Ramblings for the Morning (8/24/05)

Greetings from Vail! Currently I am hiding behind some Aspen trees in order to escape the people who think I am a celebrity (oh, I wish I were kidding). With that in mind, here are some ramblings to keep you satiated until I return from New York (my next stop).

Vail: I will talk alot more about this when I return, but Vail is GORGEOUS. Oh my. I've been walking here a whole bunch, which I love doing. There are some odd things about this town, however. For example, I have been followed around by people with cameras, service people, and more. My wife and I were on a nice simple walk around Lionshead Village. Everywhere we went, people would say, "Good morning, sir. How has your stay been so far?" Now, I would think that they would do this for anyone, but we decided to experiment (it's the scientists in us) and watch to see who else they talked to. No one. Not a single other person. Even worse, on Monday, I was followed for two miles by this group of tourists who kept taking pictures and whispering around me. Finally, as I sat outside the Betty Ford Alpine Gardens, one of them asked me, "Can I take my picture with you? I'm a big fan." Now, I have no clue who they think I am. Maybe it's Grunberg again, maybe it isn't. So, I politely said, "I'm not who you think I am. Sorry." The response? "Sure, sure. You celebrities always say that." And with that, I took a picture with this person, apparently making their day. If it was a prank, it wasn't funny. Other than that, it's been awesome.

School Starts SOON: One last hurrah before I have to return to the classroom. Yup, instead of months, or even weeks, it's now down to days and hours before the new year begins. Am I excited? Yes and no. I look forward to seeing alot of my students, but I haven't missed grading those papers.

Salespeople: Look, if your a sales or marketing person, and you read this blog, congratulations. I applaud you for reading this. However, You may not EVER treat some badly, because they aren't in sales. My wife is an engineer, which is why we are in Vail. She had to go to a sales meeting in order to make sure they all understood the product. During the opening reception, my lovely wife was treated very badly. They ignored her, they talked down to her, and they talked to ME (a teacher, for pete's sake) more than her. She was called, "Sweetie", "Honey", and worse. Look, if you're going to act like scum, I am going to treat you like scum. That's why I made fun of you, picked on the fact that you were single and needed prostitutes, and told jokes where salesmen were the butt of them. If you can't take the heat of being picked on, then don't pick on others. It's a good life lesson, kids.

Quick Note of Hypocrisy: I want to make something clear: I don't want to turn this blog into political rants. There's alot of that out there. However, I want to address a few things regarding politics, so let's begin:

1. It's totally hypocritical to be completely and utterly upset about abortion and stem cells, but not care that men and women are dying left and right in Iraq as well as not be upset that an innocent man was killed in Britain. You can't say that one person's life means more than another's and then argue that all life is sacred. That's hypocrisy

2. You can't use God as a weapon. If you pray to God and say that people against your way of thinking should, using Pat Robertson as an example, "be assasinated," that's hypocritical and not really very Chrisitan.

3. Intelligent Design supporters: Just admit that this isn't about God. What it really and truly is about is that you don't want to think about the fact that the very first human may have slept with a monkey-like creature. Ever see evolution at work? Perhaps a animal is born that is different from the others? Well, he or she is going to have to get with the original animals in order to procreate. The first human would have to have slept with a monkey and produced another human and on and on it goes. Just admit that you don't care about the God aspect, but you really believe that evolution means that we may have slept with animals and that upsets you. I bring this up because of conversations I heard out here in Colorado. My personal thoughts? If you can bring me scientific data that helps show that Intelligent Design is real, then maybe I'll think about it. Until a REAL scientist (and Deepak Chopra is NOT a scientist) shows me otherwise, I'm going to avoid the whole thing. Oh, and remember that we once thought that God gave us sickness if he was angry. So if I know a priest who has cancer, does that mean he was "bad"?

4. My last thought on this political stuff for awhile: It's totally and utterly hypocritical to blame all of the world's problems on the other guy. Hey guess what? All of America's problems aren't solely because of Liberals/Democrats or Conservatives/Republicans. That's right, folks, we are ALL to blame. We are all guilty of screwing up the world. God can't fix it, only we can, and right now, we can't even look at each other unless we think the same way. I blame Liberals/Democrats for making it difficult to talk about anything in this country, but I blame Conservatives/Republicans for trying to make me feel guilty about the things I like to do. If you want to me to call a friend African-American instead of black, that's fine, but if he tells me otherwise, you don't tell me he's wrong. At the same time, if you want me to not smoke or drink or whatever, you cannot accept money from those companies. Also, I will never, ever, feel guilty about premarital sex. Leave God out of any discussion with me when it comes to politics. I don't think God tells me who to vote for, and I sure hope you make up your own mind on things instead of listening for God to tell you what to do.

As I said before, I will be in New York until next week. So, I will try to read the blogs and maybe even write, but I promise nothing. I hope this little entry is enough for now.

Quick Note (8/19/05)

Well I had written out this beautiful post talking about civility and such...and Blogger lost it. I don't have time to rewrite the whole thing, because I'm in the middle of a surprise party for my wife. As the lovely Michele pointed out: "Love makes us do stupid (and crazy) things."
I will be away for the next two weeks (or so). First to Vail, Colorado, then to New York. I will attempt to look in on other blogs and write (if I can). If not, then have a nice few weeks sans me.

