Two Year Old Sitting Buddy

On Saturday I went out shopping with my wife. I am not a big fan of shopping, but I do love hanging out with my wife. Thus there we were Saturday afternoon in Ann Taylor so that she could use a 20% off coupon. While my wife looked over various articles of clothing, I headed for the only seat in the store.
You see, in the back of this particular retail store is a lone couch. It faces the shoes away from the windows and the clothing, and it is allllll the way in the back. This is the last "safe" place for men in the store. Essentially, by not facing the clothing, men cannot see what the women are looking at (and thus figure out how much it will cost). At the same time, not seeing out the window to see the sunshine and happy people walking does two things: 1. You don't think about how much you're missing out on, and 2. (less happy) you don't really know how much time has passed (think about being in a casino).
So, I sat alone. I was the only man in the store, and, armed with only a magazine, I headed to my false haven to wait. However, today would be very different.
Sitting there reading about "Good Carbs, Bad Carbs" in Minnesota Monthly, I heard the short, fast footsteps of child running toward my position. Sure enough, there was Francesca. This little precocious two year old was told by her mother to sit on the couch, but when Fancesca saw me, her eyes lit up. I had nowhere to go (I had my wife's purse for one thing), so when she sat down next to me, I had no escape.
Francesca, as I mentioned before, is two years old. She is very energetic, likes to talk, and liked me (apparently). She sat down turned to me and said, "Hi! Do you have a name?" Pretty gutsy considering that her mom had told her not to talk to me (more on the mom later). Thus, a new friendship was born. I heard all about her favorite color (purple), about the colors she was wearing (a slight mispronunciation of green that sounded like groun), about her favorite animals (giraffe and kitty), and more. She obviously liked me, because she kept trying to show off. Ever seen a MADtv sketch with Stuart? This little actually said to me, "Look what I can do," and then started to try and flip around on the couch. This is where the trouble began for my little buddy.
Francesca's mom saw her with me and immediately moved toward us. This is what she saw when she looked to the back. A guy with a beard holding a magazine on the far right side of the couch, and the feet of her daughter who was doing handstands on a couch. When she got to the back, Francesca's mom told her daughter to, "stop, and leave the goofy guy alone." Francesca looked at her mom, smiled and then jumped over to me and started talking to me again. I didn't look at her, because I could tell the mom was staring intently at me to see what I would do. Upset, Mom took Francesca and told her to stay with her. I thought I was now alone again, but I was wrong.
No sooner had ten seconds passed, when Francesca came bolting to the back of the store and hoped back on the couch. This time, her mother did nothing. So Francesca and I talked for another twenty minutes. During that time, she invented the finger-eating game. I would put out my hand to help her count to five. When we reached five (and thus my hand was open) she would begin to bite off my fingers to get us back to zero (I'm not kidding, folks. This was her invention). With not fingers out, she would have to tap the top of my hand in order to count up. We did this for ten minutes.
Again, her mom came to the back to try clothes on and saw the two of us together. Unhappy, she asked one of the sales clerks to watch her daughter. This woman (her name was Tammy) tried to get Francesca to talk to her, but Francesca wasn't having it. I was the dish du jour, and she was not having anything else. The clerk gave up, because she was all about me, so again, it was just the two of us.
This is where it got very awkward. Francesca was still hoping on the couch when her mom returned from the dressing room. Mom did not want Francesca jumping, so came up behind the couch and told Francesca to stop. Did she listen? No. Mom asked again. Nothing happened. I then turned to Francesca and said, "Listen to your mother, Francesca." Bam! Francesca stops jumping and sits down next to me. The look in her mother's eyes was, to say the least, not good. So Mom decided to make Francesca stick by her. "Say goodbye to the goofy guy," she told Francesca, and took her back to the front of the store. Francesca began to misbehave, because she was not happy. However, her mother did not really correct her behavior. It sounded like a person ordering at a cheeseburger: "Yeah, I think I need you to stop, please. Thanks." Do you think this worked? Show of hands please.... No. Mom then gave up, again, because she found a shirt she liked and Francesca was my sitting buddy again.
All through this, my wife was laughing. As she put it, "you have someone who is mentally your age to hang out with now." Ok, I really said that, but Caroline agreed. She agreed with me, however, that Francesca's mom showed no real interest in her child. The only time she really paid attention to Francesca was when she saw her on the way back to the dressing room, and then it was only because Francesca was near me.
Finally, it was time to go, so I said, "Goodbye," and went to the register. Well, Mom was ready to check out to, so Francesca kept running over to me at the other register and hugging my leg (and I'm sorry, I kept thinking about horny dogs, because she would not let go). As I started to leave, I waved goodbye to Francesca, who told me, "Bye-bye." It was cute. Mom apologized to me, but it really wasn't a burden. Honestly, I was more angry at Francesca's mother for not keeping tabs on her little girl. She would find an article of clothing and her two year old would be forgotten. No wonder Francesca liked to talk to me, I looked her in the eye. Anyway, I told Mom that it was fine, and one of the clerks told her to get my number for babysitting. I moved a little faster toward the door. Still, I enjoyed my time with my two year old sitting buddy, because she made me laugh and was very forward about things (best quote: I peed in my pull-up).

Pure Genius (Sort Of)

If this had been a cat, turkey, chicken, or even a pig, no one would care. Personally I'm jealous that I didn't think of this. Maybe I could do something similar using a dog...
However, as I thought about it more, this is really similar to what they did with Larry the Lobster on Saturday Night Live. Don't remember that? Ok, they had an on-air stunt. They showed a lobster (Larry, natch) and a boiling pot of water. The announcer then came on and said that you could call one of two numbers. The first placed Larry into his last bath, the other spared him the spa treatment. In a cruel twist, the boilers outdid the rescuers, and Larry was boiled.
Check out the website, but be forewarned. I really don't think poor Toby is going to that great big field in the sky anytime soon.

Let It Go

The New York Daily News is reporting this little nugget. Considering that there is the urban legend that masturbation causes blindness, we seem to be heading toward a "damned if you do/ damned if you don't" situation. If an older gentleman with E.D (Erectile Dysfunction) decides to get Viagra to help him, he could go blind, but if he instead decides to spank the monkey, he could also go blind. So I guess the only way to solve this problem is abstinence, but where's the fun in that?

Rainy Day Blues

I'm having an off day. I know, we can't always be at our best everyday, but today was one of those days where I didn't have the answers, I was stumbling over myself, and I just didn't have my head in my body.
Warning: the author is tired and frustrated right now, so he's essentially whiny. He apologizes for being annoying but hopes his reader(s) will understand.
First and foremost, I need a day without rain. We've had gray (or grey depending on your feelings) skies for days. Yesterday started out promising, but by the time I started to leave the school building, it was pouring. I need some sunshine this upcoming weekend, or I might go crazy. Granted I also need the sunshine so I can paint my house.
The second issue stems from fellow faculty members. I have been at this school for ten months (since August), and I get along with almost all the faculty members (as seen in a previous post). However, ever since I started at this school, there has been one teacher who has never used my name. Over the course of ten months, she would call me "Student Teacher Guy," or, "hey buddy." (which is a pet peeve of mine to act all chummy with someone whose name you don't know.) Today, however, she actually called me by my name today. It was shocking. She said, "Hello Mr. Leab." Oh, but it didn't stop there (and this is where the trouble starts). No, she decided that we were such good friends (nope) that she called me Leabster, Leabarooney, and even Leabbie. Somehow this teacher turned into Todd the Copier Guy from Saturday Night Live (the Rob Schneider character). She and I do not know each other at ALL, yet she talks to me like we grew up in the same neighborhood. When I asked her to stop, (because we do not know each other) she got defensive and the next thing I know, I have students chastising me for hurting her feelings. One student went so far as to say that she thought I was a nice guy, but now she's glad she won't see me anymore. Still, as my favorite Grad School teacher told me, "it's more important to be likeable than liked."
This same teacher led to another problem today. She decided to grab another teacher and come into my room while the class was watching a video on the Civil Rights Era. I allowed two students who were not in the class to sit in and talk with me, because one of them felt she needed to chat with me. This teacher decided to make a whole big scene about the "Leabites", and started asking me out loud about what I do to get everyone to like me. This is so inappropriate to do in front of a class. Thanks alot, HotDave (and you will continue to be called this) for helping her out on that one. Look, I know I was asked to Prom by students, and I get that students feel it's easy to talk to me, but if you're bitter or angry, you don't need to make a big scene. I'm sorry if I actually, oh I don't know, listen to my students when they talk to me. Try it it's a great thing.
My third issue is really all about me. I'm human, we all are. Even the super people who seem to have boundless energy and get everything done with no problems are human. We all have to take the occasional MHD (Mental Health Day, people) in order to keep from going postal. No one, and I do mean NO ONE, can expect that everyone will be on their game everyday. Need a sports example? Michael Jordan had a bad game here and there. Not a sports fan? Sometimes musicians play badly at a concert. Something different? Mother Theresa, before she died, admitted that some days she needed divine guidance. If Mother Theresa needed extra guidance here and there, what hope do we mere mortals have of being on the ball everyday. The problem I have, however, is when a person if off their game or having a bad day, and no one is willing to accept it. So when I felt as though I couldn't help some of my students with personal issues, I was dismayed (and slightly hurt) when they reacted badly to it. We all do the best we can, but sometimes we just need a rest. So, to the three students who got mad at me, I'm sorry, but I couldn't spend the time and energy you needed (and deserved) today. I can always talk to you on Tuesday.
The fourth issue is more in my head. The students are learning about the Civil Rights Era. I get that it's Friday, and I get that the end of the year is just days away, but this is one of, if not the MOST, important eras in the history of our country. It is important, whether white, black, yellow, red, whatever, to know how our country changed due to that period of time. We discussed the Freedom Riders and watched a film about them. When it was done, I asked the glass to tell me about what they learned. They were quiet (which is nothing new). However, when pressed, one student said, "there's no point in learning this, it doesn't affect in any way." Now, the first issue I have is that this student is an African-American. To say that this doesn't affect him is like saying that the Holocaust was a picnic (nope). The second issue is that regardless of race, it is important to understand what shaped the society you live in and how your history can determine your future. It honestly depressed me that he and a few other students felt that learning about this was unnecessary.
Everything else, much like the rest of this post, is superficial. Over the last month, I've had two immediate family members in the hospital for surgery (or procedures), blown a job interview by being loyal, and realized that I don't like a lot of the people I keep company with because they can't see beyond themselves. I mean come on people, your receding hair line is not a reason to call me at one in the morning on a school night. Students on my lawn is one thing, but your fading looks is not.
Sorry for the ranting and venting. I'll try not to do it again.
Have a great weekend and have some fun.

