I've plugged him before, and I likely will again, but Clay Burrell has a post and a string of comments that gets to the heart of schooliness and education.
He blogs like Sandy Koufax pitched, which means he's going to throw quality stuff past you at high velocity.
I'll be dwelling on one--say, "On the Death of Genius for College"--and he'll throw 3 straight fastballs past me while I'm still gawking.
I start school in a week. I hope to post something to chew on once a week or so, with a few blurbs in between just so folks know I still exist.
Clay may have posted 3 new mega-ideas in the time it takes me to toss this out there. He blends education and life and God and sex and Gilgamesh together in less time than it takes to throw together a mojito.
And yeah, that's an unauthorized photo stolen from Mr. Burrell's website--it'll stay up until he threatens to sue me--he's what Ray Davies would look like in heaven, if heaven existed. And if Ray Davies was dead.
Posts
5 comments:
Ray who?
But cereal, I was thinking the same about your own frequency.
Ray Davies is the soul of the Kinks. You have an uncanny resemblance.
My blogging frequency will plummet come Labor Day. Oh, I'll toss thoughts up here, but the navel-gazing will likely be suspended until next June, though I hope the weekends prove fruitful. We'll see.
The most amazing thing about throwing thoughts out on the web is that I find brilliant people spinning intricate webs.
On the other hand, the professional life span of my favorite bloggers (at least within school buildings) does not bode well for me.
But no matter. A few kids trapped in a largely suffocating system get to see that other things are possible. (Again, I am blessed to be in an unusual school--we have a GSA club, an Amnesty International Club, and I have carte blanche this year taking over the astronomy club).
No calls from your lawyer?
Ah, yes. Ray Davies, the bard who penned "Lola," one of the few great rock tunes that scores the glorious hat trick: it's simultaneously a power-ballad love song, spelling primer, and gender identity amorality tale. They don't write 'em like that any more.
And there aren't enough bloggers like Clay. Glad to have found you through him. I've also felt the bracingly edifying breeze from a Burell rhetorical fireball or two. Worth noting as a (needless) character reference: he's no brushback pitcher. Everything he serves up comes fair and square and in the zone, and good luck trying to catch up with it.
By all appearances, you're no slouch, either.
By the way, Clay has authorized me to act as his attorney. As his legal representative, I'm officially serving you with this pretend "continue and persist" letter. Imagine it as a huge parchment scroll gently bound with a string of braided hair plucked from the beards of Darwin, Marx, and Rasputin. Iggy Pop would also be represented in our improvised four horsemen of the apocrypha if he had any facial hair.
Well thank the freaking lord, the great Schwister lives. It's been too long since I've played across your lines. Figured by now that you must be a seasonal type, like foliage, appearing for a time, then the opposite, then its opposite.
You know you're pro bono, by the way. You're not going to get a penny from me.
Thanks for the warm words.
I suspect Iggy has less hair than a dolphin--maybe Rabelais can be exhumed.
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