My Kind of Time...

I don't sleep much anymore. I used to be proud of the fact that I could be in top form with only 4 hours of sleep. It was my advantage. Everyone else needed those eight hours, but I could keep going. My sophomore year of college, I worked on an outdoor production of Little Shop of Horrors. The set was huge (about 65 feet wide and 10 feet tall). Because we were outdoors and in the middle of "the quad", we had to stay with all of the equipment all of the time, which meant sleeping out there. Hey, it was always fun to go your first class in the same clothes as the days before smelling like death. People thought your were just doing the Walk of Shame (yes, you are to note the sarcasm). When it was my turn, I just wouldn't sleep. It wasn't a problem back then. Go a night without sleep? Hell, you could make it up later. I remember sitting in a desk watching over everything while everyone else slept. At two or three in the morning it was like heaven. There was no light and no noise except for the wind. You could look up and just see all of the stars (that were visible from that part of St. Louis). As someone who believes in some of the zen qualities of life, those moments were precious in a way.
I grew up in a household where both my parents worked very hard. My father essentially had three jobs and my mother two. Dad would go to bed around 4 or 5 in the morning and get up around 8. He never faltered. It was quite amazing, and it's probably the reason why I can go without sleep (at least I hope it's genetic). Sure, I get cranky, but who doesn't when they don't sleep?
Still, I love the time between 2 & 5 in the morning. No one is around, most sensible people are asleep, and the world is quiet. Think of our world as a radio. From sun-up to after the evening news, it's like Motorhead blasting at level 11. There's so much to take in and process, and we have to then apply what we've learned through the filter of our beliefs. It's draining. I tell my students that work, to me, isn't hard, but living in reality is. After 11, that's party time. We head out to the bars or what have you, and become party people. Zany stories are shared, etc. We can't stop being "on" until we get away from it all.
In the musical Guys and Dolls, Sky Masterson sings about how his kind of time, "is the dark time." That's the stretch of time I mean. No one is out and about. This is when the radio is shut off. Before 24-hour channels, there would be nothing on TV or radio or whatever after a certain hour. Now, you can find whatever, whenever.
We're losing that time now. Urban areas are growing (or sprawling as it were). I live in Robbinsdale, which is outside the city of Minneapolis. On the three levels of "major cities", Minneapolis is a third-tier city. Cities like New York or Los Angeles are first tier. Second tier cities are slightly smaller, such as Detroit or St. Louis. Then there are the third tiers, such as Minneapolis or Nashville. You get the idea. Because it is third-tier, it's smaller, quieter, and not as bright. You go to New York, and you have to go pretty far away from the city to keep the lights from affecting your view of the stars. I live pretty close to the city, but at three in the morning, you can see the stars because there's less light affecting the view.
I find this time not only relaxing, but it's the best time to think about things. There's nothing to affect your mind. If I'm up, I start thinking about the world and such. (I don't really want to get political on my site, because there's too much out there already. If asked, I will share my thoughts, but I don't like getting political.)
Try it sometime. Take a Saturday and sleep in late. Then go about your day and do whatever you have to until that 2 in morning hour. You'll find three things happen:
1. The world slows down.
2. Your mind works at a different pace
3. You have the ability to concentrate on things better without those distractions.
Maybe it's just me. I'm not really an insomniac, more of a workaholic or thinkaholic actually. Once your life hits routine (and if you're working and married, and/or have kids, it will), you'll find that it's harder to take time to think. Not to work, not to relax, just to think.
And now, I have to get ready and go to work. Have a nice day folks.

Mr. Optimist & Mr. Pessimist 8/17/05

Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Optimist and Mr. Pessimist will debate my fortune cookie's message:
"Today it's up to you to created the peacefulness you long for."
Mr Optimist, you're up first.
Mr. O: Ok, we can look beyond the fact that there is a typo (created where they mean create) to see that this message is the very essence of being positive. You have to take charge and make your peace. And, better than that, the message is saying that you get the peace you want if you make it.
Mr. P: Oh, I remember when I was that naive. You're not seeing the forest for the trees. Look, it's not saying that you will get the peacefulness you want, it's saying YOU have to MAKE it. Beyond that, why is it up to me? Does this message truly realize the life situation that Leab here is in?"
I want to interrupt you gentlemen for a minute. Um, last time you debated as if I wasn't here AND you insulted me. I won't have that this time. Please continue Mr. Pessimist.
Mr. P: No one cares what you think Leab. Now, back to my point: If you have to create your own peacefulness, then how does this message really help you?
Mr. O: You're missing the real message here. You can't just sit back and hope that God or Fate or Time or the Universe will give you what you want. You have to go out and make it. You want inner peace? Create it. You want more money? Find that job and get it! You have the power, so use it.
Mr. P: That's nice. Go tell that to the guy on the street. "Hey, buddy, you may be poor and have no where to live, but if you go out and try, you can get that job and save your family. Look, Optimist, while you're living in La-La Land, the rest of us are here in reality. Sometimes we need help. This message says no one can help you.
Mr. O: Ah, but that's not what it says...
Mr. P: Yes it does!
Mr. O: No it doesn't!
Mr. P: YES IT DOES!
Mr. O: NO IT DOESN'T!
Ok, kids, break it up. Mr. O, you have the floor. Mr. P, we let you have your say so be quiet.
Mr. O: It DOESN'T say that no one will help you, it says that you have to find what you need. You want someone to help you? Then you need to seek them out and ask for help.
Gentlemen, we're about out of time. Can we have your final summations? Mr. Optimist?
Mr. O: This is a positive message. It says that if you want something, you have to go out and get it. You have to use the power of positive thinking to help you get achieve your goals.
Thank you. Mr. Pessimist?
Mr. P: Once again, this is a wake up call to everyone. This message says you are on your own and can only help yourself. Secondly, this message says that while others are given what they want, YOU have to make your own way. Hey this guy over here was given greatness, but you...you have to go your own way if you want even a chance.
Thank you gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen of the audience, thank you for being a part of this. If you wish to comment, feel free.