Hockey and Me (A Love Story) Part II: Wild Times

When I moved to Minnesota, the Wild were in their inaugural season. I knew from seeing the Northstars on television that Minnesotans were rabid fans. During their Stanley Cup run in 1990-91 season, the Northstars were on television on the East Coast. I remember how loud the fans were on tv. I never thought it was real until I went to a Wild game. It made sense that the Wild retired the #1 for the fans, because Minnesota fans truly are rabid and amazing.
My first Wild game was during my wife's bachelorette party. She was out with friends and would be using the apartment we shared. I didn't mind, however, because I had won two "on the glass" seats to the Wild take on the Vancouver Canucks. Though the Wild got killed (the final score was 5-2), the events at the game were a lot of fun.
I was with my best man, Paul. He was a huge Blues fan, but had adopted the Wild as his "other" team (a common practice in sports). As we sat by the ice, we realized that everyone around us in our section was obviously new to either the sport or to the physics of the rink. Several people were getting Hockey explained to them ("So how does icing work?"), while others had placed their drinks on the rim in front of the glass. Anyone who understands what happens during a check into the glass knows you do not ever put anything on that rim.
For those of you who don't know, there is a small amount of give between the glass and the boards in order to protect the players (and the fans) from hard checks. When someone gets checked into the glass, it bends slightly and vibrates. Now back to the story.
So the guy next to me puts his full beer on the rim just before a nearby faceoff. Immediately, I know this is going to be bad. The Wild lost the faceoff, and the Canuck player who picked up the puck started to go up ice by the boards. Scott Pellerin zeroed in on him and slammed him into the boards. The beer shot off the rim, spraying out of the bottle, and landed on his lap. I had to bite my cheeks to keep from laughing. I remember him screaming, "what the hell?" over and over again. Later in the game, the Wild scored a goal and everyone by the ice started banging on the glass. As we cheered, a police officer came down and started moving everyone back with his nightstick. It was hilarious and disturbing at the same time. He pushed us back from the glass saying, "you might damage it. That's enough, sir. Don't make me remove you." Of course, when the hot girl one section over did it on the second goal, he just smiled.
Several games later, we finally moved into the upper levels. I have mentioned before: any real fan sits in the upper levels. It's like a cult. The fans who paint themselves, the fans who know all the stats, and the fans who can see how the game will develop sit up above the ice to see it all (it also helps that it's cheaper). That game showed me the true, die-hard, crazy hockey fans. There was Mr. and Mrs. Wild (who had legally changed their names) and painted themselves to look like the logo. Mister Wild even tattooed the logo onto his back (that's dedication). There was "The Chief." I think every team has a "chief," who is (usually) a man that dresses up in Native American gear and tries to rally the fans. Truly, the fans of the Wild are sometimes even better than the team.
The best game I ever attended, however, was the first game of the 2003 conference finals between the Wild and Mighty Ducks of Anaheim (thanks alot for that one, Disney). When my wife and I entered the arena, every seat was covered with the Wild version of the Homer Hanky (I call it the Wild Washcloth). During the game, every time we needed a rally, the fans waved their towels. It was an amazing scene to see about 19,000 people waving these towels around and around in the air. It was honestly inspiring. Less inspiring, however, were the people who were not their for the Wild, but there for the experience. I can sum it up with Dorky Annoying Guy (or Dag for short).
Dag was sitting next to me for the whole game. He was the kind of person who would yell things like, "Come on, just shoot it," when the Wild were setting up during the power play. He was almost as bad as a guy I saw at a St. Cloud Huskies game. This guy would yell over and over again, "FEED THE DOG!" This meant pass the puck to the guy on the point. Anyway, Dag didn't really care if the Wild won the game or not. At one point, he got on his cell phone and called a friend. He kept asking, "Can you see me on tv? Are there any celebrities here? Etc." At one point Wild player Jeremy Stevenson was hit in the eye with a stick (and it was maliciously done). The ref did not call a penalty (thanks alot Fraser) even though Stevenson was bleeding from his eye. As Wild fans hollered and booed, Dag asked me why they cared so much. That's just one of the signs of a passive fan, or as I call them bandwagoneer. Here are some more:
When you don't become outraged by the uncalled injury of a team member, you might not be a hockey fan
When you're above the action following the players and you have to ask where the puck is, you might not be a hockey fan.
When you turn to the person sitting next to you and ask, "when is the period over," instead of looking at the clock, you might not be a hockey fan.
These are all examples of what Dag did at that game. It frustrated me that at a point when the Wild needed their true blue (or green) fans to support them, they instead had schmucks like Dag who only cared about being noticed and being able to tell his friends he was there. I cannot stop people like that from going to games, but I really hope that karma pays them back for not really caring.
I will continue to love Hockey until the day I die. The movement and speed of the game is fluid like art. I hope the game returns this upcoming season. Should you have the opportunity, check out a live professional game. You'll be amazed at how much better and faster it is than high school or even college.

Hockey and Me (A Love Story) Part I: Before Wild

Ok, I finally can sit down and write about this.
I have been a fan of Hockey for as long as I can remember. While the game is great to watch on television, you cannot really get the feel for it unless you go (or unless you play, but for all intents and purposes, it's easier to talk about watching it).
The first time I ever went to a game was in 1987. I went and saw the New York Rangers play the New York Islanders. I was aware of the rivalry between the two, and I understood the chants that Islander and Ranger fans are known for at the games ("Potvin sucks!", etc). I never realized how fast the game could really go until I watched the pros in person. These men were able to FLY.
I went to the game with my father (who would go one other game with me and complain both times). He hated it and ended up talking to the guys in the press box for most of the game. I just remember how fast they all moved. A few years later, I would return to Madison Square Garden to see the 1994 All-Star Game. That was an amazing experience. Again, it was the two Leab boys, and, once again, we sat up by the reporters. At one point, Harvey the Hound (the Calgary Flames mascot) was walking around by the press. They got annoyed and started flicking pens and pencils at him to go away. I remember that Mike Richter was amazing in that game, and he shutout the West All-Stars (formerly of the Campbell Conference). At the time, I didn't realize that the players don't really go at full speed, because it's essentially an exhibition game. Several members of the Rangers (Mark Messier and Brian Leetch) played very well and were active in scoring.
Fast forward a few years. In college, I was able to see the St. Louis Blues. A few of us students and faculty members decided to take in a game. We secured nine club level seats at the then Kiel Center (now Saavis Center) to see the Blues take on the Rangers. The great part about the club section was that people came to you for food and drink orders. You didn't have to anywhere. Thus, with little movement, we ended up getting very drunk.
I, of course, cheered for the Rangers, much to the chagrin of the people with me who were Blues fans. At one point, the Rangers went up two goals, and another Ranger fan (who I didn't know) and I were celebrating. We were soon pelted with popcorn, peanuts, and ice. We still cheered and hollered, even though very large Blues fans were threatening us. The Rangers won the game by three goals, but what was more interesing was what happened among the fans. First, the break between the second and third periods had to be extended when a Blues fan and a Rangers fan ended up brawling in the aisle. Both ended up with bloody noses, and everyone cheered rather than stop them. Second, toward the end of the game, the faculty member who came with us ended up feeling my girlfriend's (now wife) breast. It was odd. He said he was reaching for me, but he put his arm around her, his hand dropped, and he grabbed her breast. There was a huge reaction from both of them. She was upset, and he laughed, though he claimed it was because he was embarrassed. As we walked out of the arena, she ended up tripping him and claiming it was an accident. I had to walk in between them to the light rail.
Tomorrow, I will discuss part two, Hockey in the Wild era.

