Vilanelle

I have this dream of going Ivy League

Walking amongst the high of society

But it is a fad never meant to be.

This state; it seems like I will never leave.

Never able to achieve prosperity

I have this dream of going Ivy League.

The Upper-West Side, something I’ll never see.

Useless street names learned to their final T.

But is a fad never meant to be.

As for success, seems I won’t find the key.

Finances seem to be tough to agree.

I have this dream of going Ivy League.

To Columbia University

I was excited for the big city

But it is a fad never meant to be.

Going to KU is now what I foresee.

The Kansas haven of local artsies

I have this dream of going Ivy League.

But it is a fad never meant to be.

Sonnet For John

The feeling is incomparable

The rough texture of fiberglass under my feet

The heeling and swaying of the vessel

The beat of the sail against the boom

But sometimes it can be cold and heartless

Thunderheads rising in the western skies

Menacing and bold against other clouds

Wising up the saltiest of sea dogs

But even at the sky’s darkest hour

Even in the roughest chop of the sea

Even in the beady eye of the storm

Or the wind’s final and brilliant puff

I know you’ll be there, like blood in my heart

Forever beside me; being my Bud.

Outside Reading Questions

I was surprised when Bobby was not forced to squeal like a pig during their...err…trouble with the mountain men. In the movie, it was such a chilling and horrifying sound that really (and unfortunately) defined the movie and only added to the party’s backcountry terror. I have since found that the actor who played the hillbilly in the movie improved the swine related line, along with the equally chilling “You got a purdy mouth” statement. Still, I would be happy if they hadn’t thought up dialogue because nobody remembers anything else from the movie. Burt Reynolds gave his best performance before descending into bankruptcy and campy films, and it would have been fine without that entire scene because it seemed unfeasible. Still, it was horrifying to read, and more horrifying to watch, and I’m glad Lewis had a cool head and good aim.

I noticed how Lewis fracturing his leg was a subtle example of irony that was pivotal to entire second part of the story. Lewis Medlock (portrayed by Burt Reynolds in the movie adaptation) was the amateur survivalist that got the group together for the canoe trip. He could hunt, fish, trap, and do almost anything to survive in the woods. He was the only one who even remotely knew what they were doing, and even he was in over his head on the excursion. He ended up with a compound break in his thighbone after trying to canoe down Griffin’s Shot, which was riddled with falls and twists and turns. A bullet from a sniper on a gorge that bordered the rapids grazed another member of their party; he drowned after falling out of the canoe without wearing a life preserver. They lost all of their gear, and one of the canoes snapped in half. Needless to say, they were in a situation that they believed only Lewis could resolve, but he was now wriggling in pain on a sandbar. Ed ends up climbing the 150-foot gorge, killing the sniper, and piloting the canoe another 15 miles downriver. I thought it was ironic that Lewis, the seemingly unbreakable man of survival and instinct, ended up being seriously injured, leaving Bobby, a clumsy, overweight fool when it came to the outdoors, and Ed, who could manage, but still lacked the nerves of steel and the absence of compassion seen in Lewis, to actually become the real hero in the story.

I’d like to know if the brother-in-law of the deputy was ever found. At the end of the book, it was implied that Ed might have killed the wrong man on top of the gorge; it may have been just a man out trying to get food for his family. The deputy was sure that Ed had killed his sister’s husband, whom had never returned after going out to hunt a few days prior. This was further implied when Ed discovered that the man he had killed had teeth (although he did have some implants on his top ones), while the accomplice during their backwoods horror story was described only as “the toothless man”. So did Ed kill an innocent man due to he and Lewis’ paranoia? In his defense, the man did have a gun, and he was at a prime spot on the gorge to pick off the party as they floated down the river. But could he have just coincidently stopped there for a rest? After all, Ed didn’t find him camped there, intently waiting for the canoes; he had just wandered to the spot and lazily stopped. Furthermore, after Ed shot him, he feel out of the tree onto one of his own broadheads. Was this some sort of subtle punishment brought on by the author, a punishment for slaying an innocent man?