Possum in the Cooler

Hmm, I get the sense that many of you were scared off by yesterday's topic. Let me see if I can give you something that is true, yet bizarrely funny.
When I was in college, I moved into an apartment my sophomore year. I knew I wanted to be away from campus near the city, and I knew alot of the people that would be living around me. I did, however, meet one interesting character: Tom.
Tom lived in the building A of the apartment complex. I was in B. His window was directly across from my living room. I never really found out how old he was, but his hair was peppered with gray. He also lived alone, played alot of golf, and was never without a beer in his hand. I'm not kidding about that last part. Whether it was 8 in the morning or 10 at night, Tom had a Bud in his hand. It "HAD to be a Bud," he once told me. He was one of those guys that was really friendly, but once you started talking to him, you had no clue what the heck he was talking about at the time. I returned home from class one day to find him sitting on a lawn chair drinking a beer and reading a magazine. With a Poison album blaring from his apartment, he got up and stopped me to talk about a girl in his magazine (yup, it was that kind of magazine). I had just been through a particularly bad test, so I wanted to get into my apartment and relax. As he kept talking to me and I kept trying to go, I never got the impression that our topic had changed from the girl. I guess it had, however, because he told me he was talking about his job. I never caught the change in topic.
Tom was, however, a good example of why you don't drink all the time. I remember one night I was eating dinner outside. The night was gorgeous, and the sky full of stars. I loved nights like that when I was in college. You could sit on the stoop or fire escape, have a nice dinner, and people watch around the neighborhood. Well, as I sat there that night, I could hear screaming and the sounds of a struggle. I ran around the corner to see Tom, bleeding from his arms and left leg and sitting on top of a cooler that was making noise. It sounded like screams and scratches. Now, put yourself in my position. Here's a guy who you know is drunk most of the time. He's bleeding, but still holding his beer and smiling, and he's sitting on top of a big cooler that's rattling and making noise. What's your first reaction? Mine was, "What the hell are you doing?"
What he told me was quite possibly the funniest and saddest (at the same time) answer:
"Duuude. I was out here with the barbeque drinking a beer when I saw something coming near my meat. I didn't know what it was, so I decided to investigate. I fell over and there was this...thing baring it's teeth at me. I tried to move, but it attacked me and bit my leg. I grabbed it, and it bit my arm, so I slammed its head into the ground and then threw it in the cooler with my beer. I don't want to move, because it might get out. Can you get me the phone?"
So here's what happened: Tom was drunk, he feel and found a possum and its babies. The possum freaked out when Tom tried to shoo it away and almost stepped on a baby possum. The animal attacked, and Tom threw it into his cooler where it drowned.
I ended up calling Animal Control to take away the dead possum and its babies. Tom also had to be checked (along with the possum) for Rabies. The genius almost got arrested as well, because someone had called the cops. The officer who showed up was a woman, and Tom started hitting on her and harassing her. If I hadn't sat him down and sobered him up a little, he would have gone to jail. The cop later asked me why I was helping him. "Why not let him go to jail? He's got to learn his lesson." I looked at her and told her the truth, "I don't know. I get the sense that if someone doesn't help him now and then, he'll hurt himself...or die." She just looked at me and said, "You're a good person. Stupid...but a good person."
I often wonder, even now, if the cop was right. If a person has no connection to you, should you still care? You don't know the guy on the street, so if he asks for money, should you ignore him? I guess I helped Tom because it was also a way of helping me.
In the end, I moved out of my apartment and into the house next door. I never saw Tom again after he tried to crash a party at my house one night where he groped a friend of mine and was later arrested for punching through a police cruiser window (I'm not kidding). He just disappeared.

