A Note From Dick Tingle.

Small avatar now,
"in the manner."

I could never reach Yaro-ian heights,
but I take my leave from the academy
like he did,
retirement looming,
"the string" now unwound.

One year later than planned,
and it was 40% my decision,
20% Mrs. Tingle's, and the rest from a Dean
who eyed a re-configuration with demonic gleam.

I'm okay, and happy to launch into the unknown.
(I toyed with the idea of extending
my stay, but better sense prevailed...darling.)

My hand will itch, of course,
and my eye will gleam,
when September comes.

But I say that I have few regrets.

I could have been more brave,
we all could.
I could have done more for the profession.

But my students, my "charges,"
well I gave them everything I had,
all I learned from my mentors,
and the books,
always the books.

It will be boxed up now,
and moved to a bedroom upstairs.

And occasionally I will sit among the boxes,
and remember.

And I will miss it.

Tingle, Out.

When they roll out the balls
in the spring term,
I will endeavor to take one last kick.

I could teach a few more years,
but the bloom of future adventures
is too exciting and seductive.

I told them this morning,
in the modern way,
an email that said, "Dear..."

I will NOT get the Yaro party,
but there are many good friends,
who will repair with me to a bar.

And we will tell tales of how we've done,
the lessons neither learned nor taught,
the battles neither won nor lost.

And I will think of the old profs,
the ones who taught me,
and wonder,

Did I do it right?

CM Flashback Because I Miss Dr. Tingle. Three Years Ago Today.

Sunday with Dick.

The grading session
begins amidst crumbles of
delicious muffin madness.

The top project has so many errors,
that I want to just shred it rather
than mark it. Yet this is my job.

This is wrong, squire.
This, too, is wrong.
You've done this in a format
incompatible with the English-
speaking readership.

These stats are made up,
I'd bet my spleen.

I am almost out of red ink,
and this is a new pen.

The second paper fares better.
I find that when I write not at all,
the grade is always high.
The project works;
my pen hand is limp.

When done, I write "SPLENDID"
on the first page, but I suspect
that won't even be read.
Or the student will wonder what
"splendid" means. Splendid
is one of Yaro's words.
I save it for the right occasion.
So, "SPLENDID," and "BRAVO!"
I write, with the exclamation point.
Maybe I just right "100" or "A."

"A+" Is that too much?

I go back to the first paper.
At the end of my voluminous comments
about the inanity of the project,
I write: "A TERRIFIC MESS."

He'll think "terrific" means good.
That way we both win.

Muffins? Are there any left?

There are projects left, of course. A stack.
But a muffin!

It would be splendid.

If It's Thursday, I Must Be All Tingled Out.

I follow
Hiram's lead,

and take my leave
from this space.

We all tingle;
we are all baffled.

We fight and fuss
and get fucked.

Our world,
did we choose it?

Do we make it,
or does it make us?

One must wrestle it all,
that is sure.

But should proffies
have opponents?

If It's Thursday, I Must Be Tingling Because I Met Jesus.

Jesus came to my office today,
in disguise.

20 years old,
very wise.

"Your soul is muddy,
said he.

"I can tell from the readings,
you see.

Negativity and cynicism
cannot win.

Jesus will help you,
if you let him in."

I smiled during it all,
a pleasant grin.

Then hurried home,
to Mrs. Tingle and gin.

If It's Thursday, I Must Be Tingling.

I've had one meeting
with my freshman class
so far.

I covered the syllabus,
some expectations,
some kind words of hope.

I mentioned that I'd
been teaching the class
for 30 plus years.

I told them I welcomed
the new things we would learn together,
the things we could accomplish,

as long as they'd try,
put their shoulder to the
grindstone, nose to wheel, la di da.

Got an email tonight
from a student who I vaguely remember,
sullen, staring at his hands in class.

"I can already tell you have
an old fashion approach.
Fresh students need more flexability

then you can give. You're generation
is why American education is failing.
I can all ready tell that you will

not understand the new ideas I have,
and that you will cripple my chances
to succeed, stop me from winning!

I have not decided if I will stay in the class,
but I wanted you to know
what I thought of you so far."

I spent 90 seconds
pondering my place in the universe,
and then another 90 more on what dinner might be.

