If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.—Stephen King

(Optional) CLASS ACTIVITIES FOR WEEK 1 (Thursday, January 15, 2004, 6:00-9:40 p.m.)

Please read the two cardinal rules below, re-read the lyrics of Mr. Ryan, and then answer in writing the four questions above. Bring your assignment to class next week (or, better still, e-mail it instead to: aa1674@wayne.edu). Thanks.

Closed Book Rule. Each and every assignment in this class must follow the closed book rule. For example, by summary of a short story I mean: Read the story as many times as you need to remember it well. Then, close the book and retell that story in your own words, the way you remember it. When done, and only when done, compare your version to the book’s for accuracy. Or, to take another example, by interpretation of a film I mean: watch the film, and explain in writing the point that the screenwriter and director are trying to make. If I’m under the impression that you summarized a story while the book was open, or that you consulted the internet, articles, or books for somebody else’s opinion about the film, the assignment will be returned to you unread and it will be recorded in my little red book as a missing assignment.

Rationale: You can only learn by doing such assignments on your own. It's your voice, your thinking, your worldview, your reading and writing skills, that we are trying to enrich and improve, not someone else's. If these skills need work, that is one reason why you are going to school; if you work hard, these deficiencies will not stop you from comfortably passing the class and improving your skills. But if you take someone else’s words and present them as your own, or if you take someone else’s words and substitute them for your own, you will learn and earn nothing.

Sixth-Grader Rule. Your main task, in each and every assignment, is to convince the reader that you know what you are talking about. To accomplish this goal, paradoxically, you must imagine that you are writing that assignment for a sixth-grader who knows and understands nothing about the subject. So, keep that child in mind. Use words that come naturally to you. Don’t try to impress anyone, but to communicate and explain.

David Roth

The first time that I heard that song was a time I well remember

It all goes back some 20 years to Mr. Ryan’s classroom

One day he brought his old guitar and sang his favorite songs for us

And the single one that I remember most was "All My Trials"

Something in his simple singing touched my very sixth-grade soul

The harmonies he taught us are the ones that I still know today

The verse about the Tree of Life was wondrous to a 12-year old

And many times these twenty years I’ve wished that I could say

CHORUS:

Thank you for the music Mr. Ryan

The simple gift you gave that day is one I’ve treasured dearly

I’ll always see you sitting up there singing "All My Trials"

You’ll never know how much it’s meant to me

I went home to see my folks in June, the town that I grew up in

Three of us were sitting in the kitchen having coffee

I mentioned Mr. Ryan, how I wondered what became of him

Mother said she’d heard that he’s still working at my school

I grabbed my coat and ran outside, retracing old familiar routes

The shortcut through the playground and the echo of the hallway

And there he was in Room Eleven, wiping off the blackboard

I took a breath and cleared my throat and stepped back into time

CHORUS

We sat and talked for quite a while, I don’t think that he remembered me

But I told him of my work and where I’ve been and what I’ve done

And finally he leaned back and said "It’s amazing that you come today

Just last night my mother and I were talking until one"

"She asked me was I happy, I said ‘yes, I love my teaching

But I’m sad I never married, that I never fathered children . . .’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘oh yes, my son, you’ve fathered several hundred . . .’

And now I look across this cluttered desk, and here you’ve come"

"Thank you for the visit, my dear child

The simple gift you gave today is one I’ll treasure dearly

I’ll always see you sitting up there filling in these 20 years

You’ll never know how much it’s meant to me"

 Please read the following comments first—they are meant to save you time and re-writes!

Before anything else, I must understand what any writer is saying. In an essay, literal comprehension often implies the ability to restate the argument. In novels, short stories, poems, and plays, it implies a concise retelling of the plot in my own words. At this point, we shall focus primarily on this first, basic level of interacting with texts.

As an example, let's summarize the fable of the three little piggies, a traditional tale known to most Westerners. It has several variations, of which only one will be given here:

Assignment 1. Submit a copy of your entire Log of Lapses.