Step to the Line

How many of you have been in a fight? I don’t mean a play fight or a verbal match. No, I mean a donnybrook. A slobberknocker as it were. It’s a very strange experience. There’s a combination of horror, adrenaline, and pride all mixed into a giant ball of rage.
It can all start with a word. Just one wrong word can make a person summon up the energy needed to throw that first punch.
We like to believe that we are civilized (a topic I will post on later). We want to see people debate using words. Yet, there is something about a fight. Deep down inside in places we don’t want to talk about, we want to see the debaters grab swords and duel. We want to see blood. Rome could be considered the very pinnacle of civilizations, yet their method of entertainment was quite bloody. Why do most people watch NASCAR? They want to see that crash where the tire shoots into the crowd and crushes the fat grandma. It’s also why wrestling is so popular, why people slow down at car crashes, and why we watch the Three Stooges (though the last features no “real” pain).
So when that first punch comes, or you throw that first punch, it’s not as quick as the Hong Kong Films make us think. For the sake of this post, we’ll discuss it as a punch coming at you.
I have this ability, so I am told, to use words like a weapon. I’ve talked before about how words have the power to hurt someone much deeper than a beating. Scars on the outside from a kick to the face will fade, but verbal beatings and scarring never fade and are very hard to heal. There have been children who have overcome the beatings given to them by their parents, but a child who is never hugged, never told he or she is loved, or is cut down no matter how often they succeed will often hurt more.
So, having understood this idea since I was a child, I always made sure to have the proverbial “ammo”. One thing you’ll learn, my younger readers, is that if you’re on a college campus, in a high school, or at a job, and you just sit and listen to everyone else talk, you’ll learn things about the people around you that they may not want you to know.
At one point in my college career, I had a very bad break up (again, a topic for another post). Everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE, on the campus knew about it. On one particularly rainy day, I grabbed a hot sandwich and sat up in the catwalk of the theatre and ate my lunch. Unbeknownst to the class occurring below me, I was listening to them talk about me. I was the discussion du jour. However, they then branched off from me to talking about their bad breakups and other juicy gossip about other classmates and even faculty members. One girl, in particular, talked about how this one guy made her gain 20 pounds. Now, fast forward two weeks. I’m at a party, and this same girl is trying to give me crap about a life choice. I turned to her and said, “Your thighs look a little chunky. Did Brad break up with you again?” Her face turned red, her mouth hung open, and she just stared at me. That’s the power of words. You take what you know about people, and you twist it like a knife.
Imagine you’ve said something to the wrong person. You’ve insulted his manhood (I’m using the “he” pronoun, because I have never hit a woman, I’ve never had a woman hit me, and I would NEVER hit a woman, even if she punched me in the face or kicked me in the groin). Better yet, let’s use a real example. A person makes a racist statement about the students you teach. You decide to cut into him about the fact that his grades are low, his mind is closed, and his ex-girlfriend told you, over a few pints, that he was the lousiest lay since that eunuch in France (if you don’t get it: he’s bad). From the moment you say the last part, you can see the anger flash into his eyes. This is the moment that our civility melts away. Our primal nature takes over and tells us, “hurt, kill, murder, destroy!”
From the moment his body turns, you know what is coming. The body is turning, the arm is moving back, and the open hand is now a closed fist. In short, this person is going to use man’s first weapon against his fellow human.
Most people will tell you that it’s all a blur, but in truth, time does in fact slow down. Your brain kicks into high gear in order to help you prepare. Thousands of computations and strategies fly through your head. If you been in multiple fights, then you’re figuring out not only where you need to block, but also what points on your opponent’s body are now vulnerable. The surroundings come into play. Do you have the ability to move? Do you need to move? Does this guy have friends that can hurt you? In the time it takes for you to read the first three words of this sentence, a person could have already knocked you out with one punch. This is what I mean about your brain going into overdrive.
Now his arm is coming around, and you’re wondering how high it is, where it's going, etc. When a person takes a swing at you, they often go for the face. Most people have never been in a fight, so they think it should be like the movies. One punch and the bad guy goes down. It’s not that easy usually. Yes, you can knock someone out with a good punch to the chin. Several nerves in the chin are connected directly to the brain. If you hit those nerves hard enough, they will spasm, and the person will drop. How often does that happen? Not very. Fights are also rarely as clean as in the movies. Two men who square off care more about winning rather than using The Queensbury Rules. A kick to the groin? Some guys don't think twice about it. Eyes and ears are even fair game. It only takes about eight or nine pounds of pressure to remove an ear from the head. That's not much folks.
Maybe you judge the punch right and move out of the way or block it. Perhaps you misjudge, and the punch connects. If the person misses, you have to spring back quickly. Take advantage of their mistake. However, if they hit, it's a different story. Think about the movies again. Whenever that famous actor hits the bad guy, there's a sound. A loud sound that sounds like, "Wo-pow!" In real life, there is no sound if the fist is closed. That is, unless, it connects. If you are hit in the face, you hear the bones and muscle of the fist grind against your own bone, muscle and tendon. The crowd may not hear it, but you certainly can. The sound, along with the pain, resonates to your brain. Think of a sonic boom: the plane passes by, then you hear it. It's the same principle. The fist, foot, or head connects, and you hear it in your brain before the pain blooms.
What happens next depends on who you are. I've seen people get punched and just stand there holding back their rage. I knew a guy in college who was hit in the back with a baseball bat. He got himself up, turned the to person who did it, and said, "I've turned my cheek. Hit me in my chest....I dare you." Others, seeing that they would be hit, ran. With fight or flight, sometimes we run. Me? I've never known better. I defended my students in the very same building where I was gaining my Master's. That's right: I had a fight with a fellow Master's student. It was a mistake (make a note of that, kids, Mr. Leab is saying that fighting is not the right way to go). Why? Well, honestly, words can do more damage if focused in the right places.
Hopefully, however, you never need to throw that punch. If you do, however, make sure you keep your thumb on the outside of your fist. You hit someone with that digit inside, and it's broken.

