December 7: Exam Paper, Grading, New Cartoon

"You glanced through it, eh?" he said--very sarcastic.  "Your, eh, exam paper is over there on top of my chiffoniere.  On top of the pile.  Bring it here, please."

Old Spencer really grills Holden about his exam paper.  Holden has failed Spencer's history class, and Spencer is trying to talk some sense into Holden before he leaves Pencey Prep for good.  Of course, Spencer makes no headway with Holden at all.  Spencer's simply too old for Holden to take seriously.

I have been grading my students' final exams all day long.  I took a couple short breaks to drive my daughter's friend home after the sleepover and to go to church this evening.  After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to get back to it.  I have to be done by Tuesday.

I don't have a new poem for you guys this evening.  I haven't had any time to be creative, aside from drawing a couple of cartoons.  I've also been busy trying to trap a mouse I spied yesterday morning in my bathroom.  Those of you who have been reading this blog for a while already know about my mouse phobia.  It's a strong phobia, bordering on absolute, irrational terror.  My wife has also seen the little bastard in the living room underneath the Christmas tree.  We're not talking about a cute, cartoon Christmas mouse.  This is a diseased, black-furred pest.

Saint Marty is ready to firebomb his house to kill a rodent.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 2: Old Spencer, Exam Paper, Final Grades

"You glanced through it, eh?" he said--very sarcastic.  "Your, ah, exam paper is over there on top of my chiffonier.  On top of the pile.  Bring it here, please."

Old Spencer is a little ruthless here, grilling Holden at the beginning of Catcher.  Spencer is trying to guide Holden, give him life advice.  All Spencer manages to do, however, is disgust him and piss him off.  After Holden fetches the exam, Spencer proceeds to read it aloud to him.  Holden sits and listens, mortified.

I spent all of last night grading my Intro to Film students' final exams.  I finished the job this morning.  In the space of a couple hours, I managed to read, comment on, and grade 23 of them.  And I enjoyed it.  I thought it was going to be torture, like eating mashed potatoes laced with ground-up glass.  Instead, I coasted through it.  Then, I dragged out my calculator and finished totaling final semester grades.  I had to fail no student.  There were a pack of A's, a gaggle of B's, and some C's.  It was a good class.

Now, I'm sitting in a lecture hall, watching The Wonder Boys with Michael Douglas, waiting for my students to not show up and collect their graded final exams.  Yes, I'm Old Spencer, expecting Holden Caulfield to walk through the door so I can hand him his essay questions.

After The Wonder Boys ends, I will pack up my belongings, bring them back to my office, and be done with teaching until the fall semester begins.  It's a long four months without university paychecks.  Even longer now that I had to shell out $400 for a brake job.  Yes, I'm a little melancholy right now.  I'm going to miss this part of my life.  Miss campus, students, and colleagues.  I like the academic hustle.

Until the end of August, unfortunately, Saint Marty's title is simply going to be "medical records clerk."

Farewell, academia

April 12: Exam Paper, a Turd, P.O.E.T.S. Day Funk

He started handling my exam paper like it was a turd or something.  "We studied the Egyptians from November 4th to December 2nd," he said.  "You chose to write about them for the optional essay question.  Would you care to hear what you had to say?"

"No, sir, not very much," I said.

Old Spencer is making Holden feel pretty lousy about himself at the beginning of The Catcher in the Rye.  Holden knows he's flunked Spencer's class, and now Spencer, in a misguided attempt to help his failing student, starts reading Holden's essay exam out loud, making Holden feel even worse.

Yesterday evening, I attended a poetry reading given by one of my good friends.  Matt's new collection has just been released, and Matt was typically charming, funny, and brilliant last night.  The room was packed, mostly because everyone knows he's charming, funny, and brilliant.  By the end of the reading, I was feeling great for him and lousy about myself.

As Ricky Ricardo says, "Now, Lucy, if you just give me a chance to 'splain."

I left the library last night really excited.  When I got home, I started going through my binder of stuff, trying to assemble a little packet of chapbookable poems.  After about an hour, I came to the conclusion that, in comparison to what I'd heard Matt read earlier, my poems were, to paraphrase Holden, pieces of turd.  I proceeded to descend into one of the foulest moods I've experienced in a long time.

That mood has extended into this morning.  I am in a P.O.E.T.S. Day Funk.  I'm afraid to start looking through my poems again.  Afraid that I'll simply confirm last night's impression of my work.  My plans for this evening aren't going to lift my spirits, either.  My wife and I are having dinner with Matt, and then we're going to the university's MFA celebration.  That means listening to MFA graduate students reading excerpts from their theses for a couple hours.  I'm hoping some of the poets will suck so that I can feel a little better about myself.

Saint Marty ain't havin' a good day, folks.

This pretty much says it all