (Arya and Gendry, Jaime and Brienne). Epic fights between dragons and white walkers. So why doesn't it feel more satisfying?

One of the morals, I think, is that we, the audience, shouldn't be trusted when we say what we'd like to happen in a story. We're like the toddler who thinks he wants ice cream for three square meals a day. A good author, like a good parents, knows better than to provide it.

A major reason for GOT's decline is that Weiss and Benioff are giving us a lot of ice cream - along with an occasional sad moment (Missandei) as if to remind us, "Hey, this is still the heartbreaking show you fell in love with!" Even before Melisandre took off her necklace last week, the show had lost its magic.

That being said, I'm looking forward to Sunday. I've invested a lot of time and brain space to this show, and dammit, I want to know what happens.

The Oscars

Well, I did it: I saw all eight best picture nominees. And I did it a week before the Oscars ceremony. Not bad for a guy with two-year-old twins. I'd like to thank Maya for allowing me to skip out on bedtime to go to the movies a few times. Couldn't have done it without her. Her, and the Academy, of course.

I'm going to present my rankings, but I do so with some reservations. I think everyone, whether they admit it or not, allows their personal rankings - of anything - to be influenced by their audience. I'll be honest: I rarely ever share my favorite this or that without factoring in how my opinion will make me look. And, though I'm not really proud of it, I often judge other people based on their estimations of films, books, albums, etc. I once had a first date come to a crashing halt when the girl admitted, with no apparent embarrassment, that her all-time favorite movie was The Addams Family (1991; rated PG-13).

This year's best picture category is divided between intellectual art films and crowd-pleasing blockbusters (or at least movies that did pretty well at the box office). If my list favors the former, with Roma or The Favourite at the top of the list, then I'm a total snob. If it favors the latter, with Black Panther or Bohemian Rhapsody at the top, then I'm an uncultured rube.

Another disclaimer before I give my rankings: these are in order of how much I enjoyed them, not my estimation of their overall quality. And another one: none of the nominees were actually bad movies. Oh, and spoiler alert.

The List

1 - Green Book

2 - Blackkklansman

3 - Vice

4 - Black Panther

5 - A Star is Born

6 - Roma

7 - Bohemian Rhapsody

8 - The Favourite

My Pick for Best Picture: Green Book

Movie I think will win: A Star is Born

Here are some thoughts on each of them, presented in the order in which I saw them.

A Star is Born was a good old-fashioned romantic Hollywood tearjerker. I think I would have used the word "old-fashioned" even if it hadn't been made three times before. I don't use it derisively, though. The movie didn't really cover any new ground, but it was hard not to get caught up the romance and, in the end, the tragedy. Bradley Cooper was great. So was Lady Gaga. (I see a lot of similarities with Cher. Lots of people were initially skeptical about both of their acting skills. And in the end, both of them silenced virtually all haters.) I'm sure lots of people disagree with me on this point (including my wife), but I found the music pretty forgettable. Even "Shallow," which everyone is raving about. Yes, Lady G can really belt it out, but I could have used more melody. Weirdly, the song that wormed its way into my head was that one she sings on Saturday Night Live - the one that's supposed to be silly and trite, and was supposed to mark her loss of agency and her loss of artistic vision. Whatever, though. Catchy is catchy. Don’t @ Me. Oh, and a lot of people have been talking about Sam Elliott's performance, which was great and all, but the guy I really enjoyed was Andrew Dice Clay. I was not aware he could be so likable.