Life At Your Fingertips

When not teaching (which would be also known as the parts of summer before and after Summer School), I work for a publishing company that puts out a book (and a CD-ROM) dealing with lots at different auction houses around the world (such Christies, Sothebys, PBA Galleries, and more). It's not the most fascinating job, and I spend most of my time working with these catalogues and my computer.
What's interesting to me, however, is how I have turned my desk into my personal space. I hadn't really thought about how people personalize their desks or their cubes until I started looking around one day while working on a catalogue. Directly above the screen I look at is a picture of my wife. I keep this picture here not only to make me smile but to also remind me of why I'm working. When I get frustrated, I look to that picture for serenity.
Next to that picture is a stress ball with a smiley face on it. I got that ball at a party in college. I was able to throw three rings over a coke bottle while inebriated. That ball was my prize. It sits on a piece of metal that was cut by a laser (the first gift from my wife).
Next to that is a game: Curious George's Fishing Puzzle. When I was in college, my friend Liz gave me this game as a gift. She knew how much I liked Curious George (I still do). I can still remember when Liz gave me the box. It was my birthday, and I was hanging out at her place. She came to the living room with a big smile on her face. It just made her beam. You have to understand that Liz didn't smile very often, so to see her smiling was, in itself, a gift. She handed the box to me and gave me a hug. Other than my wife, she is the kindest person I know.
Next to that box is my latest addition to my Curious George collection. A Curious George Stress Toy. It's George sitting on a ball. I don't use it, because it's so darn cute.
I am not the only one who tries to personalize their space. At her work, my wife has a cubicle. Ever seen the movie Office Space? Her work area looks ALOT like that. Cubicles everywhere, heads bobbing up and down. It's quite funny. Anyway, for our anniversary, I snuck into her cubicle and left flowers, a gift, and a note. Her area is nicer and bigger than mine, but I was struck by how many pictures of us she had up. Beyond just a photo of us from when we got married, she had photos from our travels together, photos of friends, she even had some Minnesota Wild stuff (she wasn't into Hockey before we got together). There was also a book shelf where she kept a book I gave her (it's called Bad Cat, and I highly recommend it to anyone who owns a cat). I haven't been at her cubicle in a while, so maybe it all changed. I guess I won't know until the next time I sneak in to do something...devious.
The more I think about it, the more I see how people try to block out the mundane and starkness of their workspaces. Look, work isn't meant to be fun. If it was, it would called Super Action Fun Time. It's not, it's called work, because it hurts just to say it. WORK. Your body rolls with the word as if pushing it out. So, pictures of loved ones, knick-knacks, even books or music helps to overcome the pain of being at your job. Sure, if you're a waiter, you don't have a work space, but you still keep something on you to help you get through the shift. I know a guy who works as a waiter (when not acting) at Vincent: A Restaurant. He really doesn't enjoy his job, but he carries a picture of his life partner with him to remind him of why he's doing it.
Maybe you agree with me, or maybe you don't. Everyone has their own way of coping with the drudgery of work. Sometimes we personalize our spaces to bring the outside world to our dark workspaces. Ever see The Simpsons' episode where Homer puts up all the pictures of Maggie to block the sign Burns put up? That's what we're doing. That's why people get upset when the boss says, "No personal items!" We want our worlds, our lives, to be with us. We want to be happy.
On a different note, I will be taking a short break from the ole blog (probably just until Monday, maybe Tuesday). I will return soon with more stories, thoughts, and the like.

Solitary Literacy

Every Tuesday night, my wife plays volleyball at Alleygators. Usually, I'm in class or something, so I can't go, but tonight, I was actually able to go and watch. However, as a usual precaution, I took a book with me. Why? Because I figured I would have no one to talk to (which I didn't). Also, it turned out to be a good thing, because she was playing on the far court where no one could really watch.
So, sitting at a table out on the patio, I read my novel (The Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson). Here's what is so fascinating to me: for 30 minutes I sat at that table by myself, and no one bugged me. No one talked to me or even looked at me. A few people two tables over needed chairs. I had seven at my table. They walked right by me, saw that I had the chairs, mentioned it to one another, and then went back to their table and just stood. Seriously.
Apparently, my reading frightened them or something. Granted, this is a bar in Plymouth, and I noticed that there wasn't a single person there who wasn't white or blond (save me), but it was so odd. What was going through their minds as they passed me? "That guy's got a book...must...stay...away...from HIM!"
I even stopped reading, at one point, and offered the chairs to them. No dice. "No, no, sir (sir?), we wouldn't want to bother you." Bother me, I'm offering the chairs. Offering, as in take them from me for FREE.
I told my wife this story, and she laughed at me. She, and her teammates, thought that maybe the clientele of the place WOULD be afraid of a guy with a book. What if he had something to say that no one could make a response to? That would be ultra embarrassing in front of the ladies/guys!
I don't think this is a big deal, but is this some sort of commentary about where our education is going? Don't talk to the guy with the book, because he may be smart?
Oh, and my wife's team lost tonight. Too bad for them. There's always next week.

