Friday, August 01, 2014
Casey Klahn is my friend.
Well, I think he is. My friend, that is. I never met him. Can he be my friend if I never met him? I don't know the rules. I knew the rules for having friends when Nixon was President. You remember Nixon, surely. He didn't have any friends. But I did. They'd come over and we'd play Battleship or Stratego. We'd go down to the baseball field and mow the knee-high grass, pushing a mower with the handle at eye level the whole time. We never bothered mowing right field because there weren't enough of us to have a right fielder, so it was an out anyway. You can never have enough friends.
Maybe Casey is an elaborate hoax being played on me. He says he lives in Oregon or Washington or Vancouver or one of those places with moss on the roof shingles instead of snow. An elaborate ruse would feature a person who claimed to be from a place no one goes, so you'd never find out. But by that criteria, I might be an elaborate ruse. I might have found those Beatles-playing kids on Fiverr and buy furniture on Ebay and steal a buncha text from Mark Twain and paste is on the Intertunnel to fool the unwary. Once they were suckered in, BAM, I'd have 'em, and, and, and...
Well, I don't know exactly what I'd do. But it would be George Smiley-grade shite, levels on levels, no one knowing who's who or what's what until the letter opener slips between your tenth and ninth ribs and you gasp: It's you!
But to get back to my imaginary friend, Casey Klahn, he sent me this video, like, two months ago and I'm just posting it today because I'm so far in a hole right now I can hear Chinese mumbling and I need something that doesn't require me to write 326 words into this editor.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
When I went to the WYSIWYG editor for this blog a minute ago, the counter read 999,999. Who knows, you might be somebody.
I don't write my other blog anymore. The Borderline Sociopathic Blog for Boys is entirely the work of my older son now. I don't think anyone noticed when I handed it over to him. He's the large one playing the guitar in yesterday's video, if you're new around here. More people are reading the BSBFB than this blog today, and every day. That does the opposite of bothering me.
One of my readers, a gentle and generous soul, asked if my Heir could use his editing acumen to make something of the raw material of his daughter's recital. My sons have both become semi-skilled at all sorts of things, and video editing is one of them. They both keep blogs now. No, you can't see the little one's blog, so don't ask.
My Heir did a good job, I think, but you tell me. I must tell you something else about that video: It refreshed my view of my fellow human beings. I am mostly isolated from regular society now. My sample size for interactions with actual humans is vanishingly small. I mostly see the bad end of the dookie stick, and it's skewing my opinion of my fellow man, and not in a good way.
Every once in a while, people like those three lovely girls and their parents remind me that the world is not entirely an increasingly scorched handbasket -- just mostly. There are still some people who are raising their children to be productive and pleasant citizens and neighbors, with respect for tradition coupled to a hope for a better future. Don't believe me? Just watch the video.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
If you're new in these parts, these are my homeschooled children, who call themselves Unorganized Hancock, performing at a function hall in the little town where we live in western Maine. The older one is still younger than many high school seniors, but he's got his diploma already. The little one is eleven now.
I've written from time to time about homeschooling, but no one pays any attention to anything I say about it. The Instapundit and many other large, ocean-going ships of the blogosphere have linked to my essays about homeschooling, and strangers come and go, and usually launch into their diatribes about how homeschoolers are weirdos that don't vaccinate their kids and only learn about chemtrails or how fracking causes autism, depending on which cable TV shows you prefer. Others assume my kids won't have time to learn to read and write because they must be chanting the Paternoster all day, with no time left for none a dat book lernin'.