If I had been Lewis Medlock in the novel, I would have done much more research into the river. In his defense, he did come quite prepared, with the back of station wagon filled to the brim with gear. But when they got onto the river, they had no idea what to expect. He didn’t know how rough it was, where rapids, fast water, and falls were located; he didn’t even know where the town where the cars were driven to was located. Granted, it was in the days before cell phones, the internet, and global positioning systems, but he had been up there before and still didn’t know what exactly the river held for them. He was warned multiple times by the locals that it was dangerous; even they wouldn’t go on it unless they absolutely had to, and he couldn’t even find it when they first got to the town and hired two mechanics to drive their cars to another town downriver. He was too sure of his survival skills, and, despite his immense knowledge into this, he still lacked the real experience to actually get a whole group of people down the river safely. He was arrogant and full of himself to say the least. (Even though he was pretty cool.)

I was reminded of some of my own arrogance when I’ve camped through Lewis Medlock. I’ve gone out on the river canoeing, although it was in a group and on a surveyed piece of river, and I distinctly remember flipping the canoe in some fast moving water and ended with a canoe pinned against a tree. The other person in the canoe with me and I tried in vain to free the canoe, but underestimated the power of water moving downhill. It took my step dad and scoutmaster, both very strong men, about ten minutes to free the canoe. And this was on the Niangua, which we joke about being the slowest river in the state of Missouri. I got in this situation because I was too sure of my canoeing skills, and myself, even though it was only my second time paddling a canoe. Spending my entire life around water, behind the helm of a 32.5 Oceanis or a jetboat with a 455 Oldsmobile engine in it, I should have known that water is something to be respected.

Concrete Poem (Text)

The wind wails

Heading across the channel

Crisscrossing through the swells

From shoreline to shoreline

The boat leans

Nearly kissing the water

With its rails

The main is pulled inward

It takes the strength of two men

To just inch the traveler further port

Then it happens.

The boat jerks port

Swings upward

And now is dead

In the water

The main flaps in the wind

The boom swinging about

The hull rises and falls.

The smell of diesel

Now beckons

After the overpowering

Of the wind

Riddle Poem

The smell of synthetic velvet

The creaking of hinges

It arises from its sleep

Ready to be picked

The silver-tipped snake

Glistens in the bright light

The box shines a small glow

Of red

The snake makes contact

With a plug in the box

The first movement of a hand

And an instant wail

The man

He moves, grooves; waves his body

Drops to his knees, then lies down

The movement of the arm becoming softer

Finally he ends

Smashing his axe through the box

It shorts

And flames begin to lick its black vinyl

Everything is now destroyed

Stands toppled over

Snakes entangled between boxes

With nothing left but ashes

And waterlogged remnants of

Wood and paint  

Acrostic Poem

B – Bored and Passive Demeanor

R – Rich in creativity and critique

A – Against the “norm”

D – Dictator of stories

E – Eccentric

N – Nerd

Parent Letter

The car has been the symbol of American teen culture since the 1950’s; the bigger, faster, louder, and heavier the better. The premise behind this was simple: take the biggest, meanest car you could produce, jam the biggest engine you could fit under the hood, mount on a couple of tailpipes and a four-on-the-column, and just drive. Gradually, the United States shifted away from their culture of big, loud, American made beasts, toward the more fuel-sipping, efficient, and safer foreign imports. For my first car, I would like a taste of either of these markets; a 454 Chevrolet Chevelle, the toned, American brute, or a straight-four Volkswagen “clean diesel” Jetta, the imported master of efficiency and safety.

As would be expected when talking about vintage muscle cars, concerns of safety and cost of insurance, fuel, and maintenance will arise. However, I think that these can be dispelled by the fact that, between my two grandpas, we can do most of the maintenance without the assistance of a trained mechanic. Most concerns with the Volkswagen would pertain to the common stereotypes of the diesel; loud, smelly, dirty engines that belong in tractors and semi trucks, not a small car. However, the Jetta TDI’s engine is, and is marketed as, a diesel that burns like a conventional unleaded fuel engine.

 Don’t we all enjoy a fine slice of Americana? And is there no better example that the muscle car? Mom, in 1966, your parents wed and drove away from St. Paul’s Catholic Church in a 1962 409 Impala Super Sport, a car known for its speed and unprecedented output of over 425 horsepower. Was your dad or mom ever killed or injured in a car accident? No, in fact they both carry very fond memories of their 409. And Will, didn’t your parents drive to their honeymoon in a 1970 396 Chevrolet Chevelle Super Sport, a car with an available 454 cubic inch engine that had to be marketed at a smaller size so that the Chevelle’s primary market, teens and young adults, could even get insurance on them? They too were also never injured in a car wreck and even owned another Chevelle after they sold that one. So why can’t I, who has had their values bestowed upon by you, own a muscle car?