Bullets and Fuzz

I love the Muppets. If it isn't evident from yesterday's post, then I am declaring it now: I really do love the Muppets. When I was a kid, I would watch The Muppet Show, Sesame Street, and even Muppet Babies. Jim Henson, to me, was a genius. He managed to create a show that kids would watch AND learn from AND not react badly to all at the same time. Now that being said, I did once devise a way to kill all of them once upon a time. Let's begin back when I was in high school....
Once upon a time, a younger Leab was a precocious high school student. Suddenly, his world was made askew by the news that Sesame Street would be killing off one its most popular characters (and one of Leab's favorites): Ernie. That's right, boys and girls, Ernie. He was originally going to be diagnosed with AIDS, then the change was made to Cancer. He would die so that kids could learn how to deal with death. (We all remember Mr. Hooper...don't we?) Why in the world would you kill your most bankable star. Sure, everyone recognizes Big Bird, but the songs you love are all done by Ernie.
Bert and Ernie are the very representations of Frank Oz and Jim Henson. An odd couple that worked so well together. At the same time, we could see the lovable duo (Bert and Ernie, that is) as two sides of our very souls. One side the fun-loving, child-like nature within us. The other is the serious adult we need to be in modern society. But I digress....
I was unhappy to hear this news. However, only a week later, after a large letter writing campaign by faithful viewers, the death was, well, canceled. Ernie would not die.
Now, a few weeks later, I was at a party with friends, and we decided to get inebriated. Ok fine, we got drunk. Happy? Anyway, while drunk, I told everyone about the whole "Ernie dies" thing and explained that if that happened, Sesame Street would have to kill more. I can even recall the speech I made (Cue wavy lines on screen as we flashback to the past):
"So if Ernie dies, what's Bert going to do. If kids have to learn about death, then maybe they should learn about suicide too. Here's what I see happening: After Ernie's funeral, Bert is distraught. Reallllly upset. He goes home and sees how empty it all is without Ernie. The apartment has no energy. Finally, he looks over and sees Rubber Duckie just sitting there. Bert's emotions get the better of him, and he starts crying. Bawling really. He decides he just can't live without Bert, so he writes a note about why he's killing himself, and then he grabs a shotgun. The camera zooms in as Bert, still crying, sticks the gun in his mouth. It gets quiet. We can hear the birds chirping as the camera moves up to the top of Bert's head and then beyond to a picture of the two friends. Then...BLAM! We hear the gun fire and yellow fluff flies on to the screen."
Now, everyone there (and probably you as well, dear reader) was in shock. They couldn't believe what they were hearing. "That's horrible!" I would hear. "You're a monster!" another would say. But...but...they laughed. That was the key. No matter what they said, they belly laughed at the idea. So, I started killing off more of the Muppets with help of my drunk friends. Below is a list of the ones I can remember. If your favorite isn't there, drop a comment with his or her name (possibly a description if it is a random character), and I'll tell you how we killed him or her (if we did). For example, when we did this Hector, the Hispanic Lobster did not exist. So we didn't kill him. Enjoy:
Kermit the Frog: Finally caught and turned into frog's legs.
Miss Piggy: Along with the other "Pigs in Space", she became "Bacon in the Atmosphere" when re-entry went wrong.
Gonzo: His nose hooked on the "O" in The Muppet Show, breaking his neck and killing him.
Statler & Waldorf: The balcony collapsed.
The Swedish Chef: The lobsters, fed up with his bad cooking and Shakespeare, ganged up on him and boiled him alive.
Animal: Sadly, Dr. Teeth's drummer was put down when he contracted Rabies.
Fozzy: Caught in a bear trap while trying to hibernate, he was shot by a hunter in Northern Minnesota. Folks say they heard, "Wolka, wolka, (BLAM), Waaaaaa).
Lew Zealand: He tried to throw a boomerang swordfish, and it impaled him.
Rizzo the Rat: Killed by a subway car in New York.
Sam the Eagle: Poached.
Camilla the Chicken: Was caught, covered in 11 spices and eaten by...
Dr. Teeth: who choked to death on a chicken bone.
Big Bird: Fell into a wood chipper (I don't like Big Bird).
Oscar the Grouch: Crushed in a garbage truck compacter.
Grover: Flew into a light pole and was electrocuted.
The Count: "Oh no, I've lost my keys, and the sun will be out in three, two, one, ha ha." POOF!
Elmo: played with matches and caught on fire. He ran up and down the street screaming, "Elmo hot, hot hot!" Thus, we had St. Elmo's Fire.... (a thank you.)
Cookie Monster: choked to death on a cookie.
The Entire Nation of Fraggle Rock: The hill collapsed and crushed all of them, except for one fraggle, Wembley, who was eaten by the guy's dog
Sprocket (the Dog): Choked on Wembley
Bunsen Honeydew and Beaker: Bunsen blew himself up in an experiment gone awry. Beaker survived...then fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck.
Rolf (or Rowlf to some) the Dog: Died when his new owner tried to have him neutered, and the procedure went wrong.
Like I said, if your favorite Muppet isn't here, drop me a line, and I'll tell you what happened. I still have most of the list with me.