Assignment 2. Imagine that you need to read and then retell the first poem (Ballad—see below) to someone who has never read it before. So read it carefully. If necessary, read it a few times. Then close your Coursepack (or strike it off your screen) and retell the poem FROM MEMORY. Start with the background, giving title, author, time, and place, if known. Then re-tell the poem in your own words. Make sure that you don't forget anything important and that you are telling what actually happened. At the same time, try to make your summary short. Then read the poem again, making sure that you re-told the poem accurately, succinctly, and well. After you have your first complete and accurate draft, edit it as well as you can. At this point, check grammar, spelling, sentence structure, etc. As soon as this is done, e-mail me your draft. After receiving my reply, edit the story once more and e-mail me your last version.

Assignment 3. Now proceed to carry out the exact same process for the short story "Shep's Hobby" (see below).

_

"Shep's Hobby" has been taken from James Herriot's Dog Stories. Some of Mr. Herriot's animal stories were serialized on the BBC Television series, All Creatures Great and Small.

James Herriot

Due date: Next week

We have discussed already the first level of interacting with texts—retelling (or summary, or literal comprehension). But there is more to reading than retelling a story. Another crucial aspect of reading is interpretation (or moral, or hidden message, or unstated point).

Thus, key points of works of fiction and nonfiction are often implied (and not directly stated). The art of inferring these key points is called INTERPRETATION. At this point, I am concerned with the moral of the story or with the hidden message the writer is trying to convey. As a reader of a short story, for example, I must decipher the meaning behind the plot. Often, this level also involves the question: Can some points be extended to circumstances beyond those directly touched upon by the author?

Again, let's make this abstraction clear by looking at the three pigs. We used to tell stories such as this endlessly to our children to entertain them, of course, but also to educate them. Now, what kind of education went on here (even if we were not conscious of what we were doing)? Obviously, it's through such stories that kids learn to communicate well and become socialized. But such stories serve other purposes; and here’s where the hidden message comes into play. So, let’s try to interpret the pig story.

The teller of this story is probably trying to convey to us one or more of these messages: Build your house on solid foundations. Or: invest in your future. Or: Better safe than sorry. Or: If you fail to invest in your future, you may have to pay a terrible price.

Note that finding the moral of a story involves some creativity and hard thinking on your part. Note also that any such interpretation contains an element of uncertainty—this might be what the writer is trying to say, but we can't be sure. For this reason, this part of your homework must contain an explanation. For instance, "I believe that the author is trying to tell us that we must work hard to secure a safe future. I believe that this is the hidden message in the story because the first two pigs cut corners, avoided expenses of time and money, built their house of flimsy materials. This nonchalance cost them their lives. On the other hand, the pig who worked hard and paid cold sweat and hard cash for a strong house, survived. His house, but not the others', was truly his castle.

1. Soon I began to teach at Wayne State. First teaching underwater basket weaving and later teaching moonshining.

2. Diane was elected top editor in this class. And was provided with an honorary pencil.

3. They did not recognize me. My beard gone and hair turned white.

4. We were trying to follow directions. Which were confusing and absurd.

5. Mary stutters whenever she see Joe. And whenever she see her math instructor.

6. She was not an outstanding success at her first job, she was not a complete failure either.

7. I ran over some broken glass in the parking lot, it did not puncture my tires.

8. The tiny storms cannot be identified as hurricanes therefore, they are called neutercanes.

9. The train departs at a reasonable late hour.

10. The diver was experience.

11. Our swimming pool is more deeper than Lake Michigan.

12. This guy is really the most craziest guy I have ever seen.

13. Seven candidates entered the mayor race in Detroit.

14. He didn't guard no goal.

15. It ain't nothing but a rooster.

16. I hate this job, but with an annual salary of $120,000 I couldn't hardly afford to quit.

17. These differences aside the resemblance between 1972 and 1980 is striking.

18. The boy is black handsome and smart.

19. An experienced teacher generally speaking doesn't run up against this kind of problem.

20. Today native Americans are still exploited not for land but for minerals.

The Swallows

Lyrics: Luis Rosado Vega

Music: Ricardo Palmerin

They arrived in the summer’s quiet afternoons

Crisscrossing the air in swift flights,

Building their nests under warm eaves,

Building their nests and chirping of love.