Even though Green Book mostly earned praise from critics, it also suffered major backlash from some who accused it of being too simplistic in its view of race. An article on Jezebel called it "A movie about race for white people." Huffington Post called it "tone-deaf on race." There seems to be a consensus out there that Green Book isn't "woke" enough, and that those who liked it must be hopelessly square. At least, that's what I'm picking up on. Admittedly, I haven't read much of the negative criticism. Maybe some of it is valid - I don't know. What I do know is that I enjoyed this movie a ton. I cared about the characters. I found Viggo Mortenson incredibly endearing as Tony Lip. I was rooting for him to learn something, and I enjoyed watching the movie's central friendship grow over time. The movie had a spirit and energy - it was downright fun. I loved the scene where Tony introduces Don to fried chicken - and I don't care who knows it. I try not to criticize the PC movement, because I think it's basically well-meaning and because I think there are much better things out there to criticize and because I don't want to have anything in common with the wearers of MAGA hats. But lately, it seems like every movie that deals with race or sexuality must appear in front of a tribunal of PC police who tell the world whether that movie is sufficiently "woke." Was Green Book woke enough? I'll leave that to others to answer that. Did it keep me engrossed for two plus hours? Did I care about the characters? Did I want to see how things would turn out for Tony and Don? Yes, yes, and yes. And that's really all I care about.

I’m not a superhero movie guy, so I probably wouldn’t have gone out of my way to see Black Panther if it hadn’t been nominated for Best Picture. I’m glad I did, though. It already holds a place in pop culture, and I’d venture to guess that in twenty years, it will be the best-remembered film of the bunch. For a superhero movie, it asked some weighty questions – specifically, does a wealthy nation have an obligation to help less fortunate ones? It was fun, too. I loved the Panther’s trial by combat against the guy from the mountain tribe. I loved the war rhinos, and the car chase in Korea. I loved Andy Serkis as that big South African arms dealer guy. I loved the plot twist involving Forrest Whitaker’s character. I loved Michael B. Jordan as Killmonger, even though part of me had a hard time with him as a villain, mostly because I find the actor so incredibly likable. In the end, it was still just a super hero movie, but it will probably go down as one of the best in the genre (along with The Dark Knight).  Also, after this, Creed, and Fruitvale Station, I’m officially on board with Ryan Coogler: I’ll see anything he directs.

I love that Netflix is now a platform for serious Oscar contenders. I had heard the buzz surrounding Roma, and I made a point of checking it almost as soon as it was available. Midway through its two-hour run time, it dawned on me that I wasn’t enjoying it very much. Yes, it was beautiful and poetic, but it was awfully slow, too. And what was the plot, anyway? I can’t stand the experience of realizing I don’t enjoy a piece of art that everyone else seems to love. Critics and other people with highbrow taste raved about Roma. So if I didn’t like it, what did that make me? I will say I’m glad I stuck it out to the end. It had so much to say about barriers between social classes – almost like one of those short stories by James Joyce, in which you don’t really understand the point until the epiphany at the end. And it had no shortage of iconic scenes: the naked karate demonstration, Cleo’s pregnancy announcement in the movie theater, the big car carefully maneuvering its way into a small garage, the surreal forest fire, and of course the hospital scene, and the final scene on the beach. I’m still not entirely sure I enjoyed Roma, but I did appreciate it, and I expect it to stay with me for a while.

As a regular viewer of The Daily Show during W’s presidency, I was simultaneously repulsed and fascinated with Dick Cheney. I’m usually interested in films or tv about recent history, so I was excited for Vice, even in spite of mixed reviews. Much has been made of Christian Bale’s amazing performance – and rightly so. This man looks even less like Dick Cheney than Gary Oldman looked like Winston Churchill last year. Where did he get the audacity to think he could pull off this role? And he totally did, too. Obviously, the make-up is great, but he nailed the inflections, down to Cheney’s sinister way of speaking out of the side of his mouth. Totally overshadowed was Amy Adams, who nailed Lynn Cheney despite, again, looking nothing like her. For me, Steve Carrell was less convincing as Donald Rumsfeld. There’s an inherent danger in casting an instantly recognizable actor as an instantly recognizable public figure: it doesn’t always work. In all the conversation about bold casting and incredible acting, not enough has been said about this movie’s seriously eccentric style of direction by Adam McKay. He tries everything to shake up the traditional biopic format: fake-out credits less than halfway through, a scene in which Dick and Lynn speak in faux-Shakespearean English, a random cameo from Alfred Molina as a waiter, whose purpose is to educate the audience on political strategy. And also, a major I-didn’t-see-that-coming twist near the end (involving the story’s narrator, played by Jesse Plemons). Some reviewers thought it was a bit of a mess, and I can see why. It was an awful lot of fun, though.