Ramblings for the Evening (8/8/05)

O Muppets. How thou hast fallen!
Tonight on Monday Night Football, Statler and Waldorf (the old guys in the balcony) introduced the game between Miami and Chicago. Now, here's my problem. Waldorf (the one with the chin) said (and I quote), "foh shizzle." Are you kidding me? The Muppets had one of their old and venerable characters saying, "foh shizzle?" That's like Julie Andrews singing Baby Got Back: It should NEVER happen. I understand that the Muppets have to keep up with the times in order to stay with today's kids, but this is ridiculous.
The Muppets from The Muppet Show aren't the only ones who have changed. Have you watched Sesame Street lately? Cookie Monster doesn't eat cookies anymore. WHAT?! That's right, they want kids to eat more vegetables and such, so he now eats celery. Let me put it this way: a monster that got his name because he eats cookies, now eats celery. Are they going to turn him into Celery Monster? That's not all. I was told (now this could be faulty info, however) that Oscar the Grouch is...well...not really grouchy anymore. He's always happy.
If the producers want to embrace pop culture, then they should do this: First of all, Big Bird has to become a hip hop rapper and survive being shot five times by Snuffy. They can have a real East Coast/ West Coast thing going on between them. Then Grover has to be gunned down in cold blood so that B2 (Big Bird's new name) can pour a 40 on the curb for Grover every show. Next, they already made Bert and Ernie stop being roommates, so neow, Bert has to start believing in Intelligent Design and Ernie has to believe in Evolution. Instead of singing about "Rubber Ducky," they argue over which one is right. Next, Oscar the Grouch will turnout to be a sleeper cell terrorist and will be arrested by Homeland Security and a new Muppet named: Alberto the Lion. Alberto is Sesame Street's liason to Homeland Security and teachers kids how to tell adults about any wrong doings on their block. Oscar will be put in a Gitmo type prison and tortured. Am I done yet? NOT EVEN CLOSE! Elmo has to become an altar boy and be molested so that he can sing songs about how to tell your mom and dad when the priest is touching you in "Elmo's Secret Place." For that episode, Benedict XVI will guest star from the Vatican. Oh, but there's more. Zoey (the female Elmo) will start wearing pants down around her ankles and sell her cooch for heroin. The producers will also introduce Hector, the Hispanic monster who will teach kids about how to build lowriders.
Now, if you think I'm being racist, or insensitive, think about this: an old, white Muppet said, "Foh shizzle." Muppets were supposed to be role models for kids, as I recall. The world exploded when Janet Jackson's breast popped out for half a second (which, come on people, isn't that big of a deal), but they don't care that a children's puppet is peddling stereotypical ideas? Shame on you. (Thanks Bill Plaschke!)
Scooter Accident
Some kid had an accident on a scooter today. I picked August 9th for the first death after this new law went into effect. Could it be that I'm right? Look, if kids are going to riding these scooters, then a helmet law (of sorts) has to be created. I know, there are people out there who think that having to wear is "restricing their freedom." Dude, it's not about your "freedom," it's about you on a motorcycle wearing nothing but shorts, flip-flops, and sunglasses at 90 MPH. One tap from my bumper, and you're road pizza (hold the cheese). Sure, maybe that adds to your rush, but it slows down traffic (yes, I can be a little selfish here) while you're being washed off the pavement. So look kids. Just wear the right clothing and wear a helmet. I don't want my tax dollars going toward your respirator.
At the Co-Op (Wooo)
This is a rant/statement/whatever to my fellow Co-Op shoppers: You may not ever, EVER talk down to me when I am waiting in line to checkout. Do we know each other? No. Then why are you looking in my cart and talking to me about what I'm buying. So I like fish, so what? I'm buying Reynolds Wrap instead of the Recycled Aluminum, I'm going to Hell. Sheesh. Look ladies and gentlemen, I freely admit that I am not a midwesterner. I will not keep quiet when I hear something I don't like. Most people in Minnesota will just nod and say, "Oh you know. You're right, ETC. ETC." Not me. You want to comment on what I'm buying? Fine. If you make a judgement about my or my wife from what we're buying, then yes, I will verbally berate you AND your ugly child until you back off from me. Don't you ever say that I hate the Earth and am, "killing babies," because I want to buy the not-so-natural shampoo. I like that shampoo. Did you know that your breeding is leading to the death of humanity, lady? No? Well thanks for screwing up the gene pool even more. Why don't you go spend $32,000 to go clone your cat so that "Rain Dancer" will never be without her "Pooky." Don't you sit there and judge me without knowing me and tell me I'm the problem on this Earth, THEN GET IN AN SUV. Talk about hypocritical. Just back off.
Poker Sweat
This is just my opinion, but Poker is not a sport. Don't try to sell it to me as a sport, because it isn't. It's like watching Chess. The only "thrill" is in the anticipation of the moves people will make. Chess is the same way. What's next? We already have televised Rock, Paper, Scissors tournaments (also not a sport), so why don't we start a Quarters Circuit. Hot men and women playing quarters until everyone passes out. Oh, or why not have cockfights televised. I mean, at least that's physical. Want another "sport" that should be televised? How about Professional Four-Square? Wait. I've got it. How about Professional Nappers. Yeah! I mean they would move about as much as the Poker players, right? You could have rules about sleep aids (no Ny-Quil), and a uniform (single jammies...with feet). That just might work.
Ok, that's enough for tonight. Tomorrow, more about the Muppets and me (warning: If you love the Muppets, tomorrow's post may upset you).