How white were their chests, how lovely their wings

How lovely their wings shaped like a cross

How they brightened those afternoons,

Those afternoons bathed in light.

Thus in the cheerful morning of my life

My wings of youth came with

Loves and fantasies as flighty as swallows

Like swallows, bathed in light

Then winter came, with its chilling gusts of wind,

The fair morning left in tears, 

The dreams and the swallows departed, 

And the swallows departed as well.

Astyages' Revenge

Herodotus

After all this, Cyaxares died, having been king for forty years (if you include those years when the Scythians held sway), and Astyages, his son, succeeded him.

Now Astyages had a daughter whose name was Mandane, and Astyages saw her in a dream making water so greatly that she filled all his city and flooded, besides, all of Asia. He confided this dream to those of the Magi who were dream interpreters, and, when he learned the particulars of their exposition, he feared greatly. When Mandane was ripe for a man, Astyages, since he dreaded his dream, gave her to no one of the Medes who were worthy to marry into his house but to a Persian called Cambyses, whom he found to be a man of good house and peaceable temper; and he thought this Persian was much below a Mede of even middle class.

When Mandane was living with her husband in their first year, Astyages saw another vision; it seemed to him that out of his daughter's privy parts there grew a vine, and the vine shaded all Asia. This, then, he saw; and again he entrusted the matter to the dream interpreters and sent to recall his daughter from where she lived among the Persians, she then being big with child. When she came, he kept her under ward, because he wished to destroy whatever should be born of her. For from his vision the interpreters among the Magi had read the signs to mean that the child of his daughter would become king in his place. It was against this that Astyages guarded, and so when Cyrus was born he summoned Harpagus, his kinsman, the faithfullest of the Medes and the steward of all that he had. "Harpagus," he said, "here is a matter I am entrusting to you; by no means mishandle it, nor yet deceive me and choose others: should you do so, you shall thereafter bring upon yourself a fall into ruin. Take this child that Mandane bore and bring it to your own house and kill it, and afterwards bury it in whatever way you please." Harpagus answered, "My lord, never yet have you seen even a hint of what is untoward in me, and I shall give heed that in the time to come, too, I shall not offend against you. If it is your pleasure that this be so, then it shall be mine to serve you duly."

So Harpagus answered him. When the baby was given him, all decked out for his death, Harpagus went weeping to his house, and on coming there he told his wife all the story that Astyages had told him. "And now what is in your mind to do?" she asked. "Certainly not what Astyages has ordered me," was his answer; "not though he shall be even more frantic and mad than now he is will I fall in with his judgment and be his servant in such a murder. There are many reasons why I will not murder the child: because he is akin to me and because Astyages is an old man and childless in male issue. If it should happen that after his death the crown should devolve upon his daughter, whose son Astyages has killed by my hands, what is left for me, from then on, but the greatest peril? Yet for my own safety the child must die; but it must be one of Astyages' folk that will be its murderer and none of mine."

So he said and at once sent a messenger to that one of Astyages' herdsmen whom he knew to graze his flocks in the pastures most suitable for his purpose and in mountains where wild beasts were most common. The man's name was Mitradates, and he lived with a woman who was a slave like himself and was called in Greek Cyno and in Median Spako; for the Medians call a bitch Spako. The foothills where this herdsman grazed his cattle were to the north of Ecbatana and toward the Euxine Sea; for at this point the country of the Medes, toward the Saspires, is hilly, high, and with dense thickets, but all the rest of Media is a flat plain. When the herdsman arrived in great haste at his summons, Harpagus said: "It is Astyages' command to you that you take this child and expose it on the loneliest part of the hills, that it may the soonest perish; and he has ordered me to tell you that if you do not kill it, but in any way bear a hand in its survival, he will cause you yourself to die the most terrible of deaths. I myself have instructions to supervise the child's exposure."