Then replied to my student,
"It doesn't sound at all like I'm going to be
a good fit for you.

I'm attaching information that will help
you drop the class.
This way we both win."

If It's Thursday, I Must Be Tingling.

60 of my students cannot find

the necessary text.

My colleagues have similar

stories for our large intro classes.

It shouldn't be a 

scavenger hunt.

Somewhere there's a number,

the number of spaces in our sections.

Somewhere a gleaming machine

contains this number. It's not a secret.

They make the book still, right?

Somewhere there are boxes of them.

Just not here.

If It's Thursday, I Must Be Tangling...

Fresh faced
and spunky.

She denies that
she's taken the class before

although I recognized her
right off.

"Melissa," I say,
"We've already tangled."

She cheated on my midterm
and final

two years ago.
She's desperate to finish

her degree, and I'm the only
person teaching the class this term.

"The Dean and I," I say,
"sat there with your parents."

"Not me," she says.
"I'm not a cheater."

If It's Thursday, I Must Be Tingling... "Not With a Whimper..."

I've been
considering
the end.

My last
stand on
campus.

It's not many
moons away
now.

Most oldtimers
fade quietly,
passively.

A brunch,
a wrapped gift,
finger sandwiches.

Then boxes
moved out
in the night.

But I'd like to
go
another way.

Blazing,
with a
bang.

If It's Thursday I Must Be Tingling.

In South Carolina now,

and another residency.

Lovely sunlit campus,
smiling, happy greeters.

I tingle with the notion
of new students.

Different accents,
different approaches.

A man brings me tea
in a modern canteen.

It is scrumptious.
"Let's use that as a starting point," I say.

"What is most scrumptious in your life?
What brings you pleasure?"

"Today," one woman says.
"Today?" I say.

"Just today. Getting another today.
Nothing tastes better."

"Not because I'm here?" I ask, smiling.
There is quiet.

"Oh, you're yummy to someone, I suppose,"
a man sitting next to me says.

If This is Boston, I'm Tingling.

I am thoroughly feted,
and I must confess
that I wish I'd gotten more sleep.

A college of fresh faced folks,
and an endowment to choke
most folks dead.

Last night a party,
wine, fine rum,
cheeses, finger foods, cake.

And then some young 'uns
took me out to a club,
where they take, what they call, seminars.

We drank a variety of tequilas,
and they asked me the normal questions
about publishing, teaching, traveling.

These are young people,
still in grad school,
still hopeful.

At one point I said,
"Don't you read the Crampicle?
Don't you know you're doomed?"

But they don't care to hear.
They smile, order another round,
and help me get hotel-bound by 3 am.

Now, I shave, shine, slurp up coffee.
And I think I need to scare them.
They need to know.

"It's a different industry, pups."
That's what I want to say this morning.
Will it break their hearts?

If It's Thursday, I Must Be Tingling, From the Cold.

I am in a northern state,
still winter-y,
especially on the early morning walk
from the room at the inn to the campus.

I am being feted and cheesed and wined
by a lovely little college,
and teaching a class and seminar
each day in exchange for their kindness.

I tingle on the first morning.
Across a lovely campus,
toward a lovely room with real chairs
and hot coffee.

And the students, unknown to me,
stroll in.
Many smile.
One woman sits in a chair facing me.

She's scowling as if someone
had run over her cat,
or stolen her hat,
or spied where she shat.

I try to ignore her glare
for the opening remarks,
but it is difficult.
She is the closest person to me.

The minutes drag. I keep losing my place.
I say one thing, and wonder if I'd already said it.
The rest of the room smiles and nods.
I get some momentum.

But then the scowler meets my eyes again.
Icy.
Chilly.
She freezes me with the same look.

The class can't end soon enough.
I stand up, wobbly,
disoriented, the cold?
The location? These giant trees?

The scowler is walking ahead of me,
she breeches the door,
starts one direction, then turns back.
She hits me with one last glare.

And she's gone.

If It's Thursday, I Must Be Tingling...

My dish is out.

I had hockey and baseball on.

Blindly, with my head spinning,
I thought I might just watch the news
while I waited for the sports to come back...

But of course, it's ALL off.

No TV.