Before I see a movie, I usually have at least some sense of whether or not I’m going to like it. Blackkklansman, though, was a total wild card: I had no idea what to expect. I don’t love Spike Lee. I have enjoyed movies of his – specifically Do the Right Thing and He Got Game – but it’s not like I’m rushing out to see the next “Spike Lee Joint” as soon as it drops. I rented this on Amazon Prime, mostly just because it had been nominated and, wouldn’t you know, it turned to be one of my favorite movies of the year. I’d had it in my head that it was going to be either heavy-handed and political, or else a jokey satire of a Blaxploitation film from the seventies. Instead, it was a tense, tightly structured thriller based a stranger-than-fiction piece of history. I held my breath through most of J.D. Washington’s conversations with those white supremacists. Ditto for every scene that had Adam Driver trying to pass for one of them. This was also an incredibly fun movie – a strange thing to say about a movie that focuses to heavily on Klansmen, but it’s true. The whole ending, culminating in Washington’s final conversation with David Duke, is so eminently satisfying. That means it’s extra sobering when Lee fast-forwards to the situation in Charlottesville in mid-2017. The white supremacists are more prevalent than ever. In fact, we may have elected one president.

Superficially, the two movies don’t have all that much in common, but The Favourite reminded me a little bit of Phantom Thread from last year. Both period pieces, both about control dynamics, and both tell their stories in bizarre fashion. (Hm. Actually, maybe they do have quite a bit in common.) I’ll also say that I didn’t particularly enjoy either film while I was actually in the theater, and that only after some reflection a few days later did I come to appreciate them. To me, the most interesting part of the movie was the queen’s character, and the way she was played by Olivia Colman. We would recognize her today as clinically depressed, although they probably didn’t have a word for her state at the time. She cares very little about government and, for that matter, about anything save her collection of seventeen rabbits, each of which reminds her of one of her dead children. Actually, I’m not even sure she’s a lesbian, despite having affairs with both Rachel Weisz’s and Emma Stone’s characters. To quote a phrase sometimes used by Roger Ebert, she carries on these affairs because they “may be evidence that she exists.” Did I love it? No. Too much use of fish-eye lens, too much weirdness for weirdness’ sake. And ultimately, too slow in its plotting. But certainly not without its redeeming qualities.

Like Green Book, Bohemian Rhapsody faced some backlash from the PC Police (God, I sound just like a Trump supporter) for what some called its insensitivity in handling Freddy Mercury’s sexuality. For me, that wasn’t an issue – although again, I can’t say I paid that much attention to grievances against the movie. What was more of a problem for me was that the movie was basically a standard issue musical biopic. It hit all the beats: musical genius, troubled personal life, massive success, corruption from success, turmoil leading to some major hits, and finally, a measure of redemption. I’ve seen it before in Ray, Walk the Line, Get on Up, Love and Mercy, just to name a few. (This formula is also cleverly parodied in Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, a criminally underrated comedy in my opinion.) The thing is, it’s an entertaining formula, especially when you’re actually a fan of the musician being profiled. I liked seeing a young Freddy almost get rejected from Queen for having bad teeth. I liked watching the group write “Bohemian Rhapsody” and their other iconic hits. I liked the whole Live Aid concert. And I loved Mike Myers’s cameo which included his ironic comment that kids didn’t want to sit in their cars banging their heads to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” A true Easter Egg for us 90’s kids. By no means did I dislike the movie; I just think that tried and true formula, as entertaining as it is, can only take you so far.

Transcendent Moments

I was asked to deliver a speech to a group of students on the lofty and intimidating subject of "transcendent moments."

Here's what I came up with:

_________________________________________________

“I wish there was a way to know you were in the good old days before you actually left them.”

These are the wise words of Andy Bernard from The Office. Andy knows what he’s talking about: not only is he one of the top salesmen at Dunder Mifflin; he’s also a Cornell man. Almost every character on The Office is meant to be a target of the audience’s ridicule, and about 95% of their supposed wisdom is patently ridiculous. Here, though, I think Andy is on to something.