When the herdsman heard this, he took up the baby and went the same road home until he came to his homestead. Now his own wife was near her time all that day, and, as God would somehow have it so, she gave birth when her husband had gone to the city. They were much in one another's thoughts, these two; for the man was afraid for his wife in labor, and the woman for her man, whom Harpagus, in so unaccustomed a fashion, had summoned to his presence. Then he came back and stood before her, and the woman, as the sight of him was unexpected, was the first to ask him why Harpagus had been so instant in sending for him. The herdsman said: "Wife, I came to the city and saw and heard something I wish I had not seen nor that it should have happened to our masters. For the whole house of Harpagus was in a tumult of lamentation, and I went into it bewildered. When I came in, I saw a baby lying there, struggling and crying; he was decked out with gold ornaments, and his clothes were finely embroidered. When Harpagus saw me, he bade me take up the child speedily and go and expose it on the hills where the beasts are thickest; he said it was Astyages who had laid these commands on me, and he added many threats if I should disobey. I took up the child and bore it here, thinking it must be from one of the household, since I had no inkling where it should have come from. But I marveled to see the gold and the raiment and the lamentation so manifest in Harpagus' house. As I came along the road, I learned the whole story from one of the servants, who escorted me out of the city and put the baby into my hands. He said it was the child of Mandane, the daughter of Astyages and of Cambyses, son of Cyrus, and that it was Astyages' command that it should be killed. So now, here he is."

Even as he spoke, the herdsman took the covering from the baby and showed it to her. When his wife saw the child so big and beautiful, she burst into tears, and taking her man by the knees she besought him by no means to expose it. He said he could not do otherwise; for spies were to come from Harpagus to oversee the matter, and the herdsman would die a cruel death if he disobeyed. So when the woman could not persuade her man, she said next, "Since I cannot persuade you not to expose it, you must do this—if a child must necessarily be seen exposed. I, too, have given birth, and the baby I bore was dead. Take then the dead boy and expose it, and let us bring up, as our own, this child of Astyages' daughter. So you will not be detected in cheating our masters, and we shall ourselves have arranged our business well enough. For the dead child will have a royal burial, and the survivor will not lose his life."

The herdsman thought that his wife counseled very well in his present trouble, and he immediately did as she said. The child he had brought and of whom he should have been the deathman he confided to his wife; but his own child that was dead he took up and placed in the box wherein he had brought the other. He put on the dead body all the ornaments of that other child and bore it off to the loneliest part of the hills and left it there. When the third day came on the exposed child, the herdsman went to the city, leaving one of his underlings to guard it, and came to the house of Harpagus and said he was ready to show him the body. Harpagus sent some of the trustiest of his bodyguard, and through their agency saw and buried the body that was the herdsman's child. So that one was buried, and he that was afterwards called Cyrus was taken over by the herdsman's wife and brought up by her, though of course she put another name on him and not Cyrus.

When the child was ten years old, the following thing happened to him and revealed him. He was playing in the village where the herdsmen's houses were, playing in the road with other children of the same age. The children in their play chose him for their king—him who was called the cowherd's son. So he made his several orders for all of them to build houses and those to be bodyguards, and one of them, I suppose, to be the King's Eye. And to another he assigned the privilege of carrying messages to him. To each of them he gave his special function. One of the children the boy played with was the son of Artembares, a man of distinction among the Medes. This boy refused to discharge an order of Cyrus, at which Cyrus bade the other children arrest him; and when they obeyed him, he treated the rebel very roughly and had him whipped. As soon as he was let go, the child became even angrier (for he felt that he had suffered in a way unbefitting his rank) and went back to the town and complained to his father of how he had been dealt with by Cyrus, though of course he did not call him "Cyrus" (since that was not yet his name) but "the son of Astyages' herdsman." Artembares was very angry indeed and went to Astyages, taking his son with him and declaring that what he had suffered was not to be borne. "My lord," he said, "it is at the hands of your slave, the cowherd's child, that we have endured such insults as this," and he pointed to his son's shoulders.