Holy Clowns

I was going to talk about hockey experiences today, but something came up that was just too good to pass up.
A church in New York decided to try something new yesterday. I completely understand why, and it makes sense except for one small issue: the number of children and adults who are terrified by clowns. My wife, for example, cannot stand clowns. When I showed her this piece, she told me:
"I would turn around and walk out. There is NO way I would sit through church with the minister dressed as a clown."
That's a grown and sensible woman saying no.
At the same time, there are so many aspects of the term, "Clown Eucharist" that lead to trouble. Let's think about all the issues:
1. A priest or minister dressed as a kid-friendly clown. Ok, with all of the pedophilia accusations thrown at the church, is it really a good idea for them to dress up in a costume that most people associate with the circus and kid's parties? My sister once told me that back in the 15th century, pedophiles would dress up as clowns to lure children and ravage them. Then, with no way of knowing what they looked like, these people could get away with it. Think about that when you think about this minister as a clown.
2. How the mass works. Do they throw the wafer at you instead of placing it? Is the wine in a seltzer bottle? This is what I picture. The minister honks his nose and calls up the congregation. As they line up, he uses magic (or the Black Arts for you hardcore believers) to produce the wafers. Then he sprays a little wine (or grape juice) into everyone's mouth with a lapel flower.
3. Where was Bozo in the Bible? I recall Ezekiel, and I remember Lot and his wife, but I don't remember a Bozo nor a mention of, "a painted man with nose of noise."
4. Music. Ok, does the organist play circus versions of the hymns? Imagine "Amazing Grace" to the tune of "Baby Elephant Walk."
Look, I applaud this minister for thinking outside the box (something desperately needed in the church), but this might be too far. Next thing you know, a church in Alabama will have Jesus and Nascar: You're the driver, life is the track, and Jesus (and the church) are your pit crew. The minister could wear a headset and racing outfit. Hey, we could even put a headset on the crucifix! Too far? Ok, let's throttle back (pun intended). Is the devil the racer who keeps bumping you into the wall? If this idea does get taken, remember where you heard it first. However, if you have an idea for a new kind of mass, send it to me. I'll publish the best ones to let the world decide whether it should be accepted or pitched.

O Hockey, Where Art Thou?

I miss professional hockey. Yup, I admit it. It may seem geeky or dorky or whatever, but I miss the NHL. Outside of the country of Canada (eh?), most people probably don't care, but I do. At this point in the year, they would be in the playoffs heading toward the Stanley Cup Finals. There would hardcore checking, great saves, and amazing goals. I should be listening to Barry "The Mullet" Melrose, Darren "The Little Goalie That Could" Pang, and John "Oh Baby!" Davidson talking about Marian Gaborik's incredible speed and Martin Brodeur's amazing consistency on shots. But I'm not, because there is no hockey this year. Gary Bettman and Bob Goodenow made like In-Action Heroes (no, I am not plugging, just explaining), and stole away the season. Both the players and the owners should be ashamed. Sorry, almost went off on a rant there. This post isn't about denouncing those two punks. No, no, no, no. Rather this is about how much I miss the "Coolest Sport on Earth."
At the end of last year, the Minnesota Wild invited me to become a season ticket holder. Without hesitation, I gladly accepted and purchased two upper deck seats (real fans sit above where they can see the whole game). Both my wife and I were excited for the upcoming season. We were going to see Matt Johnson beat the holy hell out of opposing players. We were going to see Gaborik flying down the ice to score. We were going to discuss how the Wild need to have Matt Foy on their second line as soon as possible (a thought I still have to this day). The lockout ended all of that. Did I cry? No. I think my brother-in-law did though. See, he's a Canadian boy who loves (and I do mean LOVES) the Calgary Flames. He's the kind of guy who would go to the game, take off his shirt, and have some sort of mural or picture painted on his chest. He got so mad during last year's finals that he put his fist through a wall, broke his glasses, and cried (the Flames did lose, you know).
Anyway, as baseball rolls along, and basketball's season comes to a conclusion, I keep thinking about what could have been. Would the Wild have returned to the playoffs this year? (I think so.) Would an unexpected team win the Stanley Cup? (Again, I think so.) But there is no hockey this year. The Xcel Energy Center has The Minnesota Swarm (a lacrosse team) to replace hockey (it doesn't). Now that the Worlds are over (take that Canada, Czech Republic shut you out!), there's no hockey for awhile. There's even the possibility of no season next year as well. (BETTMAN AND GOODENOW!!!! Sorry.)
So, in honor of the sport that I miss, tomorrow I will be talking about my hockey memories. Basically, games I attended and events that occured there. Some are funny, some are sad, and some are just insane.
Come back soon, NHL. I'm jonesing for some wicked checks, incredible saves, and JD's "Oh baby!"

"Haven't You Got Any Brains?"

The title of this entry comes from the gentleman who lives across the street from me. Ed is an older gentleman. I believe he is around 80. His mobility is down, and he lives alone. Well almost alone. He has a dog named Daisy.
Daisy is a golden retriever with more energy than a seven year old drinking Red Bull. She bounds and leaps all the time. I once saw her start to climb the tree in the yard after a squirrel. Before that day, I thought there was no way a dog could climb, but she changed my mind. I'm still convinced that I will come home one day to see her sitting on a branch with part of that squirrel's tale just sticking out the side of her mouth. But I digress....
Now, as I said before, Ed is an older gentleman, and Daisy is a younger dog (around 2 or 3). So when she decides to act up, Ed can only do one thing: yell at her in the most colorful language. As Ed walked around his yard plucking weeds today, Daisy bounded after him wherever he went. Ed became frustrated and yelled at her such things as, "Stop it you damn fool," and, "Haven't you got any brains?" In the worst moments, he just yells, "Daisy! No!" He never hits her, he brings her inside when the weather is really bad, and generally Ed loves Daisy. He just cannot control her. When he tells her to sit down, she just looks at him as if he were meowing.
I bring this up, because Ed's relationship with Daisy reminds me of the teenager/parent relationships of many of the students I teach. The parents are sure that what they are saying should be easily understood, and they get mad when their kids don't understand. At the same time, the kids are testing their parents' boundaries, but they also do not understand what their parents want from them. The parents view their children as dumb creatures, and the kids see their parents as old fogies who cannot keep up with the world. Still, the parents love their children and take care of them even when they want to kill them, and those teens do listen now and then. Like Daisy, however, I wouldn't be surprised to see those teens in that tree.

Baby Whews

I didn't post yesterday, because I spent the entire day babysitting a 7 month old boy. My friend Paul had to go to St. Louis (for a bachelor party), and his wife had to be at work. With no other options, he called me. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am loyal to a few people and willing to help if needed. I called in to take the day off (sorry Highland) and went over to help.
Basically, I had to drop Paul off at the airport and then watch the kid by myself for seven hours. No problem, right? Wrong. You see, I had never been with an infant by myself before 10:30 yesterday morning. Oh, I had watched Xavier before, but not without my wife to guide me (she used to watch her younger cousins when they were babies). I am the youngest of three kids, and the youngest of my cousins (of the ones I saw as a child), thus I never before had worked with a baby. Want to guess how I was feeling after Paul left the car? Nervous would cover it.
I got young Xavier home, and immediately he started to cry. This was not a "I'm not a happy camper" cry. No, no, no, no. This was more of a "Oh dear lord, why have you left me with this man? I'm gonna die" cry. He got so shrill, that I could feel my ears hurting when I got close to him. This was only twenty-five minutes since he was in my charge. His crying totally flustered me. I ran through the various things it could be in my head. It played out as a conversation between myself and my Id (or Ego, or whatever. That's not the point.)
Maybe he's hungry?
No he ate in the car. Remember, Paul fed him.
Ok, then maybe he needs to be burped?
Good thinking, let's try it. (after a few minutes, Xavier is still wailing and my left ear is ringing.) No good. Next idea?
Could he have pooped? Smell him.
No, he smells fine. I'll change the diaper anyway.
As soon as put him on the changing table, he got louder. The cat bolted at this point as if to say, "screw you. Your problem, bub." The diaper was clean. Again, having never really worked with diapers, and with the little poppet screaming, I became flustered. I had a hard time getting the diaper into the right position. I started to think about my mother, and my sister. How could they do this? I was only with him for a half an hour, and I was ready to sell him on the black market for a pair of eyes and half a liver. It made me realize how strong parents have to become in order to deal with all of these issues.
Anyway, with his diaper changed, his crying had not really subsided. He was now hicupping from his crying. "Waaaa, hic, aaaah!" I returned to my conversation.
Damn. I was sure that was it....Ok, how old is he again?
He's 7 months old.
Ok, what happens when a baby is 7 months old?
Uuuhh. Uuuhh. Ooh, maybe he's teething? Where's that teething ring?
The ring did the trick, he stopped crying. I later found out that Xavier was supposed to have a nap, but I had not been informed of this.
The rest of the day went alot smoother. Xavier watched Antigone with me (he was not a fan. I'm not sure I really am either). He kept trying to crawl, but the house has harwood floors, so he kept pushing himself backwards. It looked like a modern dance piece. After he ate again at one, he fought it and fought it, but he fell asleep. After a nap of a little less than two hours, he was up again, and playing with me. His favorite thing seems to be "upside-down baby" where he is turned upside-down and swung around. There were giggles (from both of us). Lori, his mother, returned home around six, and Xavier lit up (he is very aware of who his parents are).
So, the final score read something like this:
One baby still alive, one mother relieved, six phone calls from or to family members (a totally unrelated issue), four diapers changed, one bottle of milk downed (baby), and one extremely tired baby sitter (though it wasn't the baby that made me tired, so much as family talks and a very warm house).
What lesson did I learn from all this? I don't know. The kid's alive, so I guess I can take care of a baby. Do I want a child of my own? I still don't know. I'm not thrilled that this came about for a bachelor party, but again, that's another story. Suffice to say, I am actually sore today (probably from holding the baby so much yesterday).
So, to parents out there, I salute you for your ability to take care of these small creatures and remain (somewhat) sane.

