February 2: The Week's End, Concert Tomorrow, Holy Crap

So, I'm done teaching for the week.  As I always say at the end of my last class on Thursdays, I fooled 'em again.  They still think I know what I'm talking about.

My wife and I are going to a concert tomorrow night on campus by a musical group called Yid Vicious.  I don't know anything about the group, but some friends invited us to go with them.  We haven't done anything with these friends for a while, so, of course, I said we would go.  As I was walking to my car on campus today, however, I saw a poster for the concert.  The price of admission is $20 per person.  My reaction:  Holy crap!!!

That's really expensive for a college concert, and I'm not sure we can afford it this week.  We're supposed to go out for drinks with our friends after the concert, as well.  More cash.  And then there's the babysitter.  Cha-ching again.  After seeing the poster, and the price of the tickets, a night at home watching Kitchen Nightmares is looking better and better.

I want to see our friends, but that's a really expensive evening.

Saint Marty's cheap side is winning this battle at the moment.

This is free...

February 2: Old Marley Was Dead, The Dead Game, Kim Jong Il

Marley was dead:  to begin with.  There is no doubt whatever about that.  The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner, Scrooge signed it:  and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose, to put his hand to.  Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Of course, these are the opening lines of A Christmas Carol.  Almost anybody familiar with the book could probably quote at least a portion of this passage.  It ranks right up there with "It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times."  Or "Call me Ishmael."  When I read these words this morning, I was reminded of a ghoulish game I play with my sister-in-law.

My sister-in-law and I are both big pop culture fans.  My specialty is movie and television stars/trivia.  My sister-in-law is unbeatable at music and singers, but she's not too shabby on movies and TV, as well.  Well, a few years ago, my wife and I went for a walk with my sister-in-law and her husband.  It was a pleasant summer evening, and our goal was ice cream.  As we were walking along, my sister-in-law said, "Did you hear the sad news?"

"No," I said.  "What?"

"Katherine Hepburn died today," she said.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a cotton ball.  The news really depressed me.  Katherine Hepburn was one of those actresses/celebrities I grew up watching.  One of my favorite movies as a kid was a little-known flick Hepburn made called Olly Olly Oxen Free.  Loved it.  Anyway, I thought Katherine Hepburn was going to live forever.  That day, when my sister-in-law informed me of Hepburn's death, I felt like a piece of my childhood had died.

Of course, my sister-in-law, seeing my reaction to the news, started making fun of me.  From that day on, it's been game on.

When somebody famous dies, my sister-in-law and I race each other to the phone.  Whoever calls the other person first gets the point for the news.  Usually, the conversation starts out with the words, "Did you hear the sad news...?"  We actually don't keep score, but there's something very satisfying being the first to relate the information.  I'm ashamed to admit that I've actually put news alerts on my computer about celebrities who appear to be very ill; when the celebrity passes, I get sent an e-mail.



This guy doesn't count

 I got Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman in the past year or so.  However, I think my sister-in-law went a little far recently when she called me one morning and said, "Did you hear the sad news?  Kim Jong Il died."  I told her that old dictators of communist Asian countries didn't count.  She still claims to this day that Kim counts.

Now, don't start leaving nasty comments for me about this little competition.  I'm not proud of the Dead Game, but, until my sister-in-law gives up, I will keep setting up my e-mail alerts.

Saint Marty needs to go now.  He needs to call his sister-in-law about Don Cornelius.

February 1: End of Day, Donald Hall, Feeling Important

It is the end of a very long work day.  My mind feels weary.  I'm looking forward to getting home, putting on my pajamas, and doing nothing for the rest of the night.  Of course, I will probably end up doing something, but I'm not planning anything in particular.I hope you got all that.  Nothing.  Something.  Anything.  That's a lot of "things" in one paragraph.

This morning, my good poet friend, who is the editor of the literary magazine at the university, forwarded me an e-mail she received from the poet Donald Hall.  Attached to the e-mail were two of Hall's unpublished poems.  Now, being the associate poetry editor of the magazine, I shouldn't act like some kind of teenage girl at a Justin Bieber concert when I read a submission by a famous poet.  But it was Donald freakin' Hall.  Come on.  The poems were short and funny.  For me, reading a personal communication from Donald Hall was like finding a copy of the Bible with Mother Teresa's hand-written notes in it.  It made my morning.

Aside from making me feel like the ultimate geek poetry fanboy, it also made me feel a little important.  I was considering publishing two poems by Donald Hall.  Actually, there was very little consideration involved.  The poems were going to get accepted, whether I liked them or not.  I didn't even really get to express my opinion before I got a second e-mail from my poet friend saying that she'd accepted the poems.  However, just the fact that I was being asked my opinion about work by Donald Hall was a pretty big ego boost.

Anyway, Donald Hall made Saint Marty's day today.

Donald Hall and some other guy

February 1: Ghost's Blessing, Helping the Poor, Precepts

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end.  The Spirit stood beside sick-beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich.  In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door, and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts.

Dickens at the shoeblacking factory

This description of Scrooge travelling about the planet with the Ghost of Christmas Present strikes at the heart of Dickens' message.  Dickens wanted to shed light on the plight of the poor and destitute.  Coming out of a fairly desperate childhood (his family ended up in debtor's prison when he was 12, he ended up working in a shoeblacking factory and warehouse as a young boy), Dickens was always aware of poverty.  In A Christmas Carol, Dickens pretty much indicts humankind for things like hunger and childhood disease, or, as The Ghost of Christmas Present later says at the end of Stave Three, ignorance and want.  Dickens doesn't let anyone of us off the hook.

That's the dark side of A Christmas Carol that rarely gets much attention.  Most people prefer to think of this book as a tale of a miser who is taught the true meaning of Yuletide joy.  Really, Dickens is out to teach all of us a lesson.

I may drop my spare change into the Salvation Army bucket outside Wal-Mart during the holidays, but there's Charles Dickens standing over my shoulder, shaking his head and saying, "Not enough."  Helping the poor is not just a Christmas thing.  It's a year-round thing.  That's the real, and most important message, of the novel.  We should keep the image of Tiny Tim's deathbed at the forefront of our minds.  Charles Dickens is like Smokey the Bear, reminding his readers, "Only you can prevent this tragedy."

I know I don't do enough when it comes to helping the less fortunate.  I know it.  Unlike Scrooge, I haven't learned the precepts of the Ghost of Christmas Present, because I still get caught up in the "dealings of my trade" and forget about the true business of humanity:  visiting the sick, lonely, struggling, poor people of the Earth, and, somehow, leaving a blessing.  That's what we should all be doing.  That's what Charles Dickens is telling us.  The real work of Christmas begins after the presents are opened and the last of the leftover turkey is eaten.  That's when we need to roll up our sleeves and get to work.

I'm going to step off my soapbox now.  I'm not lecturing you.  I'm lecturing myself.  Every time I encounter A Christmas Carol in any of its incarnations, I feel a little guilty.  Sometimes a lot guilty.  I think it's a book that's meant to make you a little uncomfortable.  Sometimes a lot uncomfortable.

Saint Marty is feeling a lot uncomfortable this morning.