Astyages listened to him and saw what had been done and wished to avenge Artembares' son, because of Artembares' high position, and so he sent for the cowherd and his son. When they both came before him, Astyages glanced at Cyrus and said, "You are the son of such a father as this, and did you dare to chastise so shamefully the son of one who is of the first honor with me?" The boy answered him: "Master, I did this to him, and with justice I did it. For the children of the village, of whom he was one, in their play made me their king; they judged that I was the most suited to the office. All the other boys did what I bade them do, but this one was deaf to my orders and would none of them, until finally he was punished for it. So if for this I deserve to suffer some ill, here am I to take it."

As the boy spoke, Astyages was visited by a kind of recognition; besides, the look on the boy's face seemed to him to resemble his own and his style of answering to be too free for what he appeared to be; also, the date of the exposure seemed to jibe with this boy's age. The king was thunderstruck by all this and for a time could say nothing. Hardly, at last, he rallied himself and—anxious to get rid of Artembares so that he could examine the cowherd privately—he said, "Artembares, I will so deal with this matter that neither you nor your son will have grounds of complaint." So he sent Artembares off; and the servants, at Astyages' command, took Cyrus inside. Then, when the king and the cowherd were quite alone, Astyages put his question to him: "Where did you get this child, and who gave him to you?" The man said that the child was his own and that his mother was still at home. Astyages said: "You are not well advised to want to bring yourself to the extremity of what you may suffer," and with these words he gave a sign to his bodyguards to seize the man. The cowherd in his desperation told the real story. He began at the beginning, followed the truth of it right through, and ended with entreaties, begging Astyages to pardon him.

When the cowherd revealed the truth, Astyages took less account of him then and there; but he was furious with Harpagus and bade the bodyguards summon him. When Harpagus came, Astyages asked him, "Harpagus, what sort of death did you use to destroy my daughter's child, whom I entrusted to you?" Now Harpagus saw the cowherd in the house, so he did not turn to the road of lies, in which he would surely be discovered and refuted, but said: "My lord, when I received the child, I debated with myself how I might do your pleasure and be clear of offense toward you but also how I might not be a murderer in your daughter's sight and in your own. This is what I did. I summoned this cowherd here and gave him the child, saying that it was your command to kill it. And in so saying I told no lie; for you had indeed given that order. So I gave it to him with instructions in this sense, that he should expose it on a lonely mountain and stand by and watch it till it died; and I used a world of threats if he should not do all of this. He did my commands; the child died, and I sent the trustiest of my eunuchs; and by their means I saw him dead and buried him. This, my lord, is exactly how it was, and this is how the child died."

So Harpagus told the story straightly; but Astyages concealed the anger he felt at what had happened, and first of all he told over to Harpagus what he had heard from the herdsman in the matter, and afterwards, when it had all been told twice, he ended by saying that the child was alive and that the business was well enough. "For I suffered greatly," he went on to say, "at what was done to this child, and I took it as no light thing to be estranged from my daughter. So since the luck has turned out well, will you send your son here to join this newcomer among us and will you yourself come to dinner? For I propose to celebrate a ceremonial sacrifice to those gods to whom honor is due for this saving of my grandchild."