Vindication (5/19/05)

Yes, I put the date, because I might actually be right about more than one thing.
On this morning's edition of the 92 KQRS Morning Show, they discussed how bad Minnesota drivers are. They mentioned the retaliation factor, the driving on the shoulder, and all the other aspects that I have been mentioning. I don't mind getting hate mail from Minnesotans who tell me things like (and I quote), "You don't know shit. Why don't you go back to New York where no one speaks English." Or my other favorite email, "If I see you on the road, I will knock you into the wall and laugh and 'call my neighbor' as you die."
Again, this is the passive-aggressive tendency. When Minnesotans get into their cars, it's like a person slapping Bruce Banner. You know what happens when Banner gets mad? That's right, he becomes the Incredible Hulk. Minnesotans are the same way. Are you following them too closely? Bam! They morph into their aggressive behaviors.
You can say all you want to me about this, but I now feel vindicated.
On another note, the absolutely fantastic blogger(s) known as Slanderous Minneapolis featured Ironic Teachings as the guest blogger today. That's right, I threw out some slander AND some libel. Dual threats. Check it out at some point and let me know what you think.

When A Person Listens

It's very strange when people actually listen to you. More often than not, we glumly look at another person, shaking our head as if to say we're listening, but really we are somewhere else. As a teacher, I'm used to a room full of these people. They stare at you with eyes of glass and nod only when you look at them. Perhaps one or two students are listening, but most of the time they are thinking about that afternoon, or a video game they were playing, or whatever runs through the mind of a 9th-12th grade student. This is not limited to the classroom either. No one can claim to have never performed the "Fake Listening Trick." We've all done it. There's even a skill to it.
You get a phone call from someone you know, but it's an inopportune time. They begin their story while you are doing whatever it is you need to finish or just want to do. At random intervals when the voice stops, you interject a "uh-huh," or a "I understand." So that's why it's so strange when people actually listen to you. Then whatever you told them is there for until they forget. In this digital age, if a person posts (like in a blog or live journal) what you told them, then it is there for all to see.
I bring this up, because there is one student who I am convinced does not really listen to me, but likes to play games with me. We will discuss her in her own blog another time. Anyway, this student has a blog of her own. Recently, she has been unhappy about a few things, and she has, in my opinion, a very skewed view of the world. She is also young. Somewhere in the sixteen to eighteen range (and before you get that thought in your mind, dear reader, no. I never would. Get over it). I decided to give her some advice. Basically, I gave her the rules by which I live my life. I won't share those with you now, but suffice to say, I was shocked when I saw the she had put them on her blog. I meant to help her with her issues, but I really didn't think that she would actually listen to me (she is a master of the Fake Listening Technique).
This goes to show you that sometimes people can surprise you and actually listen. Beyond that, it shows the power that words have. You've all heard, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." If that were true, however, then words would not have the power to draw out emotions.
So be careful, you never know when someone may actually be listening to you.

Life In The Slow Lane

Minnesota has decided to open up the express lanes to anyone willing to pay to get on them. In theory, this is a wonderful idea. Drop a few bucks, and you can skip the rush hour traffic to get to your destination. There's only one problem: Minnesota has forgotten that the people here are terrible drivers (it's no wonder that this state has been ranked in the top ten for bad driving). Some of the natives realize this, because there was an article back in 1999 in the July 29th edition of the Star Tribune. Essentially, the article admitted that Minnesotans can't merge, drive the wrong speeds in the incorrect lanes, and are overall pretty bad drivers. You need more proof? Look at the amount of road rage posted about Minnesotans. I believe I mentioned these problems in a previous post.
Now you can send a nastygram or hate mail, because you believe I am wrong or are just bitter about your driving, but I have further proof from Minnesotans themselves.
As I mentioned before, the new 394 lanes are open to the public should they wish to pay. An article on Tuesday said that the lanes were a complete success, but the picture as well as the experience says otherwise. The picture shows the entire eastbound lanes of 394 backed up in all lanes, including the new "fast lane". The picture, however, is not the only way to tell the experiment is not working at 100%.
Jackie was born in Minnesota (up near Brainerd), grew up in Minnesota, and still lives in Minnesota. She also has the benefit of living near 394 and takes the express lane in order to get to work. On Monday (as well as Tuesday) she took the express lane in the hopes that it would go faster. Unfortunately, instead of only three lanes of backed up traffic with people driving 4 mph in the left lane, Jackie had to deal with an express lane that was backed up. Think about that for a minute. The EXPRESS LANE was backing up. What's the point of the lane then? She explained that the following problems occured:
1. No one would let people move over. That sounds really familiar.
2. People were driving slower. Again, not only familiar, but it's an EXPRESS LANE. Go faster.
3. Many attempts at angry retaliation. Apparently, if a Minnesotan gets cut off, they will retaliate. It doesn't matter that it endangers everyone else, just as long as he or she gets revenge.
4. Unsafe Tailgating. I know, almost all tailgating is unsafe, but it is necessary at times. However, she explained that people were driving so close that you could see their pores. Maybe that's a little exaggeration, but I have seen how close they get.
On Tuesday, I myself went into the lanes in order to bypass (or so I hoped) traffic. I, too, experienced the above problems. We slowed to a crawl and were barely (and I stress BARELY) moving faster than regular traffic. I watched a green BMW on the outside keep pace with me. I believe we were both moving at 25 to 35 MPH. If that's the case, what's the point? I had a Escalade on my rear that was so close, I could almost read the lips on the kids in the back seat. This woman was not paying attention to me, but rather looking at her kids and looking at the clouds and other cars. At one point, we had to slow down quickly, and I heard the screech of tires from behind me. I honestly prepared to be hit. I was convinced I would be because she was so close. Luckily, I was able to swerve a little, and she was as well. She did almost hit me, and instead of being shocked, she rolled down her window, honked at me, and started screming at me to pay more attention. That is that wonderful Minnesota Nice at work. In the car? Go nuts.
I know a driving instructor who says that everything he tells his students is countered by their parents. He once witnessed a parent tell his son, "you don't have to let people in. They have to find their own way." That's a problem, people.
So here's my tip to you: Review the rules of the road and learn to let go of your anger and frustration. When we drive angry, we don't pay attention. Think of Bill Murray in Groundhog Day: everytime you get frustrated, think, "Don't drive angry. Don't drive angry." Do that, and maybe we won't be in the top ten of the worst states to drive in anymore.

Hyperbole: They Name Is High School Student

I teach high school students. Those wonderful "not really kids anymore/ not quite adults yet" creatures that are made of sarcasm, attitude, and a pinch of idiocy. Many of them think that the most minor problems are the end of the world. A recent conversation I heard makes my case.
The following is a real conversation between two high school girls. The conversation took place on May 16th. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Girl A: Terri. TERRI! I could just DIE. I mean I could die.
Terri: What's wrong, Linda?
Linda: Oh my god! So no one told me that at prom, I had the same shoes as Tina. I could JUST die.
Terri: That's not so bad. Did I tell you about my date with Matt on Friday? Oh my god. I got home and looked at my nose, and I had a HUGE zit! I did not know what to do. I covered it with makeup, but all night I swear he was staring right at it.
(Editor's note: Matt did not, in fact, notice. He was totally oblivious and stared at her nose, because he was nervous about looking her in the eyes. This was explained to me later when I asked him about his date.)
Linda: Oh my god! (That's the third time it was said in under a minute.) Maybe he didn't notice. Maybe you had food on it or something?
Terri: I don't know. He didn't call me the rest of the weekend. I just don't know what it means.

Now the issue here is that these girls are sixteen or seventeen. They have all of college to meet more people. They have more time in high school to meet more people. One girl got a 30 on her ACT, a 3.8 GPA, and she was convinced that her lack of community service (even though she had other extracurriculars) would keep her from getting into any college. I know we were all like that. Ok, I wasn't, but many of us were. Something must happen when we're in college that makes us grow up. We no longer care about the fact that we're might be wearing the same outfit as someone else and our world view grows.
Of course many people say that real life is like high school, cliques and all (Minnesota may feed that rumor). Maybe these students should be worried about the most minor things. Instead of worrying about the future, maybe I should worry about what the teacher next door thinks about my hair. Maybe I should be more concerned that another faculty member hates me?
In my honest opinion, no. One of the keys of graduating from high school is to learn NOT to use hyperbole or over-exaggerate as much. By the time that you're an "adult", you've learned how to put all that behind you. So put your petty squables away and get over your feelings about wearing the same shoes, because otherwise, you may never really get to experience life.