As human beings, we have a tendency to romanticize both the past and the future, while simultaneously neglecting the present. We can’t help it; it’s just how we’re wired.

When I was in sixth grade, I used to come home from school every day to watch my favorite t.v. show, Saved by the Bell. I watched part of an episode again recently, and it turns out it’s actually a very silly show. At the time, though, I couldn’t get enough. The show follows high school student Zack Morris and his group of friends: Kelly, Slater, Jesse, Lisa and Screech. I enjoyed it, I guess, because it was funny and silly and satisfying, and because Zack was a lovable rogue, whom you couldn’t help but root for. But mostly, I think I enjoyed it because it seemed like a preview of coming attractions; to my twelve-year-old self, Saved by the Bell might as well have been a documentary about high school life. I watched with a great excitement, hoping that one day I too would go to prom. Or hang out with friends at the local diner (just like The Max, where everyone hung out in the show). Or start my own cool band (just like Zack and the gang’s group Zack Attack, best known for their smash hit “Friends Forever”).

High school turned out to be ok, though quite different from Bayside High as it was depicted on the show. Saved by the Bell actually left out a quite a bit. The constant insecurity of wondering who my real friends were. The panic that no one would invite me to go anywhere on the weekends. And the tedium of a fifty-five minute chemistry class. By my sophomore year, I was already starting to daydream about college. Once I got there, I wouldn’t have to check in with my parents all the time. I could play video games deep into the night. If I was so inclined, I could even be free to buy myself a box of Frosted Flakes (which – I swear to God – my mother considered just about equivalent to buying hard drugs).

To be sure, I enjoyed college a great deal once I finally got there. I really loved it for the first two and a half years or so. But in time, I felt I had outgrown the tiny campus in the middle of nowhere. I spent basically my entire senior year wishing I was elsewhere. Gambier, Ohio had become stifling and I couldn’t wait to move to the big city, to meet new people, and to live a more cosmopolitan life.

Now, there’s nothing necessarily wrong with looking forward to the next step in life. And we probably wouldn’t be able to refrain from doing so even if we tried. But I do know that I’ve run into trouble in the past when I’ve taken the current stage of my life for granted, and when I’ve assumed that the next stage in my life would be the best one. That kind of delusion – “I’ll be happy once I get to high school.” “I’ll be happy once I get to college.” “I’ll be happy once I get to the real world.” – can be a dangerous way of thinking. Because it’s been my experience that each stage in life comes with its own wonderful parts and crappy parts. If you’re looking for a Golden Era of your life, where everything goes your way, you’re probably not going to find it.

I think I spend as much time romanticizing the past as I do the future – my own past, sure, but also different eras in history. 2019 seems so bland sometimes. It carries with it none of the romance and glamor associated with, say, the 1920’s. I think about the Roaring 20’s a lot, specifically about my favorite authors, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, living in Paris, writing for hours, strolling the Champs Elysee, and drinking wine at trendy cafes. It’s such a far cry from my own life: grading essays for hours, strolling down York Road, stopping for a latte at Starbucks. My 1920’s fantasy is, I think, a pretty common dream for English teachers and other bookish types. There was even a movie about it: Midnight in Paris, directed by Woody Allen, in which Owen Wilson plays a struggling author who finds himself magically transported to 1920’s Paris. He carouses with Fitzgerald and Hemingway and T.S. Eliot and the rest of their gang, and at first everything is great. But gradually, he realizes, that none of his idols are very happy, despite living in what seems like literary heaven. In fact, many of them are bored of 20’s and wish they lived instead in the late 1800’s, an era called the Belle Époque in Paris. “The grass is always greener on the other side,” the movie seems to say, “It’s human nature to wish we were elsewhere, to wonder what our lives would be like if we had been born in another place and another time. And it’s ok to daydream – but don’t forget about the good things you have.”

Marion Cotillard in Midnight in Paris, a film that always makes me smile.