Harpagus, on hearing this, did obeisance; and regarding it as a great thing that his offense had come out so well, and appositely, and that he was invited to dinner on such a fortunate occasion, went to his house. As he came in, he met his only son, a boy of about thirteen years, and sent him off to Astyages, telling him to go there and do whatever the king ordered him. And in his delight he told his wife all that had happened. When Harpagus' son came to Astyages, the king cut his throat and chopped him limb from limb, and some of him he roasted and some he stewed and, having dressed all, held it in readiness. When it was the dining hour and the other guest had come, then for those other guests and for Astyages himself there were set tables full of mutton, but, before Harpagus, the flesh of his own son, all save for the head and the extremities of the hands and the feet; these were kept separate, covered up in a basket. When it seemed that Harpagus had had enough of his meal, Astyages asked him how he liked the feast. "Very much indeed," said Harpagus; and then those whose instruction it was brought in the head and the hands and the feet of his son, covered; these men stood before Harpagus and bade him uncover and take what he pleased from it. Harpagus did so and, uncovering, saw the remains of his son. But when he saw them, he gave no signs of disturbance and remained quite himself. Astyages asked him if he new what wild thing it was whose flesh he had been eating. "Yes," he said, "I know; whatsoever my lord the king does is pleasing." So he answered and, taking up what was left of the flesh, went home, resolved, I suppose, to gather all together and bury it.

This was the penalty Astyages laid upon Harpagus; but when he came to think about Cyrus, he summoned those same Magi who had expounded his dream in their sense. When they came, Astyages asked them how it was that they had expounded the dream. They answered in the same terms as before, declaring that had the boy survived and not died first, he must needs have become king. At this he answered them: "The boy lives, he has survived; and when he was living out in the country, the children in the village made him their king. He did all the things that real kings do: he appointed bodyguards and sentries and messengers and made all the other arrangements, and so he ruled. Now I would know toward what you think all these things tend." The Magi said: "If indeed the boy survives and has become king with no connivance, be of good cheer and good heart: he will not come to rule a second time. Some, even of our prophecies, issue in very small matters, and in all that pertains to dreams the fulfillment is often in something trifling." Said Astyages: "I am myself strongly of your opinion, Magi—that since the child has been called king, the dream has come out, and so the boy will be no future threat to me. Yet I would have you counsel me carefully, with heedful concern for what will be safest for my house and for yourselves." The Magi answered, "My lord, that your rule should stand safely is of the utmost importance to ourselves. For otherwise the crown will fall into alien hands; it will devolve on this boy, who is Persian, and we, being Medes, will be enslaved by the Persians and become of no consequence with relation to them, since we will be foreigners in our own land. But so long as you are king, who are our countryman, we have our share in the rule and great honor from you. So we must certainly look out for you and for your authority. If now we saw anything to be feared in this matter, we would have told you everything. As it is, the dream has issued in something trifling; we are ourselves quite confident and bid you be the same. So send the boy away from your sight to the Persians and his parents."

When Astyages heard this, he was very glad and summoned Cyrus and said to him, "My boy, I did you a wrong because of a vision I saw in a dream, a vision that found no fulfillment; but through your own destiny you have survived. Go then, and fare you well, to the Persians, and I will send an escort with you. When you get there, you will find a father and mother of different style from Mitradates, the cowherd, and his wife."

With these words Astyages sent Cyrus away. When the boy came to the house of Cambyses, his parents received him; and after they had received him, they heard all; their welcome was full of joy, for they had understood him to have died so long ago; and they questioned him as to how he had survived. He told them, saying that until now he had himself not known of it but was greatly astray, but that on the road he had learned all that had happened him; he had believed that he was the son of Astyages' cowherd, but as he had traveled thither he had heard the whole story from his escort. He had been raised by the cowherd's wife, he said, and, as he told it, he was continually praising her, and indeed, in the tale he told, everything was Cyno. His parents caught at the name, and, so as to make the Persians think that their son's survival was even more a thing of God's contriving, they spread the rumor that Cyrus, exposed, had been suckled by a bitch.

From this, then, that legend has grown. But when Cyrus had become a young man and, indeed, of all those of his age the bravest and the most loved, Harpagus courted him with gifts, for he was eager to take his own vengeance on Astyages. He saw no possibility of any punishment coming upon the king from one who was only a private person, but, as he observed Cyrus growing up, he tried to make an ally of him; for in the shape of Cyrus' sufferings he saw his own.