The Jetta TDI is the polar opposite of the Chevelle; small and fuel efficient with a straight four cylinder engine and front wheel drive. Being safe, reliable, and having the ability to practically be driven to the ground, it is the obvious choice for my first car. Also, being a diesel engine, it is even more fuel efficient than the standard gasoline engine. A common assumption of the diesel fueled engine is that they are noisy, foul, and grimy. While this may be true with most diesels, Volkswagen uses a turbodiesel engine, which has the benefit of improved gas mileage from the traditional diesel, but runs more efficiently than its standard counterpart. They tested around 54 mpg on the highway with a five speed manual, almost as much as a Prius, but without the risk of uncontrolled acceleration and recalls. Diesel may be harder to obtain, but with the mileage I’d be getting I don’t think it would be a problem having to look for stations with the fuel.

Cars are the true rite of passage for the American teenager. I would really like to make this passage into the world of real responsibility, probably with a Volkswagen Jetta TDI, mostly because the Chevelle would be fun to own, but too much to handle.

Glogster

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest Final

http://bhanderson.glogster.com/one-flew-over-the-cuckoos-nest/

It's the Best I Could Do With What Little Logic There is Behind Either Side...

We sit intently on the couch, watching. We wait with impatience as the names scroll across the bottom of the screen; each character leading us closer to the impending victory. One by one the names scroll by; it seems like the goal we wish to achieve is impossible; just out of our grasp. Then, we see it. Just six letters in and we know our wish has been granted: another snow day. But wait; didn’t we just have one? And another just a few weeks prior? And how could you forget the two cancellations we had just one day into week two of the second semester? The one that spawned over 300 comments on your Facebook page after a refusal to cancel for a third day? With only four snow days built in to our schools schedule, this could present quiet the dilemma. The question will undoubtedly arise of how to make up the omitted days.  Viable options encompass everything from adding on days at the end of the year, effecting our summer release date, to attending school on Saturdays, a practice already in effect in many cities across the eastern seaboard. The best option would appear to be to allow an exception for these days, for two reasons: many student’s families have already made plans for summer vacations that could be effected by these extra days, and if we were to go to school on Saturdays, it would interfere with your student’s and faculty’s religious obligations.

School is by far the most important thing we will ever attend, and succeeding in school is invaluable for our life’s pursuits. Should a vacation really get in the way of school’s importance? And why should religions far less popular than (in the US) Christianity get in the way of our students education? While these seem like minute things in the grand scheme of our school year, they are both very important repercussions of a decision to extend our time in school.

The Caribbean: alluring, breathtakingly clear seas, enthralling, white sand beaches, beautiful, bronzed bodies, and a prevalent vacation spot among families and children in our schools. Along with being sunny and warm, it’s also an expensive place to visit. As of 7:27 on 13 February 2011, the cheapest flight package for a family of four was 352 dollars per person from Kansas City International to Nassau International in the Bahamas. The flight would leave on 24 May 2011, and return on 01 June 2011. If you’re staying in a foreign country, you’ll probably need facilities to stay at. The absolute cheapest hotel I could find was 87 dollars a night for a room with two double beds, and not much else. The total price, before you even get in to any attractions, activities, and dining, is 2,191 dollars. Not including money for clothes, if need be, or a passport, which is absolutely necessary to travel to the Bahamas. Even if you could cancel, you would most likely have to pay an airfare cancellation fee, or it could even be nonrefundable, or you already put down a deposit on your flight. We all know about the hassles with big airlines, their lack of customer service, etc, etc. Would you really want to ruin a families well thought out and meticulously planned vacation, or take away their money in fees for a trip they never even went on; money that could contribute to the taxes and donations that fund your education system? But I don’t think that this would eclispe the outcry for having school on Saturdays.

