April 17: Daughter's Dance Competition, Emmett Kelly, Classic Saint Marty

My daughter making up with her boyfriend

The second day of my daughter's dance competition.  This morning, she did her make-up and then decided to do her boyfriend's make-up.  And he sat there and let her do it.  Of course, he ended up looking like an Emmett Kelly reject.  Yet, he was still smiling.

My daughter's two dances went really well today.  She received Outstanding and Superior Awards.  Plus, one of the dances received the judges' White Diamond Award and the other was part of the Entertainment Showdown.  You may not understand what I just wrote, but, take it from me, it was a big deal for a tiny dance studio from the Upper Peninsula.  I couldn't have been prouder.

After the competition was done, we did what all teenage girls do to celebrate:  we went shopping.  Old Navy this time.  She got a whole lot of clothes.  I myself picked up a few pairs of pants and a couple of shirts for myself.  And then it was Chuck E. Cheese for dinner.  My son was so excited that he didn't even wait for the car to stop to open his door.  Before I had turned off the car, he was across the parking lot and through the door of the restaurant. 

We spent almost two hours there.  The pizza was surprisingly good, and my son, daughter, and daughter's boyfriend had a really good time. 

It has been a really good weekend, full of love and happiness.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired three years ago, when I was once again writing about love and happiness.

April 17, 2013:  Athletic Bastards, Hate in General, Love in General

Ed Banky was the basketball coach at Pencey.  Old Stradlater was one of his pets, because he was the center on the team, and Ed Banky always let him borrow his car when he wanted it.  It wasn't allowed for students to borrow faculty guys' cars, but all the athletic bastards stuck together.  In every school I've gone to, all the athletic bastards stuck together.

Holden is an alienated young man.  He has a problem with "athletic bastards" like his roommate Stradlater.  He has a problem with phonies like his father, who's a corporate lawyer.  He has a problem with Ackley, his suitemate at Pencey Prep, because of his bad hygiene.  Pretty much Holden has a problem with practically the whole world.


Perhaps that's why so many troubled teens identify with Holden.  Holden speaks for a group of people who usually have no voice.  I think that's why The Catcher in the Rye is considered to be such a subversive book, because its main character is on the fringe, not fitting in with any of his peers.  It's no wonder that Holden's story has been linked to so many messed-up kids involved in violent acts in schools and on the streets.  Mark David Chapman, the man who killed John Lennon, had a copy of the novel with him when he was arrested.  He inscribed the book, "This is my statement" and signed it as "Holden Caulfield."

Yesterday afternoon, a colleague saw my copy of The Catcher in the Rye sitting on my desk.  He looked at it and half-jokingly said, "Are you allowed to keep that here?  Has the FBI talked to you about Boston yet?"

At first, I was a little taken aback.  I quickly regained myself and said, "Yeah, I told them the book belonged to you."

My colleague laughed and then went on a diatribe about terrorists and Islamic extremists and the suspension of the Geneva Conventions and torture.  I listened politely.  I understood his anger.  I was angry Monday night as I watched the news reports about the Boston Marathon bombing.  It wasn't unfocused, general anger.  It was anger that wanted justice and retribution and revenge for all the lives that were injured and lost.

We still don't know who's responsible for what happened in Boston.  Domestic or foreign, it was an act of terror.  Certainly, the person or people who did it felt justified (maybe even righteously inspired) to plant those explosive devices.  For me, it's a Mark David Chapman moment, the guilty party using the Bible or Koran or Declaration of Independence or Second Amendment or The Catcher in the Rye or whatever to perpetrate an act of senseless hatred and violence.

People just don't get it.  Mark David Chapman didn't get it.  Osama bin Laden didn't get it.  Skinheads don't get it.  J. D. Salinger wasn't promoting hatred.  In fact, at the end of the novel, Holden says he misses Stradlater and Ackley.  Mohammed and Jesus Christ didn't promote hatred.  They were all about love and peace.  Anybody who thinks otherwise has got it wrong.  Jesus hung out with tax collectors and prostitutes and thieves.  He loved these people, even if He disagreed with their life choices.

I call myself a follower of Christ.  That means I'm supposed to love people.  Forgive people who do me harm.  Anyone.  Black, white, straight, gay, Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, Hindi, short, tall, fat, skinny.  I have to forgive the party responsible for the Boston bombing, show love and compassion.  That's a tall order.  But being a Christian is not easy.  Just ask Jesus.  He has the scars to prove it.

Hate in general is bad.  Hatred of anyone (gay or African American or Muslim or Christian) or anything (unless it's bad poetry).  Love in general is good.  It's what we should all aspire to.  Jesus said, "As I have loved you, so you must love one another."  Mohammed said, "Do you love your creator?  Love your fellow-beings first."  John Lennon sang, "All you need is love."

Saint Marty thinks those are words to live by.

Sing it with me...

April 16: The Muse, Billy Joel, Donald Hall

Michael Goldman wrote in a poem, "When the Muse comes She doesn't tell you to write; / She says get up for a minute, I've something to show you, stand here."  What made me look up at that roadside tree?

I love this little quote that Dillard uses.  She's writing about inspiration.  For her, at this particular moment, it is a tree.  But, at another moment, it may be moonlight in a mud puddle or a cloud of mosquitoes attacking a porch light.  The Muse comes when the Muse comes, and the poet just needs to step aside and let her work her magic.

It has been a busy day.  My daughter danced this afternoon.  A tap dance solo to Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire."  It was the first time I've seen her solo.  She did a great job.  The other dancers were great, too.  I'm always amazed at the level of talent at these competitions.  When I watch these dances, I can tell when the Muse is with the dancer.  There's something extra present.  An energy or technique or connection to the music. 