The (Not So) Quiet Anger of a Colleague

I have not been a teacher very long. I admit that I am a rookie. However, it has not taken very much time for me to make friends and enemies. Unfortunately, in my second month of student teaching I was told by another teacher that she hated me. She flat out did not like me, what I stood for, or what I taught. Honestly this was a shock. I could not believe that this woman, a fellow teacher, was taking time to explain to me why she hated me. At first, I thought it was a joke, so I laughed. I figured out it was not a joke when she cocked her head like a puppy hearing a noise and asked, "and just WHAT is so funny?"
Fast forward to today. I was covering a class when I saw this colleague in the hall. She stopped, turned to me, and said, "What are you doing here?" I responded, "I'm covering this class." After taking in the room, the students, and myself, she took a deep breath and asked, "But why you?"
Now, how would you answer that? Would you flip her off? Tell her to stuff it? Answer politely? Regardless of your answer, I was actually polite (a strain, but I did it). I told her, "They asked me to cover, I had the free time, so I said yes." Again, she hit me with that look. She was unhappy with me being in the building.
Confused, I turned to the class to begin. One student quickly said, "Mr. L. She really doesn't like you." Well, I already knew that, but I didn't want to be unprofessional, so I said, "I guess." However, this student was not done. "No, Mr. L, I don't think you understand. We mentioned you in her class, and she went nuts. She said you were a horrible teacher, a horrible person, and we should never take a class with you." This sounded too much like a joke, so I laughed it off, but then another student said it was true. I knew I annoyed people, but I never realized that one conversation (and we had only ONE conversation) was enough to make someone talk smack about you to students. Still, that's so unprofessional. You do not go to the students and talk down about another teacher. That takes away respect and is classless. Still, this was out of the mouth of high school students. I just wasn't sure it could be the truth. Let me explain: I respect and like my students, but sometimes I think they like to stir up the hornets' nest.
Unsure of whether or not the truth had been told, I turned to one of the faculty members that I knew always told it as it really is. He has no problem telling students what they may not want to here. He has never backed down from putting faculty members in their place. I asked him if this woman had really said these things. He took a breath, looked at me, and said, "Yup. She hates you. She hates the fact that you don't share her beliefs, and apparently she really doesn't like that you give the students any control in the class."
So what does that say for the professionalism of teachers? Is her anger toward me such that instead of talking just to me about it, she has to get the students involved? Is she hoping that the students will turn on me and lead a coup within my classroom? That she can come to my room, and my head will be on a pike, and the students will be shouting her name? I just don't get it.
In the end, however, I care more about the students than what one of my colleagues thinks of me. She doesn't really affect my job. The students do. If my students are not doing well, then I am not doing well. That's the point of being an educator: to better the students, not the faculty. Perhaps this teacher has forgotten that.

Not Living Up To Potential

A guy I work with found my blog and gave me only one comment:
"Hey, Ironic Teachings (or whatever you're called). You mention irony. You have irony in your name, but you don't really use any irony. What's up with that?"
Ok, ok. I'll try to add a little more iron(y) to the diat(ribe).
I know. It's a bad joke.
Look, I'm stupid, but I'm friendly. Isn't that enough?
I'll make sure that some of my posts have an ironic twist (cue M. Night, "What a twist" Shyamalan).
As a final note on this Saturday night/Sunday morning: thanks to Digital Retrograde for posting about us little folks.
Namaste.

No Rick James?

I just read that not only is Dave Chappelle in a mental institution in South Africa but now reports say that the Chappelle Show may be no more.
That's depressing. It's a great show (just try not to laugh at an evil Wayne Brady or a black Ku Klux Klan member).
In the modern era of media, it is very rare that a show, film, book, or whatever comes along that is both smart and enjoyable. Usually it's one or the other.
I'm a huge fan of Arrested Development, Robot Chicken, and (of course) The Simpsons. I've been lucky in that Robot Chicken is on Adult Swim (it won't be canceled), and the Simpsons is an international phenomenon (Groening says he wants to outlast Gunsmoke. That's thirty years). Usually, if I like a show, it's in trouble. Arrested Development may get canceled. Chappelle Show's future is uncertain. Boomtown? Forget it, no one watched it. The Critic? Too smart for its own good. Ever hear of Sledge Hammer? If you haven't, don't worry. Most people missed its two year run. Did you ever read Carter Beats the Devil? Fantastic book. Clive Owen was fantastic in Croupier, but few Americans saw the film.
I could keep going on and on about books no one read, shows no one watched, and films no one appreciated. Instead, I would love to hear about films, shows, or books you love and feel aren't appreciated. Tell me what you think.
I hope that Dave Chappelle gets better soon and returns to work. With the present state of mind of the world, we need all the laughter we can muster.

Bar Screams

As I sat in a bar with my wife tonight, our good time was almost ruined by a guy sitting across from us on the other side. You see, next to my wife were two single women who were there alone. Obviously (by the way they clung to each other and never looked around) they were uncomfortable with the single men in the place. However Barry (and I know his names Barry, because he screamed it multiple times at them) decided that he did not care and would get there attention. He stood up, pointed at them, and screamed, "Woooooooooo! I love single women!" You want to guess how they took that? The two gals shrank even farther into their small bubble. However, that did not stop Barry. First, he attempted to jump over the bar into the center in order to walk over to them. He probably should have realized that when you get really drunk, you lose motor control. So instead of launching over the bar, he flopped into the bar (causing me to do a spit take and laugh so hard that I cried and peed a little). When that didn't work, Barry attempted to sing "Foxy Lady" in order to get their attention. Didn't work. It won't work when you can't remember the words and instead sing nonsensically. "Foxy lady....Uhn na ha manna." That's about what it sounded like. With no other recourse and with no real way to get around the bar, Barry went for one final ploy. He bought the ladies some drinks. This is the most cliched move a man can make in a bar. This is how Barry should have known he had NO chance: the ladies refused the drinks. His face when the bartender told him they did not take the drinks was priceless. A mixture of "Holy shit, I just wasted 12 dollars and have two more drinks to deal with," along with a, "But I'm 'hot' Barry" bewildered look. Ever watch Scrubs? Barry reminded me of "The Todd." (If you watch the show, you get it.) The whole chain of events made me laugh out loud (and I have a very loud laugh).
Barry was mad. Hopping mad. He pushed his way through the crowd around the bar and was obviously coming to talk to the ladies. I could hear them planning what to do (obviously they saw him coming). As he got to within twenty feet, they both stood up and disappeared into the crowd toward the bathroom. Here's the thing about women in bars. Men have to push and shove their way through the crowds. Women glide. They have this ability to move quicjly through the crowd. Barry had no chance. Seeing that they were gone, Barry made one final mistake. As I ordered another drink for myself and my wife, Barry slid into the stool next to my lovely bride and attempted to hit on her. At first I thought it was awesome. My wife is good looking enough to be solicited for love. It was sweet. Unfortunately it was misguided. Still, I didn't need to kick his ass, because my wife was able to verbally crush him without my help. I just sat back and watched the master work the puppet strings. I'm telling you, it was awe-inspiring and frightening at the same time. A coy smile, a few pleasantries, and then the quick strike of, "no, I'm married," with a flash of the ring. I thought Barry was going to cry.
Not long after the indecent proposal, my wife and I left the bar and headed home. Riding home, my wife turned to me and said, "you were never like that. That's why I love you." Let that be a lesson to you men. Remember K.I.S.S? That's right Keep It Simple, Stupid. If you go overboard and act like an idiot, then it's a lonely ride home. Take it from me, I'm happily married.

A Conversation with My Cat

I usually get up at six every morning. This is because I need time to get ready and then drive the 20-30 minutes to St. Paul for work. This morning, however, one of my cats decided to wake me up earlier for a conversation. Usually they are pretty good, but this morning Oscar decided we needed to talk. So, at five, as I was sound asleep, he decided to use his claws on my neck to wake me up.
As I grabbed my neck thinking something was wrong, I discovered my furry friend sitting on my pillow. I rolled over and looked at the clock and was shocked at the time. Tired and groggy, I attempted to go back to searching for Kubla Khan. Oscar had other ideas. He decided we needed to talk about politics, life, and kitty litter. I did not want my wife to wake up, so I got up and walked down to the bathroom. It was there we conversed.
Me: Ok, I'm up. What do you want?
Oscar: First of all, can you turn on the sink? I'm thirsty.
I turned on the water.
Me: There you go. Now, why am I up so early?
Oscar: Thanks for the water. Anyway, what do you think about the geopolitics of Indonesia post tsunami?
Me: Umm, I don't know. Perhaps they can rebuild with help?
Oscar: I don't think so. Sometimes you're sooo stupid. How do you remember to feed me?
Me: I think it's too early to discuss this.
Oscar: Ok, ok. How about kids? Do you think you're going to have kids?
Me: Maybe. Why are you so interested?
Oscar: Cause I want to eat 'em.
Me: What?! That's horrible!
Oscar: Haha. Got you. I'm just kidding.
Me: I cannot believe I'm talking about this with my cat. Sigh.
This conversation continued for ten minutes until I realized two things. One: I was having a conversation with my cat that made sense, and I was neither high nor drunk. The second problem was that the entire time we were talking, there was a crocodile swimming in my toilet. At this point I realized that I was still asleep. I opened my eyes, and I was, indeed, still in bed. However, Oscar was scratching at my neck, and he was meowing at me. With a sense of deja vu, I got up and went downstairs to feed the cats.
I am still waiting for these cats to come forward and tell me their plans for world domination. They are just that evil at times. Still, I love them. They are a great source of entertainment.