One of the greatest rights bestowed upon American citizens is that we have a right to freely practice whatever religion we choose. It was the reason why our ancestors came here in the first place; to escape religous persecution. In the last few years, this right has been slowly being narrowed toward followers of the Christian religion due to fear of other religions, and just by the shear number of Christians in the United States. Something that would further impede on this right is attendance of school on Saturdays. Celebrated by followers of the Jewish religion, The Sabbath is their weekly celebration, comparable to Sunday for the Christian faith. Held from sundown Friday night to sundown on Saturday night, it is a day to pray and study; a day of refrain from their daily cares. They attend a service on Saturday morning, where they read and study the portion of the Torah for the week, along with an accompanying portion taken from the Prophets. As a public institution, you cannot just cater to one religion. Despite Christianity’s popularity among Americans, there are other religions in this city. If I wanted religious days off, I would be in a private school run by a church, not a public school run by the city, county, state, and country made up of different faiths and beliefs.

There are a multitude of choices to make up our missed days, but these two listed are not reasonable in any way. If you can find a choice that would at least not interfere with religious obligations or expensive, well planned trips, then I would be more than happy to endorse it.

AOW #1

I write to you today in lieu of an astounding occurrence; one that could have been prevented if it had not been for harsh misjudgment and a false sense of conservatism.  Ms. Doyle Byrnes and four other students were dismissed from your school [Johnson County Community College]’s nursing program after a so-called “disruption to the learning environmet”. This “disruption” was the simple act of Ms. Byrnes taking a photograph with a human placenta. Now, you say, “Why, that’s intolerable. Who knows whose placenta that is? What if she were to come forward and claim it?” Well, from the only photos of the accused circulating around on the internet, how could a woman identify her placenta from a grainy, poor quality, black and white picture? I know I could not. But my own personal attention to detail in poor quality images holds no ground in this case What about the fact that Ms. Byrnes was doing nothing even slightly questionable in the photo.  She was simply holding the tray, smiling in a conventional way, appearing, overall, very professional. Was she wearing the placenta on her head? Was she juggling with her own bare hands (mind you, she did have gloves and a surgical coat on in the picture)? Is she even handling the placenta with her gloved hands? Yes, there is a hook or some type of surgical device in it, but it appears to be assisting in the overall image, not just for the fun of poking it. Keep in mind that these students are not the stereotypical “giddy” school girls. They conduct themselves in a professional manner and they are very career minded. Ms. Byrnes is intending on wedding in August of this year, with yet another intention of relocating to Virginia with her new spouse to pursue her now possibly doomed career in registered nursing.  How could one obtain a job in registered nursing or even gain entry to another willing nursing program with that kind of poorly judged black mark on her records? She will be the leper amongst her peers; cast out for doing nothing wrong. So tell me again what was wrong with this picture? About the only defense you would have left is the “religious morality” stance, which is not even remotely viable in this context, for your university is a public institution; open to any and all people looking for higher education. In conclusion, I would ask that you to please repeal your decision because there seems to be no factual evidence behind it.  

A Bra is a Women's Undergarmet; Not a Nickname.

I do recollect the apprehension I felt as I wondered into fourth hour newspaper class. I had heard through our school's seemingly never ending grapevine of students and students prior that he was a funny fellow, and that they had many great memories of his class, predominately from his newspaper students. Another thing that had come to my attention (mostly spoken through a low murmur, as though it was an exceptionally infectious ailment) was that he had a knack for jokes, nearly always at a student's own personal casualty. I was not made aware of the severity and cruelty of the jokes, however. I was to now fend for myself, clinging to the hope that he would not be the barbarous, atrocious man I had made him out to be. I determined my seating arrangement to be just adjacent to Mr. Allen's desk, where there was currently no others sitting. I looked up at the clock, menacingly ticking down the seconds, getting ever so closer to the black mark of three-quarters-after-ten. It was now forty-four minutes after ten. My anxiety increased as the seconds droned by. Promptly, at ten forty-five, the bell rang. Mr. Allen looked up at his new victims through his small, wire rimmed glasses. We went through the generalized greetings and explanations of the class. He seemed kind enough. Still, my angst disapproved of subsiding. At last, we advanced to the selection of our first pages. Mr. Allen, in his typical humor, deemed it necessary to develop a nickname for his new subjects. We went down the list of pages, with him haphazardly picking kids and assigning them their nicknames.

Then came my name.

He contemplates, looking thoughtfully at his computer screen. His hand begins to rub his chin.

Nothing he thinks seems the entice him.

Then it comes.

He begins to type.

Just three letters. B-r-a.

Bra. My new nickname was Bra. Great, just fantastic. Unfortunately, it stuck. I eventually conjured up his own nickname; Mallen.

But to this day, I still despise that nickname. But hey, that class was great.