CLASS ACTIVITIES FOR WEEK 4 (computer lab?)

Due date: Next week

Choose a title and write an outline for an EPE-style essay responding to Oprah Winfrey’s views on books and freedom (note: if you want to re-listen to that interview, go to: http://www.is.wayne.edu/mnissani/fall2003/front.htm and then click "Oprah Winfrey").

She Sings Me To Sleep With Laughter

Don White

2001

I understand exhaustion. Exhaustion and I have a longstanding and deeply intimate knowledge of one another. He knows how to slip into my life and make me miserable and I know that he enjoys doing it. Over the past thirteen years I have carved out a small career as a singer-songwriter while simultaneously maintaining a marriage, raising two children and holding one, and sometimes two, day jobs. The currency with which I have paid for this music career is sleep. Exhaustion is the constant companion of all of us who choose to trade in this particular currency.

My daughter's bedroom is next to the bedroom where my wife, myself,  and exhaustion sleep. There has never been a real door on her room. We installed one of those flimsy folding doors that slides on tracks and opens and closes like an  accordion. It has given her some privacy but has deprived her of one of the key ingredients of a complete adolescence—a door that slams. I must admit to several moments of quiet glee over the years when the door slamming exclamation point at the end of a teenage melodrama was replaced by little squeaky wheels sliding across aluminum runners.

One night when my daughter was fifteen, I was in a particularly profound state of exhaustion. It was 11:30. I could hear the six am setting on the alarm clock actually taunting me. "I'm going to ring as soon as you close your eyes." My daughter was on the phone with one of her girlfriends. She was laughing. It was the kind of laugh that can only come from a fifteen-year-old girl. As something of a comedian, I have spent a disproportionate amount of my life studying the different sounds of laughter. In addition to the obvious fact that each person has their own unique laugh (It's kind of like a fingerprint when you think about it), there are several different types of laughter. The one that I am always shooting for in my shows is the "I can't believe it, that's just like my mother" one. This laugh is characterized by high pitch screams that seem to contain within them the name of the person in the family who is just like the person you are talking about. I always hear the sound of recognition in this laughter. To the discerning ear of the knowledgeable comic, this sound is magic. It's like striking oil. When a room is filled with it, you can't help but feel like you are flying. In the continuing effort to design an act that will manifest as much of this kind of laughter as possible, I have learned to recognize the other, less evolved, types of laughter. The "Oh my God, I can't believe he is talking about this," shock laugh. The polite, unenthusiastic, almost obligatory, laugh. The "This guy is really scary" nervous laugh. And the very unique laughter that comes from mean-spirited, victim-oriented humor. (What's up with these idiots from other countries in the tollbooths, who can't even speak English let alone make change for a dollar ha, ha.) I have often thought that this is the sound of the laughter that one would hear on the nightclub circuit in Hell. To the untrained ear, all of these sound pretty much the same. However, the laughter of a fifteen-year-old girl on the telephone with her best friend is a sound unlike any other on earth.

I am lying in bed. I am so tired I could cry. I am not only being taunted by exhaustion and my alarm clock, but also by the realities inflicted upon my life by every poor decision I have ever made. Sleep, even just a little bit of it, is the only remedy. Unfortunately, I am being denied this cure by the shrieks and wails of hysterical teenage laughter devilishly dancing out of my daughter's room.

I resolve that I must address the situation. I then begin the process of deciding which of my two available dad identities I should manifest in the bedroom doorway of my inconsiderate daughter. So I wonder: which dad persona that will bring blessed quiet back to my domicile as quickly as possible with the least amount of energy output and subsequent ramifications?