I’ve taken a while to get here, but the subject of this talk is the “transcendent moment” – in other words, moments in our lives that rise above the ordinary, moments that take us to a higher plane. If you ask me about the transcendent moments in my life, my mind will immediately jump to my wedding day, the day my children were born, the day I graduated from college, and a handful of other major milestones. And to be sure, these moments were amazing and memorable and transcendent. In short, they were everything they’re supposed to be.

But I think most people’s definition of “transcendent” is much too narrow. We assume that the only truly transcendent moments in our lives must be major life events – weddings, births, important birthdays, etc. We assume that a random Thursday in January is ineligible to host a transcendent moment. And as a result, we spend our lives looking forward to, or looking back at just a scant few big moments. And we spend a lot of the rest of the time idealizing both the future and the past.

For my money, one of the most overused clichés is “Enjoy the little things.” Still, it doesn’t get to be a cliché if there isn’t at least some truth to it. The problem with “Enjoy the little things” isn’t that it’s bad advice. It’s that that we’ve heard it so often, we’ve stopped thinking about what it actually means.

I’ve been trying harder to enjoy the little things, lately. And I’ve realized that when I stop to think about it, incredible moments happen all the time.

Last Wednesday, I picked up my two-year-old twins from school for the first time. It was the first full day they’d ever spent away from their parents, and my wife and I were both nervous and excited to see how they’d do. When I pulled up to the school at 4 PM, all of the children were running around on the playground. I opened the gate and stepped inside. When my son, who had been playing in the sandbox, spotted me, his eyes got huge. He screamed “DADDDDDYYYYYY!” and rushed to wrap himself around my leg. My daughter, on the other hand, played it cool, giving me only a little grin before running in the direction of the jungle gym. Still, seeing my boy’s eyes light up in that one moment, seeing his unadulterated affection and relief: It was a transcendent moment.

On Friday, I met up with one of my closest friends, whom I used to teach with when I lived in DC. We used to see each other every day at school, and often at home too, since he was my downstairs neighbor in our small apartment building, but it had been about three months since I’d last seen him. We met at a fantastic Indian restaurant in Columbia, about halfway between DC and Baltimore, and for two hours, we caught each other up on our jobs, our families, our upcoming plans. It was just dinner with a friend – nothing too out of the ordinary – but it made me so thankful for our long friendship, and for the comfort I feel with him, even not having seen him for several months. It was a transcendent moment.

And then, on Monday morning at BL, I opened up an e-mail from my boss giving me a heads up that he and about ten parents of prospective students would be dropping in to my first period AP Lang class. When you’re a teacher, this sort of thing happens from time to time. It’s basically the closest thing to a pop quiz I’ve experienced in my adult life. So sure enough, it’s about 8:30, I’m in the middle of a discussion in Lang – we’re grading examples of student responses to the synthesis question on the 2015 Lang Exam. And in walk my boss, the head of admissions, and ten random strangers. “Don’t choke,” I think to myself, “Also, try to act naturally.” It’s pretty nerve-racking – but it’s also invigorating. I’ve found that what often happens in situations like these is that my students feel the pressure too. There’s an unseen fire stoked underneath us, and together, without even acknowledging the situation out loud, we go into overdrive. It’s as though the guys in my class are saying to me, in a voice that only we can hear, “Don’t worry, Mr. Barron. We got you.” They’re totally engaged. They say all sorts of great things. We volley comments back and forth like tennis partners. In short, these guys make a potentially stress-inducing moment into the highlight of my day – and I just love them for it. When the visitors exit the classroom after fifteen minutes or so, we collectively exhale. It’s not even second period yet, and I’ve already had a transcendent moment.

I’m not trying to imply that any of these moments is on par with my wedding or the birth of my children. But they were special in their own right – special enough for me to call them transcendent. If I were to place all of my experiences on a number line, with “zero” being total mediocre blankness, then maybe my wedding is a ten. And maybe picking up my children from nursery school is a five. A five is still transcendent. It doesn’t have to be a once-in-a-lifetime earth-shattering experience, to earn that description.

In the past week, I’ve experienced three transcendent moments – and that’s a conservative assessment. That can only mean one thing: these must be the good old days.