WWFT (What Would Freud Think?)

"Sometimes," Sigmund Freud said, "a cigar is just a cigar." We all know what this means. Sometimes instead of a deeper symbolic meaning, it is what it is. When it comes to film and literature, many writers and directors do in fact put in a deeper meaning to a scene. Have you ever seen Citizen Kane? As Kane and his wife eat dinner, and time progresses, the viewer sees the two separated by a longer and longer table. This idea is to symbolize the love leaving their marriage as they are growing farther apart. That was probably intentional. The same can be said in literature as well. Sometimes an author purposely puts in a symbol to mean something. Look at George Orwell's Animal Farm. It was (and is) no secret that Orwell was using the characters in the story as an allegory for Stalin's Soviet Union.
Still, as Freud said, sometimes we have to take it at face value. Sometimes we read into aspects of film, or literature, or dreams, or even life that mean nothing. A student of mine talked to me about a dream she had. She was sitting at her desk at school working on homework. That's all she did in the dream. "What does it mean?" she asked me. This one is pretty simple. "You were doing homework before bed, weren't you?" I asked. "Yes, I was." she replied. "Case solved. You had homework on the brain." Now this one is pretty easy, but there are others that maybe go a little too far. Hell, I'm even guilty of that. When I was in college, I wrote a paper about Scooby-Doo. That's right, good old Mystery Inc. I wrote about how Scooby and Shaggy were Heroin addicts. I put it this way:
1. Scooby and Shaggy would only go down the tunnel for a Scooby snack. Scooby snacks were essentially "fixes".
2. Whenever Scooby has a Scooby snack, he has the ability to float after he eats it. Perhaps he just feels like he's floating.
3. He and Shaggy always see the monsters first. Maybe there is no monster, and it's a side effect.
You get the idea. Now I don't think that Hanna and Barbera had this in mind when they created the show. It was not about drugs (even though it was 1969) but rather about a talking dog that solves mysteries with his friends. I read too much into the subtext (and got an A-, because my teacher said I was ruining one of her favorite cartoons). I bring this up, because I read an article the other day where a critic accused George Lucas of being "Anti-Bush" and using Star Wars as a diatribe. So here's the thing: I have been in a few film study classes. Sometimes we shouldn't read too deep into films. For example: (I'll use Star Wars again) At the end of the first Star Wars (and I mean the 1977 film) Luke flies through the canyon and fires a missile into the Death Star. Now, a critic and scholar (whose name I have forgotten) said that the destruction of the Death Star via the Luke's run was in fact about rape and Lucas' feelings about rape. Huh? I never got that idea. I really don't think that's what Lucas had in mind when he shot that. I think it was just about blowing something up. So when I read that this critic thinks that Lucas is making a diatribe that is ant-Bush, I, once again, felt that someone was reading something that was not there. It's like the Disney cartoons. Do you really think that the writers and Disney animators really were trying to make a statement about being a homosexual with The Hunchback of Notre Dame? Yes, of course it can be construed that way. Just like everything can be construed a certain way if enough is applied to it. Thus the song "Kiss the Girl" from the Little Mermaid is really about rape as well, because the little crab says, "You know you want to, so just kiss the girl." I really don't think that's what they had in mind.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe everything in life really has a meaning, and nothing can be just taken at face value. The problem is that if we read into everything then we lose the ability to trust what is being said to one another. Maybe that comment I made really was a hidden insult? Maybe when someone says, "I love you," it really means, "I love you this much, but I would love you more if you did this for me." I would like think that Freud was right. Sometimes we say something or see something, and it just is what it is. No more, no less.

(Not Really) Feeling Minnesota [Part V: The Future]

I figured I would add one or two last tidbits to this series. Especially after some of the comments I heard yesterday from co-workers (Minnesotans all of them), and some opinions I heard on the radio. At the same time, someone asked me about my future here in Minnesota. So, I figured that the only way to conclude this three part series in five parts (thanks Douglas Adams!) is by finishing with a Springer-like final thought:
I want to make it clear to anyone that reads this that there is more that I like about Minnesota than I dislike. Higher education standards, cleaner environment, no taxes on the essentials. It's unfortunate that the aspects of Minnesota that bother me mostly stem from its population. Over the course of 24 hours, I have heard more anger about people who are not from the Land of 10,000 Lakes. While Minnesotans are tolerant of foreigners (this can be seen by that fact that Minnesota was one of the first states willing to take in the Hmong population who had been displaced after the Vietnam War), many of the residents truly feel that the borders of Minnesota need to be closed on all sides. Recently, a cop was shot and killed by two men from Illinois. Beyond the grief, many Minnesota pundits and residents responded by saying that only those people related to someone born in Minnesota or from Minnesota should be allowed to live here. Think about that for a minute. If your family ain't from here, stay out. One person on a popular radio show went as far as saying that we need our own version of the Minutemen. What? We should have Minnesotans stand on the border and shoot anyone who tries to get in without the proper credentials? That's insane. That's the biggest problem. Minnesotans are like a giant WASP family: Don't show your emotions and keep to your own.
Still, this state and its residents are much better than some of the other options out there. So, what will my wife and I do? Well, the plan is to move in the next few years (five or six probably) to the East Coast. Surprisingly, it was my wife's idea, not mine. She loves the Northeast. I think its great. It's now rare that people stay in the same place for long periods of time. When we moved here, it was the right decision. When the time comes to move again, I will miss Minnesota. I've made some generalizations about the population as a whole, and to be fair not everyone uses "Minnesota Nice" as a weapon. But, as a whole, a large amount of the population around the Twin Cities that are originally from here do not like those of us who have moved here. It's unfortunate, because you never know what kind of person you're passing up.

(Not Really) Feeling Minnesota [Part III & IV: The Bad & The Ugly]