The first dad incarnation that comes to mind is the stereotypical blustering version. This is the one where I storm over to her room and with all the self-righteous indignation available to the dad number one stereotype, I identify her crimes against humanity and the reasons why they are personally offensive to me. Then, using the loud, severely agitated and totally unreasonable dad number one voice I say, "I'm trying to get some sleep here! You don't care that I have to get up at six in the morning. Why should you? You get to sleep till noon. All you ever think about is yourself. It would never even occur to you that other people might actually be living in this house!"  Then I flex my dad number one dictatorial muscle by saying, "Hang that phone up right now," and then there is quiet. Quiet anger, quiet resentment and quiet plotting of revenge. You see, dad number one always gets much more quiet than he bargained for. That's because he is one hundred percent bluster and bravado and zero percent circumspection. His shortsightedness is legendary. The method by which he attains his immediate goal actually fortifies the resolve of the opposition. He wins the battle at the expense of the war. He is, generally speaking, a byproduct of exhaustion and lives a life that alternates between explosive bravado and the need to apologize for it.

Once dad number one is finished blowing off steam and asserting his authority in my mind, he gives the podium to dad number two. This dad is also motivated by exhaustion but he lacks the will to fight. Instead, he is a pleader. His method is to crawl out of bed looking as pitiful as possible and to speak in a defeated monotone. "Ariel honey, I have to get up early. Can you please use the phone downstairs?" Although sad and emasculated, this dad usually accomplishes his goal without creating a situation that he will feel obligated to repair later.

I choose to manifest dad number two. I conjure up my defeated monotone and roll it around in my mouth. I am preparing to climb out of bed and address the situation when a hitherto unknown door in my mind opens up and out walks dad number three. He speaks, "Dad number one is an asshole and dad number two is an idiot. The problem here is not with the sounds in this house, it is with the way you are choosing to hear them."  I think, "Great, dad number three is a good-for-nothing philosopher." I say, "Is this going to take long? I really need to get some sleep." He tells me to shut up and he continues, "Let's take a look at what we actually have here. You are about to take action that will curtail the sounds of laughter in your home. Is this really what you want? Would you prefer your home to be filled with the sounds of anger or crying? The sounds that fill a home are part and parcel of the memories that are created there. Quiet is what happens in a home when you are alone in it. Be careful how much of this you wish for." Then he says it again. "The problem here is not with the sounds in this house, it is with the way you are choosing to hear them."

And then I get it. I don't just get it a little bit. I really get it. I completely get it. I get it in the center of my solar plexus. It must be like this when all of a sudden you understand jazz or Shakespeare. I say to myself "What kind of a father can't go to sleep to the sound of his daughter laughing" Instantly, as if the asking of the question initiated the metamorphosis, all the sounds emerging from my daughter's room are transformed. They become music. They become summer rain. I lay back and let them wash over me. All the pores in my body open up and absorb them. I drink in the miracle of my daughter's teenage laughter. It is magic. It is giddy. It is a sound so complete that it seems as if every one of her molecules are laughing. There is no separation between my daughter the young adult and laughter itself. It is all one glorious symphony, light and lovely. She sings me to sleep with laughter. I dream of woodwinds and of small birds dancing gracefully upon delicate breaths of wind. In the morning I awake refreshed. Exhaustion is gone and will not return until the day has wrestled from me my zest.

There is a distinct lightness in the early morning quiet of my home. I glance in upon the sleeping figure of my daughter, beautiful and at peace. I whistle a line from The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy and begin my day.  

Two Puzzles 1. A jeweler has 3 diamonds. They all look exactly alike, but one diamond is heavier than the others. How can she identify the heavier diamond by using a balance scale just once? Please outline your argument as carefully as you can.     2. Same as above, but now the jeweler doesn't know whether the odd diamond is lighter or heavier than the other two. By using the scale twice, how can she tell (i) which is the odd one, and (ii) whether it is lighter or heavier?

Week 5 

Individual consultations with class instructor. Make sure to bring all your work. If it’s on a computer disk, bring the disk as well. If you have a laptop, bring it too. This meeting will give us a chance to get to know each other, discuss your work and progress in this class, any concerns you may have, and any suggestions you may have for the next 9 weeks.

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