Happy, Non-Offensive, Non-Denominational Christmas Play

One of the unexpected byproducts of a career in teaching is that I have attended many more holiday concerts than I ever thought I would. Most people perform in them from kindergarten up through about fourth or fifth grade, and if they are serious about music, through high school. And then, they don't set foot in a school auditorium again for about a decade and a half, when their own kids are kindergarten age. I, on the other hand, keep showing up to what feels like the exact same holiday concert year in and year out. At school concerts, I really only half pay attention to the execution of the music. Sometimes, I'm impressed with a kid who has some musical talent I wasn't previously aware of. Sometimes, one of the ensembles surpasses my expectations. Usually, I clap politely after each well-meaning number, but my mind is elsewhere.

What I find myself thinking about, more often than not, is the composition of the program. Every song, I've noticed, falls into of these four categories: 1) Explicitly Christian 2) Christmas-themed, but basically secular 3) Hannukah 4) Winter or Other. I haven't made a formal study of it, but I suspect that in the years that I have been attending holiday concerts, the number of "Category 1" songs has decreased and the number of "Category 3" songs has increased, and frankly, I'm not quite sure how to feel about that.

As a Jew, I should probably be pleased that Hannukah songs have made their way into the mainstream. We now have more representation than ever before. Hannukah is no longer just a footnote to the Holiday Season, as I used to sometimes feel it was when I was growing up. Even at the secular, but majority Christian school where I am one of only three Jews on the faculty, a menorah sits on display next to the Christmas tree in the front lobby. I should just call it a win and shut up and move on. And yet...

Call me a malcontent, but I always feel vaguely uncomfortable watching the school choir - composed of about 50% African-American students, and, like, 98% gentiles - singing about the joy of lighting the menorah and spinning the dreidel. It feels a little patronizing, especially when the Hannukah song is first in the program, as I've noticed it often is. "Consider that box checked," the subtext says, "Now that the Jews have been appeased, let's move on to the main event!"

There's also the fact that most beautiful Christmas songs, tend to be the most religious ones: "Silent Night," "O Holy Night," "Ave Maria." Because religion often equals controversy, these songs have become practically extinct from the holiday lineup. That's a shame. Just saying it's a shame makes me feel like one of those Christian conservatives with a bumper sticker that says "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" or "Keep Christ and Christmas."

They're right, though: Jesus is kind of the point. I can't stand the idea that all of the songs that mention him (i.e., the best ones) have been replaced by some generic Hannukah song written last year by a composer hoping to make a buck by selling it to school choral directors. We're not even talking "The Dreidel Song," here. I feel a weird sense of guilt to think that some dopey Hannukah song has supplanted "Silent Night" because someone thinks that we Jews want it that way. I'd love to make a public service announcement next year at my school, maybe in early November, when directors start to put their programs together: "This Christmas, please do not refrain from singing "Silent Night" on my account. I, along with many other Jews, enjoy Christmas carols - even ones that mention Jesus. I also recognize that music is an integral part of the Christmas and season in general, and a less important part of Hannukah. ("Ma O'tzur" is pretty good, and everyone likes "The Dreidel Song," but let's be honest.) As a Jew, I hearby vow not to be offended if you plan your holiday concert accordingly."

Honestly, f I were a school choral director, I'm not sure what I'd do with this kind of feedback. Probably nothing. They're damned if they do and damned if they don't. If they excise Hannukah music from the program, they're be in trouble. If they add the super-religious traditional carols, someone probably ends up complaining. And if they keep things the way they are... well I'll continue to feel vaguely uncomfortable in a way I almost can't put my finger on, but other than that, no harm no foul. All of this is to say, I don't expect any major changes and I think that the vast majority of school choral directors are doing an excellent job.

And with that, I'll put this subject on the back-burner once again, where it will likely stay until next December.

An early South Park episode satirized the idea of the politically correct holiday concert, completely devoid of references to Christianity or Jesus. The result was the "Happy, Non-Offensive, Non-Denominational Christmas Play," with music by Philip Glass (far right).