Well, we've hit the good aspects of the lovely Land of 10,000 Lakes (but who's counting?), but nothing is ever perfect, right? So, after five years of living in Minnesota, what aspects of this place annoy me? Well, there are many things. Buckle up, because it's going to be a bumpy ride.
Let's start with the most obvious problem with this state: the cold winters and snow. Look, if you go back and look at the Minnesota calendar of weather, you would see that it is possible that we could have nine months where it snowed. It even snowed in May. IN MAY!!! As in Spring. At one point last December we had a day that was -40 degrees (F) with wind chill. This begs the first question: how can it be colder than zero? (I'm being sarcastic. Please don't try to answer this question.) I don't mind cold and snow. I love it, but there comes a point when months of seeing nothing but white and dead trees begins to take its toll. I'm surprised that the suicide rate here in Minnesota isn't higher. I mean this place is a lot like Scandanavia (hence why so many of them immigrated here). There are towns that only exist in the winter months, because the lakes freeze over and everyone can move back. That's just not right.
Granted, they do take care of the roads here. However, as a teacher, I sure would like a snow day at some point. I mean the last day off that students had was when former governor Jesse "the Mind" Ventura (I'm not even touching that one) told everyone to stay home, because it was like -60 degrees (F) with wind chill. It was unsafe for children to go outside. The way this weather is defended is with people saying it makes you live longer and makes you healthier. Sure, sure. Did you know not eating lava will help you live longer? It's the same principle. But I digress.
Ok, so some people like the nine months of snow. They say, "Leab, get over it. It's great. We can use our Arctic Cats, ski, whatever." Fine. Like I said, I don't mind the cold and snow. It just gets depressingly gray sometimes. But there are other aspects of the state that are even more frustrating. Let's talk about the people of Minnesota and one of their customs: Minnesota Nice.
First of all, Minnesotans are cliquey (Remember, they call me a transplant). That's right, they travel in cliques. If you aren't from here, it is very hard to break into the clique. When I first moved here in 2000, I went to work with a bunch of Minnesotans. I was the only one in the office not from the state. When I was asked, "where did you go to school?" I did not realize that they meant high school. I thought it meant college. As soon as they knew I wasn't from here, that was it for me. I was pretty much shunned. All because I wasn't from here.
At this point, you're probably thinking, "Leab, that happens everywhere." Au contraire, mon ami. You go to Missouri, also a midwestern state, and you can strike up conversations with people in stores without out getting funny looks or ignored. When I went to my reunion, I ended up talking to people I didn't know and loving it. It's hard to do that here because of the Minnesotan way.
"But," you're probably thinking,"What about this 'Minnesota Nice' I keep hearing about?" Well, that's a code. You see Minnesota Nice is thought to be where the people are so nice no matter what. Here's what it really is: a smile at your face and a knife in your back. I'm from the East Coast, and I have no problem speaking my mind. If I don't like your sweater, I'll tell you if you ask me. You want my opinion? Fine, but I won't sugar coat. Minnesotans, however, cannot do that. Instead of just saying how they feel, they turn it back to you. "Ooohh, I don't knooow. How do you feel?" Oy! Look, it's basically a passive-aggressive behavior. Think of the following as an example:
Person A and Person B work together. Person A opens the window, because he is really warm. B is annoyed. Instead of telling A, she instead goes to A's desk and says:
"Hey A. Do you really think that the window needs to be opened?"
Notice the passive-agressiveness of the question? If A says yes it does, then he seems rude, but if he says no, then the question becomes why did he open the window in the first place? Either way, A looks bad.
This is really what Minnesota Nice is. Instead of just putting forward an opinion, they used their "politeness" (as they call it) to make you rethink your position. It's really annoying.
Minnesotan personality reaches across many aspects of life here, even the language. I had never, EVER, heard, "oh for cute" (that's so cute), "ish" (that's disgusting), or (and this is the WORST) "Borrow me $10." This last one is an affront to the English language. If someone said to me "Borrow me ____," my first thought would be that they want me to borrow the item from someone else for them. Nope. Sorry Ken Jennings, that's wrong. They mean can you lend (AND THE PROPER TERM IS LEND) them the item.
You want more? Ok. Driving in the great state of Minnesota is like getting on the Air Tram at Newark Airport. Everyone pushes and shoves to get on, there's no room. Inevitably someone screws it up for everyone else by having a foot or a bag in the door. So, in order to save time, here's the checklist of problems:
1. No one can merge. Granted you were all screwed by ramp meters, but again, that passive-aggressive nature comes out when you drive. A person gets on a ramp doing 60. As he or she tries to merge, a person already on the highway speeds up to go the same speed. As the merging person speeds up, so does the other person, who is intent on not having a car in front of them. The merging person slows down, so the other person slows down. The merger is left with no choice: Hit the brakes hard, swing in, and pray. It sucks. Most accidents happen in the merge lane.
2. No one understands which lanes to drive in. The right lane is the slow lane, the left lane is the passing lane. For the love of Mike, don't go 40 (40!) in the passing lane.
3. Rubberneckers galore! Holy hell. I was on 94 a few days ago and there was an accident in the left lane. People slowed to 10 miles per hour and stared at the people on the side of the road. You watch and it's almost as if they are hoping it's someone they know so they can gossip. I have seen people stop to talk to people they know. They offer no help, just stop and say, "hey neighbor." It's rude, and it's dangerous. Just keep going!
4. Road Rage. When a Minnesotan gets in his or her car, the fascade drops and the anger wells up inside. This is why merging is impossible. I belive that if they could, Minnesotans would mount machine guns on their cars and blow each other away.
I'll leave you with this. There's a game that children in Minnesota play. It's called Duck, Duck, Grey Duck. Kids sit in a circle, and one kid goes around the circle saying, "duck," until he or she wants a kid to be it, so he or she says, "grey duck," and has to run around the circle and get that persons space. Sound familiar? That's because everywhere else in the world calls it Duck, Duck, Goose. See the rest of the world figured out that the grey duck is really called a goose.
Before you send me one of those stupid comments like, "if you hate it so much, why don't you just move idiot," realize that I do like it here. It's (somewhat) affordable and Spring and Fall are gorgeous. I do plan on one day moving (my wife reallllly wants to East, and she's a midwesterner), but not for a while.
If you're Minnesotan, and you're offended while reading this, get over it. Pretend you aren't using your powers of Minnesota Nice. You like to pick on Packer fans and people who aren't from here, so get as good as you give.
See you in the snow....

(Not Really) Feeling Minnesota [Part II: The Good]

So here I am at 11 o'clock on a Friday night, and I'm home. I feel like an old man right now.
As I mentioned in a previous post, I have now lived in Minnesota for five years. There have been good moments, and there have been bad moments. Tonight, I would like to talk about the aspects of Minnesota life that I really like.
To begin with, there is Minnesota itself. This state is gorgeous. I remember when I came to visit Minnesota (for a job interview) with my wife, and we went for a walk near Lake Calhoun. At the time, we were living in Michigan near Fermi II (that was a hoot. I really think I saw Blinky, the three-eyed fish), and I remember that the air was terrible. When we were walking around Lake Calhoun, I turned to my wife and said, "Do you feel this air? It's so crisp. So good!" I admit it. The environment here in Minnesota is fantastic. I used to live in Missouri, and down there the Mississippi looks so brown and nasty. Here, though, the river looks so clear and vibrant. It's fantastic. With so many lakes and trees, the state feels like a midwestern version of Oregon (or maybe Oregon is the western equivalent of Minnesota). Either way, the environment here is breathtaking. Camping is awesome, and the wildlife appears healthy.
But what about the city aspects of life you ask? Well there's appeal there as well. First of all, the fact that "the essentials" (clothing and unprepared food) are not taxed means that shopping is actually cheaper here than in many other places. None of that, "what's 6.5% of $26.36," crap. Nope, what's on the register is the price, no questions asked. Beyond that, everything feels so affordable. Maybe that's because I'm used to New York, but the fact that Minnesota Wild tickets are more affordable than New York Rangers tickets (and you get a better, younger, and faster team to watch to boot). I went out to Esca in NY with my wife one night after a show. For what we paid there (which I will admit was worth it), we were able to go to Mission American Restaurant as well as a hockey game, and we could have bought tickets to a show at the Guthrie. Let's face it. This city, though the housing market is not necessarily there, is affordable.
Maybe, however, you don't want to cook. Maybe you want to go out. Almost every kind of restaurant choice is well represented here in Minnesota (the ones that I feel aren't I will talk about later). I have had some fantastic sushi at places like Sushi Tango. You want French? Try Vincent. Hell, I could go on and on with types and restaurants to fill that want. The point is that there are so many great places to eat and drink. There's a reason that the City Pages restaurant section is so large: because there are SO many good restaurants.
What else do I like? I like that there are walking paths and bike trails so readily available. I like the fact that Minnesotans actually care about education (I'm still waiting Missouri....). I like the fact that I'm far enough away from family that they can't visit all the time, but they can still visit. I like the fact that Minnesota is (or seems to be) trying to make Light Rail work. I miss the New York Subway system. Sure it smells, but it sure as hell works. I like the fact that Minnesota has a large homosexual population that isn't really persecuted. I can't say it's not persecuted, because I read small things here and there. I like the fact that there is a large and mostly well-to-do artistic population. Art, Theatre, and Music seem to thrive in Minnesota. Just like the restaurants, there are so many places that a person could go hear great music every night.
I like the fact that this state, though growing, feels like a place that no one really knows about. My father-in-law likes to call it, "Mini-No-Place." Many people who do not live here do. But for a third tier place, the Twin Cities (and surrounding areas) offer so much.
That's why I like it here. It's affordable (mostly) and with so much to do, it's hard to get bored. Unfortunately, there are many aspects that make me want to leave her (which may happen sooner or later). I will elaborate on that in Part III: The Bad.

Gutentag Herr Puck

Ok, I know I promised to talk about Minnesota, but tonight presented a topic I couldn't pass up. My wife and I went to Wolfgang Puck's new restaurant here in Minnesota. It's called 20.21. It's a California/Asian fusion restaurant, and it's quite good. However, one other reason why we went was the chance to meet that loveable Austrian chef.
We ate (a great meal), and looked around for a glimmer of the man, but he was nowhere to be seen. We were even served by Scott Innefree, the executive chef. That was a treat.
So, because we did not meet the big man, I present instead a proposed conversation between myself and Herr Puck.
(Disclaimer: For all legal purposes, this conversation never took place. So no suing.)
Me: Mr. Puck, Mr. Puck! Great restaurant.
Wolfgang Puck: Zank you, zank you. I've tried very hard to make it special.
Me: It is that. I mean the food is original and great. The wine, however....Weeellll, it's a little over-priced for the choices
WP: What!? How dare you insult me with your accusation! I will crush you! I'm Austrian. You know who else is Austrian? That's right Governor Schwarzenegger.
Me: Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn't mean to insult. Just trying to help. I mean this is only the second day you've been open. Sorry.
WP: It's all right. I've been testy since Julia (Childs) died. I miss her everyday. She was special both in and out of the kitchen (stares off and smiles).
Me: What do you mean by that?
WP: Veeellll, she was a beautiful women, even right before she died.
Me: Ummmm, ewww.
WP: You have no appreciation for women. I'm Wolfgang Puck! I love all women.
Me: Hey that's great. Can I get back to dinner now?
WP: Ja, ja, dat's fine. Have you tried the Lobster?
Me: I don't like lobster, and my wife is allergic.
WP: WAAAASS? Then no dessert for you!
Me: Just because I want to order something I like?
WP: Ve have nothing else to discuss. Just get your wine and finish. You've broken my heart, just like Julia.
Me: Like I said before: ewwwww. So, one last question. Are you happy with your staff.
WP: Vell, the ones I like I tell to call me Wolf. The rest call me boss.
Me: Oh, that's interesting. Who calls you Wolf?
WP: Only the ladies. You know how that goes, eh? (winks)
Me: I walked into that one.
WP: Ok, I should go now. Do you want an autograph?
Me: Could we get one?
WP: Tell your wife to show her breasts and....
Me: Check please!

