I have to grade papers, so I must needs be brief.
Yesterday, I graded papers. I grit my teeth dragging myself to the task, slowly warm to it, almost lose myself paper by paper, and feel renewed afterwards. Somewhere the atoms of George Frissell are laughing and calling bullsh*t on that claim, but I’ve graded over 30,000 in my life, and one does find little streams of pleasure in it. I’ve got some good writers this summer, but later for the comma splices!
I have been struggling with an issue regarding a package USPS couldn’t deliver, had to redeliver, then lost. I’d filed a help request, and received an apology email, but the title of the email included the inaccurate word “Resolved.” So I fired back a tart but polite reply that there had to be more to it than I was being told–I had the tracking number, but no receipt to match it. In no time, I received a call from the local supervisor who’d written the email, who then expertly de-escalated my case of the red-ass, gave me some useful information by which I reached understanding, and very sincerely apologized again. I thanked him for caring enough to follow up, and as I was about to hang up, he said, “Did you use to teach at Hickman? I’m sorry I was a punk.” I had to tell him that a lot of punks turn out just fine.
I went a paragraph too long so I guess those essays aren’t that fetching.
Streaming for Strivers:
Medicine. These songs have been for years, and here they’re administered with care and mastery by two jazz physicians.