I'll try one more time to explain what's going on, then I'll give up. What you're looking at are the fruits of the only approach to education that works. I won't equivocate one iota: It's the only approach that works. Please try to understand what I wrote, right there in simple, declarative, italicized words, so that you can ken what I'm driving at. We teach our children at home because we want to use the only approach to learning that works for humans. The. Only. One. Here it is. You're welcome:
Drill, Drill, Drill -- Test
There is no new math, or old math for that matter. No matter how many other approaches other people try, how much mewling is transcribed on the Internet about socialization, or how many tennis balls you put on the bottoms of the legs of your kindergarten chairs, it's all wrong and it doesn't work. Like a volume knob that makes the radio louder when you turn it clockwise, and diminishes the sound when it's turned counter-clockwise until it clicks off, the design was perfect on the first attempt and cannot be improved. Every variation after that will be worse. People who want to break new ground without doing anything constructive will change the way that knob operates to become notable for the novelty, but it's always worse.
Human children can only learn constructive things by one approach: Drill, Drill, Drill -- Test. What you're looking at is the culmination of Drill, Drill, Drill -- Test. To be more specific, you're looking at the test. Like duck's feet on the pond, the drill, drill, drill happened in the rehearsal room where it belongs. When drill was done, they were ready for the test.
The impresario running this performance approached me halfway through and told me that the other acts didn't show up, and asked if my boys could play for more than their scheduled half-hour. UH pulled this song out of a hat, and many others, and played them more or less perfectly, and even added mugging for laughs by the little one. Simply playing the song was nothing for him or his brother. Playing that song was just the residue of drill, drill, drill, long ago, and they'd done their homework.
Before someone says, sure, if the kids spend all their time on music at the expense of their other studies, anyone could produce an eleven-year-old playing music for money, and a big kid that can do the same with only an eleven-year-old to help him, I need to be plain again: Music is treated as extra-curricular activity at our house. The little one doesn't even care about playing the drums. He likes electronic music. And before you try saying these kids must have a leg up somehow, like private tutors or something, you need to understand that we are profoundly poor, living way below the poverty line, and they learned to play music like this in a room with no electricity or heat. You don't need those things to Drill, Drill, Drill -- Test. If you like the way they play a Beatles song, you'll love the way they decline verbs, because the same approach is used for everything.
Both children receive Drill, Drill, Drill -- Test for every subject, taught by their mother. They can write, and spell, and add, and know the difference between carbon monoxide and carbon dioxide, and everything else kids in public schools do not know, because the administrators won't let the teachers drill, drill, drill, but make the kids take the tests anyway, and fail miserably.
Drill, Drill, Drill -- Test is the only approach that works. There isn't another one. If you're trying another one, you're wasting your time, and another human being's life. It's really that simple.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
I'm going to get up every morning and shave over a basin and then put on a suit. Sharp. I'm going to walk down a street made of little stones. There will be baskets of flowers depending from iron hooks mortared into the stuccoed buildings. The dogs will lift their heads but not bark as I pass by. I will have a cane, for no particular reason. I will buy a newspaper in the wrong language and a baguette, and pay with some form of coin. No matter what it costs, it has to be paid for with coins.
Or perhaps they will give it to me because they like my last book. I wrote it in pencil, because I no longer have a computer, or a television, or a telephone, or a business card, or a PO box, or an email address, or a Pinterest page, or much of anything else, really. I will have a bank account through which you can contact me. When I return home I will open the casements wide to the morning and my wife will make coffee and we will sit by the window and eat toast made from the baguette and talk about our children.
I will be the old man that passes by, dressed too impeccably for the weather and the zeitgeist, and my wife will be the woman who is always immaculately turned out until the day she passes on to a place that deserves her.
And during our peregrinations, if you accost us with a lean and hungry look in your eyes, and malice in your heart, I will produce a misericorde out of nowhere and gut you like a fish.
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Move along. There's nothing to see here. Go about your business. The Internet is finished.
That was it. I just finished the Internet. I just finished the last block in the Intertunnel's Sudoku. I've completed the HTML 5 equivalent of the London Sunday Times Crossword --in pen.