(Not Really) Feeling Minnesota [Part I]

The other day I had to cover a math class (which is funny, because I am an English teacher). So there I am working with students on math questions (Trigonometry no less), and they get done early. As they are not used to me and most don't really know who I am, they decide to ask me some questions about myself. First one out of the gate: "Where are you from?" Easy, "East Coast. Born in New York." Having lived in Minnesota for five years now, the response I got was not a surprise. One student said, "Oooohhh. You're not FROM here," and the rest of the class started murmuring. Immediately the questions started coming from all over the room:
"Why did you move here?"
"Did you really think you'd be happy here?"
And on and on it went. I don't mind answering these questions, because I'm used it after all this time. Since the day I first moved to the land of ice and snow (and it has snowed for 9 of the last 12 months. I mean, come on! May snowstorms?) people have treated me very differently. Heck, I even have a title: Transplant. That's what Minnesotans call someone not from the Land of 10,000 Lakes who lives here. Once you're branded a Transplant, the name sticks to you forever. I was once introduced at a party as, "This is my friend, he's a Transplant." Gee thanks. Great intro.
Anyway, over the next few posts, I will explain the things about Minnesota that I like as well as the things that drive me nuts. So, we'll be covering cliques, passive-agressive natures, terrible driving, beautiful settings, the lack of taxes, and the fact that there are 11,842 lakes, not 10,000.
I'll leave you tonight with this: If you really want to piss off a die-hard Minnesotan, bring up the Coen Brothers' Fargo. Many Minnesotans took offense with the film's portrayal of Minnesotans. As one former co-worker used to tell me, "That's not how we really are, don't cha know?"

The Power of Memory

It amazes me how much we don't know about the human mind. One aspect is our ability to conjure up memories from the darkest recesses of our mind thanks to a smell, or a song, or a picture. For example, I went to a Saint Paul Saints game with my wife not too long ago. While there, I bought a bag of fresh roasted peanuts. The smell triggered a memory from when I was eight. You see the last time I had fresh roasted peanuts was when I was with my father at a circus in Germany. I remembered how a camel walked over to take some of my peanuts, and when I wouldn't give it any, it spit on me. So, as I sat at that game eating those peanuts, all I could think about was that circus, and how vividly that whole night was playing in my head. Some people say they can remember the day Princess Diana died. My father told me that he clearly remembers the day the United States landed on the moon.
So why do I bring this up? Well, today two things happened that brought back memories that I had not considered in years.
The first was a film. A 1989 thriller starring Nicole Kidman and Sam Neill called Dead Calm. The last time I saw this film was as a senior in college. As I sat there watching the film, I remembered the last time I had seen it so clearly. I was sitting in my house in St. Louis with my girlfriend (now wife) and my roommate (a faculty member, but that's a whole different story). We sat and watched the film and at one intense point, one of the cats jumped on to my roommate, and he SCREAMED. This was not just a small little yelp, this was a full on horror movie scream that neighbors heard in their apartments. One guy even came over to make sure no one had died.
The other memory is not as funny and came out of nowhere. I was sitting in the faculty lounge at lunch and started talking to a few teachers. At one point, a math teacher commented, "Some of these kids think they're Superman. Like they think, "I cannot be beaten." I used to know a guy named Chuck when I was in high school. Chuck's mantra (which he repeated every hour on the hour) was "I cannot be beaten." He would say this in classes when he got questions right. He would say this on the ice or on the field when he scored. He would even say this when he would make out with his girlfriend (or so she said). Chuck was a very brash person, and he didn't care who knew it. That brashness is what led to Chuck's demise.
After graduation, Chuck moved to New York for college. One night, as he was returning from a party, Chuck was bumped into by some guy. Rather than just let it go, Chuck turned on the guy and stepped up to him. Unfortunately for this brash young man, he hadn't realized that the guy who bumped into him had many friends. Late night in Subway in New York. One man against five. Chuck never had a chance. He was beaten to death under the streets of New York. No one ever found the guys who did it.
Let me be clear, I was not really friends with Chuck. I just knew him as a classmate, but his hubris, much like Ajax, led to his death. When I heard, "I cannot be beaten," it reminded me that in a few days, it will be the eight year anniversary of his death.
This leads me to some advice for you my dear reader(s): Realize that you are not invincible. I've mentioned the John Glenn principle in a previous post. You could go at any time. The smallest, simplest thing could end your time. Chuck did not think that calling out a guy in the subway would lead to him being killed. Just realize, if not for yourself, then for your friends and family, that you are mortal and not invincible. At the same time, cherish your memories, no matter what they are, or how deep they are buried, because your memory is what keeps a person alive after they are gone. That's the real power of memory. It can reach across death and keep someone alive in our hearts.
Sorry that this got so sappy, it's just how I feel.

Love Isn't Blind, It's Nuts

Ok, I have been asked today by alot of people about my opinion on the whole Jennifer Wilbanks affair. I honestly had not really taken the time to just look it over and think about it. Now, having looked over the (reported) facts as well as taking into account the fiance's response, I believe I can comment on this.
First of all, congratulations to Minnesota. Ms. Wilbanks has now eclipsed the whole Audrey Seiler debacle. Still, Wilbanks "disappeared" in Duluth, Georgia, which ties to Duluth, Minnesota, which makes everyone remember Seiler. Hmmm, feels like Six Degrees of Fake Abductions.
All right, you can fall into two camps when it comes to Wilbank's fiance. He has come out and said: "Haven't we all made mistakes." (Thanks New York Daily News.) That's pretty stand up for a guy whose fiance felt that she had to fake an abduction rather than tell him, "I'm just not sure." Honestly, regardless of how this plays out, I am amazed at the lengths people will go to in order to avoid really hurting someone. So, here are the two sides you can be on now that the wedding is back on:
A. You can be amazed at the power of love and how Mason is willing to forgive Wilbanks. You can turn to your significant other and say, "I love you," because you realize that love has to be real if a people can get through trials like this for each other. You can look at what poets write about love and realize this is what they meant. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, no matter what they say, gets a feeling before they get married. Anyone who says they never felt even a tiny bit nervous is lying. Everyone questions their decisions. Marriage is a huge one. People will question whether or not they made the right choice for dinner. How can marriage be any different? This is why people talk about what they want before the wedding. Some people elope, others have ceremonies. That's why you have to talk about it.
Now, Mason could be saying all this because his wedding has over 600 guests and making a guess at how much it would cost, the wedding would be somewhere around 75,000-100,000 dollars. Could you walk away after spending that much cash? That's a house in Missouri, for example. Still, we should all be amazed at the control Mason is showing and how much he loves Wilbanks.
Not a fan of choice A, then how about B?
B. Mason is putting on a really good show. This is one of those situations where if Mason looks really good, then he essentially owns Wilbanks for the rest of their natural lives. Could you imagine?
Wilbanks: I can't believe you cheated on me! And with my Sister!
Mason: I'm sorry, should I have faked my abduction to do it?
How can she argue back? Of course, in a totally cynical world, this is what I see happening:
Mason forgives Wilbanks in a very public way. He gets the masses to see him as a sympathetic man. People wonder, "What the hell is he thinking? Doesn't he want revenge?" But Mason appears to push all of that out of his mind. He even invites Fox News and CNN to cover the wedding to show that all is well. Wilbanks relaxes, she thinks all is well. The sun rises on the morning of the wedding day. The news vans show up, the groom looks great, and all of the guests arrive. The ceremony starts with Wilbanks walking down the aisle in a gorgeous dress. She arrives to the altar and, after some brief words, she gives her vows. Mason listens, smiles, and then the priest asks him to speak his words. Mason turns to the crowd, the cameras, and then lashes out at Wilbanks in front of the entire world. He tells her that this is how he felt when she left. Embarassed, alone, ashamed. As he continues to dress her down, the people of the world who questioned his motives flicker a smile. This man has destroyed this woman forever in the eyes of society.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he is a true southern gentleman. One southerner I know says that even if he was utterly furious, he would never show it to the world, because that's not what a good southern man does.
If he really does love her, then we can all take a major lesson away from this situation. How to forgive what is, to some, unforgiveable.
I am a pessimist and a cynic. If cheated on by someone you love, I believe that there really isn't a possibility of a second chance. Still, this is different. She tried to leave, not be with another man (so far as we know).
Still, let Mason be an example. Sometimes mistakes can be fixed or forgiven. Don't rush to judgement. Instead, look over the whole situation first, then decide. Love makes us do crazy things. Maybe Mason REALLY loves Wilbanks. That's what we should be asking, not what will he do now.