My God it's quiet.

I feel a sort of tingle from it.

It's summer. The books, you know,
the books of my life,
are at the office.

At home I keep a book and paper free environment.

If It's Thursday, I Must Be Tingling...

All this talk of music,
bands, CDs,
albums, still for me,

reminds me of undergrad days,
Boston and Aerosmith
on 8-tracks still.

Open dorm windows,
wafting of smoke
and crashing or chiming guitars.

I was pretty then,
truly a miracle
of hair and bell bottoms.

What fun, what tingles of memory
come to me now,
and the deliciousness of youth.

Why then do my college students
seem so dull,
so blank.

I was no great scholar, but
there was some spark in me,
I think. Maybe it's too long ago

for me to know for sure,
to remember how I really was,
oh those days ago.

Maybe my old proffies
feared and hated me.
Stranger things are missing from my mind.

But, music,
lovely sounds,
bracing rhythms.

When students love music, I feel
a kinship with them.
I trust them more.

I understand that.

I bemoaned one day
that nobody props huge speakers
in open dorm windows now,

just ear buds in everyone's holes,
their owners sullenly stomping around campus,
looking down at phones.

"Couldn't you," I said,
at least split a bud with a friend, [see what I did there...]
one ear each,

'More than a Feeling' glittering
between you?"
You'd have thought I had 2 heads.

If It's Thursday, I Must Be Tingling...

All this student eval talk
has made me tingle.

Oh, I read them,
then I file them.

They have taught me the following:

I'm too hard.
I don't "like" them.
I go on and on.
I keep them too long.

It's not illuminating.
It's not even bothersome,
anymore.

But as a young man,
I took them to heart.

I was easier.
I "acted" like I liked them.
I involved students more in discussion -
which they always rejected.
I let them out early.

It was miraculous,
the change.

Instead of 4.3s,
I got 4.4s.

I'm convinced I got tenure that way.

Now, of course, I've reverted.

It's 4.3s all the way,
and damn the snow-pedos.

On Smiting.

I would smite you,
were you in front of me,
and I had a heavy item available.

Darla?
You pick on Darla?
You are a cad.

Darla is an open heart,
and she is not alone in that here.

What a place
this is,
the bits and bytes,
our blahhhhhhg.

And we shall carry on,
the six or 4 or
seventeen of us,
as we choose,
with or without
any particular fear
of displeasing you,
or other carbuncular
jackasses who
occasionally raise their
puffy heads
to bark.

What a lovely Wednesday
it is here for me.

And here I am planning
a smiting.

Even if I had to travel,
I still might smite.

I have the tools.
I'm about to have the time.

And for Darla, I would,
well,
for all of us,
I'd do it with
a bit of glee.

You'd be alarmed at my speed,
despite the age
and bad shoulder.

On the Verge...

My students

have me on the verge
of a meltdown.

They are testing
my mettle,
warping my mind.

They are poking
and prodding,
and positing inanities.

I am old.
This they know.
They count on it.

They think I am soft.
They think their nimbleness
will thwart my experience.

They clam up
when they should
be speaking.

They go on too long,
when they know
I must rejoin the talk.

They don't bring
what they must
when they must.

They smile when
I think they should frown,
and the other way 'round.

They have something
planned for me;
I know it.

Somewhere in this town,
plans for my demise
are going down.

I'm Befuddled.

I'm beFUDDled,
which is probably
fitting,

as I'm thought of
as a fuddy-duddy
about this.

Our champion hire
from last year,
has strode himself

into the Dean's office
to let us know
he's on the market.

Bigger city,
shinier pavement,
something about culture.

Oh, we were his first,
that is to be sure,
but we'll not be his last.

Of course this happens,
and of course he has the right,
but...

what I would like to do
to him with a pillowcase
full of oranges.

Big Thirsty. Tingle-Style.

q: how do you
do that
voodoo
you do
so well?

(academ
        ic-
wise.)

Who's With Me?

I will reduce the size of my avatar,
if we will all just share our misery,
instead of creating it among each other.

Let us not bury the blog in meta-complaints,
but turn our sights back on the real evils,
snowflakes, that Dean, the colleague across the hall.

I am yours, in Yaro's manner,
Dick Tingle.