My daughter received an Outstanding Award for her solo.  That's like a gold medal.  I am so proud of her.  She has the Muse, is my Muse.  I know how much she loves to dance, and when I watch her, I can tell when the music takes over.  It's like that moment when I'm writing and something just drops out of the air onto the page.  Something totally unexpected and beautiful.  A sparkle of tinfoil in a robin's nest.

This morning, I went shopping with my son, daughter, and daughter's boyfriend.  We hit Toys-R-Us first.  Then we headed to Barnes & Noble.  I haven't been to an actual Barnes & Noble in years.  I didn't think they still existed.  I found a new book by Donald Hall.  Essays after Eighty.  I've already read about 15 or 20 pages, where Hall talks about that fact that poems don't come to him anymore.  "Prose endures," Hall writes. 

I find that a little depressing.  Donald Hall has been one of my poet heroes for a long time.  I met him a few years ago.  I attended a dinner in his honor.  He was a lovely man.  Close to 90 years old and still sharp as a shard of glass.  The fact that I will never read a new Donald Hall poem again makes the world a little less bright. 

Yet, Hall's prose contains moments of absolute poetry.  The Muse is still visiting him, even in his old age, as he sits by the window in his house and watches snow coat the world.  So, that gives me hope.  My daughter has the Muse.  Donald Hall has the muse.  And tomorrow, I will go watch my daughter dance again.

Saint Marty is having an a-Musing weekend.

One of my favorite pictures

May 3: Brighton Day Three, Outback Steakhouse, Classic Saint Marty

Greetings once more from Brighton, Michigan.  Third and final day of the dance competition.  My daughter danced with a group, and they received a Gold/Outstanding Award.  It was a good morning.

This afternoon, we hit the outlet mall.  My daughter picked up some cool tee shirts.  I got some work shirts at Old Navy.  My son walked out with some new shoes.  It was about 80 degrees outside, and I could have walked around all afternoon.

Then, we went to Outback Steakhouse for dinner.  It's one my daughter's favorite restaurants.  She always orders the filet mignon.  I ordered the New Zealand lamb dish.  Delicious.  Plus, I indulged in a couple of cocktails.  It was a lovely time.

I still have a few poetry portfolios to finish grading tomorrow.  On the way home, we're going to stop in Roscommon to see one of my best friends who pastors a Methodist church there.  I haven't seen him in about a year and a half.  I'm really looking forward to connecting with him.

This evening's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago.

May 3, 2015:  Brighton, Best Friend, "Traveling Through the Dark," William Stafford

Greetings from Brighton, Michigan.  Yes, dear disciples, I have ventured into the lower part of Michigan for this first time in almost a year.  When I left my home, snow and sleet were pelting the road, and fog hung in the air like a New Year's Day hangover.  Here, in Brighton, the temperature is close to 80 degrees, and the people are walking around in shorts and sandals.


It was a long day of travel.  We stopped in Roscommon to have lunch with my best friend who pastors the local United Methodist Church.  We weren't able to stay long, but we made plans to get together later this summer when I have a couple weeks of vacation.  He's been in Roscommon for close to three years now, but I still miss him a great deal.  If I'm lucky, I see him once or twice a year.

It took us about three hours to drive from Roscommon to Brighton.  The traffic was heavy, but we managed to arrive with very few wrong turns and missed exits.  The power was out in the hotel when we arrived, but it was restored shortly after we checked in.  My daughter has to be at the dance competition by 7 a.m. tomorrow.  I did a trial run to the competition site tonight to make sure I knew where I was going, but it was in the dark.  Everything looks different in the dark, and I hate driving after sundown.

Tonight, I'm giving you one of my favorite poems by William Stafford.  It's about traveling and darkness.

Saint Marty needs to get to bed.

Traveling Through the Dark

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason--
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all--my only swerving--,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

Saint Marty and his best friend

May 2: Sleep More Easily, Poetry Assignments, No Cartoons

It was in fact a blessing.  An ability to sleep more easily and deeply had come to him during the past few years.  Where he used to toss and turn and drive his wife crazy at night, no sooner would he now lay his head upon the pillow than he would fall asleep.  But not into that sleep of old age, but into the sleep of a child, an infinitude of possibilities swaddling him.

I love that description of the sleep of a child, full of "an infinitude of possibilities."  Ives, in his old age, has rediscovered hope.  That's what possibility is all about.  Instead of focusing on the heartaches of the past, Ives is now looking forward, even in times of rest and rejuvenation.

I look forward to that kind of sleep tonight.  This morning, I graded a pile of poem explications from my poetry class.  This evening, I graded a stack of book reviews from my poetry class.  All of the hard work is done now.  All that's left are the poetry portfolios.  I've seen the poems before.  I've helped them with revisions on several occasions.  It will not take me long to grade them.

Therefore, I have no burdens weighing on my mind tonight.  Tomorrow, I will watch my daughter dance again.  (She received an Outstanding Award for the dance she did this afternoon.  That's like a Gold Medal.)  Then we're going to do shopping.  I plan on buying a few shirts for work.  Maybe some vintage tee shirts.  After the shopping, it's the Outback Steakhouse for dinner (my daughter's choice--she's a little carnivore). 

In short, the rest of the weekend, for the most part, is pleasure.  Even grading the portfolios--pleasure.

There will be no new cartoons this weekend.  I have no energy to be funny.  The only thing I have energy to do right now is eat some M&Ms, maybe watch a little SNL, and go to sleep.

An infinitude of possibilities swaddling Saint Marty.

I see a martini and rack of lamb in my infinitude of possibilities