Post no bills. Keep your hands inside the basket, because if you don't they're going to get scorched where you're going for laughing at that. I didn't laugh. I wept. I gnashed my teeth, and I actually pronounced the G in gnash when I typed that. I type these aloud, you know. Of course you didn't know that, but I wrote, "You know," in that sentence anyway. I don't know why I did that. It doesn't matter. Will the last one out of the Intertunnel please get the lights?
You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. The end is nigh! Save yourselves, before it's too late. Maybe we can all get a Pinterest page and try to atone for our sins by posting nothing but pictures of artisanal cupcakes and shoes for the rest of our godforsaken lives, but this one is going to leave a mark. This is wronger than a fan dancer with an Adam's apple. It's wronger than a trailer hitch on a Renault LeCar. It's wronger than a Gilbert O'Sullivan tribute band.
It's over. It's not you, it's me. On second thought, it's you. It's always been you.
Monday, July 21, 2014
My two homeschooled sons, AKA Unorganized Hancock, are back with more video from last week's performance. This one's special.
The Heir wrote this one. He calls it Chloe's Cha Cha. I find it kind of wonderful on a bunch of levels. First, it's nice to see him writing things. Learn, Do, Teach is the old adage for the trajectory of any career. If you're wise, you never really stop learning, but the division of labor should concentrate on those stages. They both have been learning, learning, learning, so it's nice to see the Do, Do, Do rear its ugly head. And the Da, Da, Da, of course.
The song is more complicated than they can play with just the two of them live, but they'll record a studio version of it one of these days. The full Monty of the song's got a fonkee Esquivel vibe I adore.
If you're new around here, the Little Drummer Boy is barely eleven, and he only learned to play the cha-cha a couple of weeks ago. To recap: He's an eleven-year-old that can play a cha-cha live in front of audiences for money. Go find me another one of those. I double dog dare you.
[Update: Many thanks go out to Kathleen M. from Connecticut for her unfailing support of the children's PayPal tip jar. It is much appreciated]
[Additional Update: Many, many thanks to William O in Texas for supporting the kids' efforts via the PayPal tipjar. We all appreciate it!]
[Yet More Up-To-Date: Many thanks to Dan D. from Connecticut for supporting the boys via the PayPal button. Why are people from the Nutmeg State so nice? I don't know, but I'm glad of it]
Sunday, July 20, 2014
In Furtherance Of My Evil Plan To Resurrect Wichita Lineman And Make It The Official Cover Song Of The Twenty-Teens: The Derangers
There's a growing movement.
But never mind about my bathroom habits. I wanna talk about my mission --obsession, really -- to make Wichita Lineman the National Anthem of the Intertunnel. See, I just named it that. I don't know why I did that. It's Kismet, or Astral projection, or yoga or hara kiri or some other exotic word drunk people use in conversation between belches. It's fit, and just, and it just fits:
THE NATIONAL ANTHEM OF THE INTERTUNNELS
I was thinking of changing the lyric, but I hear you singing in the series of tubes ruins the Ionic Pentacost, or the Ironic Pantograph, or the Iambic Pulsifer, or whatever you call those word thingies that Lord Byline and Sir Walter Scott Towels use to make the rhymie words line up .
Also Sprach Sippican: In Furtherance Of My Evil Plan To Resurrect Wichita Lineman And Make It The Official Cover Song Of The Twenty-Teens: Sergio Mendes and Brasil '66
Anteceded by: In Furtherance Of My Evil Plan To Resurrect Wichita Lineman And Make It The Official Cover Song Of The Twenty-Teens: The Swinging Doors
Aforetimes: In Furtherance Of My Evil Plan To Resurrect Wichita Lineman And Make It The Official Cover Song Of The Twenty-Teens: Optiganally Yours
Previously: In Furtherance Of My Evil Plan To Resurrect Wichita Lineman And Make It The Official Cover Song Of The Twenty-Teens: Glenn Tilbrook
Also Sprach Sippican: Another In The Long List Of Songs I Don't Like That I Like