Confusion

Ladies and gentlemen (and readers of all ages), this is one of those days where I just don't understand the opposite sex. You look over the following tale and tell me if I am just stupid or what. I freely admit that I have imbibed a great deal of wine.
My wife and I decided to go out for dinner tonight. We headed over to Sapor in Minneapolis. Fabulous restaurant. I highly recommend it if you're heading out with a group or just on your own. Extensive wine list, great bar and dinner fare. Superb.
Back to the point. Over the course of dinner, my wife and I started talking about the attractiveness of other people. Now, your typical person, regardless of whether or not they are in a relationship, will inevitably look at other people they find attractive. One of my wife's friends married a guy who is, for lack of a better description, man-pretty. He's one of those guys that walks into a room and every woman swings her head. I would be jealous, but he's, well, a mimbo. It's the classic Cyrano tale. He's pretty but he can't talk. I gave him lines to use on his wife, which apparently worked. I say them and women go, "ICK!!!" He says them, and women suddenly need new underwear. Ok, maybe that's a little far, but you get the idea.
So here's where I get confused. I don't care that my wife thinks he's attractive. She's married, not dead. The problem, however, is that I don't look at other women. I don't care anymore. I'm married, and honestly, I don't think about or look at other women.
At one point, my wife asked me, "Who do you consider attractive?" I started to think about it. "Who do I find attractive?" After what I would consider a VERY long minute, I answered my wife truthfully. "I don't find other women attractive. I married the woman that answers that question. You are everything I find attractive from looks, to brains, to personality."
Now, I would think this answer, which is the truth, would make her feel good. I was, however, VERY WRONG. She was and still is not happy with my response. She says that my answer shows, "I have no standards," and I'm, "not comparing her to anything." Why is that bad? Seriously, I don't know! I used to date a gal who told me that she, "shouldn't be compared to other women." Am I a total schumck and just don't realize it?
I would think being told, "You're the pinnacle of what I'm looking for," would be a compliment. I don't look at other women, because I'm happy with my wife. There's no reason to think there should be anything better. And yet, she's unhappy that I feel this way. Why? Is it because she needs that competition? I also don't feel bad that she looks at other men. I would if she did anything with them, but looking is ok (at least with me).
Honestly, it's also tough for me, because I have never really thought of women that way. Sure, a lot of guys say this, but I, for better or worse, mean it. Who do I find attractive? I don't know. I find my wife attractive. She's brilliant, beautiful, and has a killer sense of humor that can make me laugh so hard I cry (and pee my pants a little). She makes me very happy. Why would I bother looking around when I have that?
So ladies and gentlemen, if you have an answer to my dilemma, please let me know. I thought I was telling my wife how much I love her, but I guess I was just hurting her feelings.

Waiter, That's Your Hand On My Pants

Hey kids, how about a dating story? Does that sound like it would be nice to hear about? Let me just change into my cardigan and sneakers, and I'll tell you a story.
Ok, this is a true story about the first date I ever had with my wife. We had been friends for years, but had been with other people. At the beginning of our senior year of college, both she and I were single again with our significant others having either cheated or left. So, after she "passed out" at one of my parties (and I use the quotes because I later found out that she faked it), we decided to try and date and see what happens. Best case scenario: we go from friends to husband and wife (which we did). Worst case scenario: we date, it goes bad, we never see each other again after the end of the year (which happened to another girl I dated...oh well).
I wanted to do something nice and conventional. Neither one of us had ever really had a "conventional" date. Well, what's more conventional than dinner and movie? Nothing, I thought. So, we decided she would pick the movie, and I would pick the place for dinner. We would head to the movie first, and then have a late dinner and drinks.
The film she decided on was American Beauty. I know, I know, children. That's not really what you would consider a "date movie," and honestly, neither did I at the time, but it ended up being quite romantic. Why? Because it gave us a few different topics to discuss, and it also showed that maybe, just maybe, I was dating the right person. You see, she did several things that I really liked:
1. She never talked during the movie. That's a big pet peeve that I have. There's a difference between, "Excuse me, I need to get out," and, "Excuse me, did you know that the guy playing Lester was in Hear No Evil, See No Evil?"
2. She turned off her phone. Another pet peeve of mine is cell phones in movie theatres. She took the time to turn the ringer off. That was nice.
3. After the movie she talked about its meanings, scenes, and more. I love movies. I've said it before, and I'll say it until the day I die. I love film. She shared that interest with me. She was also willing to see just about anything which proved to me she was a keeper.
With the movie over and discussions beginning, I wanted to take her somewhere that I could impress her. I decided to take her to an old haunt, as it were, for dinner. A wonderful wine bar called Riddle's Penultimate Cafe & Wine Bar. I would go there all the time for drinks and bands, and it was separated into bar and romantic cafe. (The cafe side had a sign that said, "THIS IS ROMANTIC.")
Now, children, this is where the story takes a turn. You see, even though I am not really attractive and quite straight, I seem to attract Homosexual men. Why? No clue. Right after my beautiful date and I sat down, our server came over. I will always recall that his name was Gerald, and I will also always recall that he ignored my wife the entire night. Here are some clues that you server may like you:
1. You've just sat down at your table, and your server puts your napkin in your lap. Right after he places the napkin, he leaves his hand in your lap and gives your inner thigh a nice squeeze.
2. Shortly after squeezing your thigh, he places his hand on your shoulder, smiles, and then says, "If you need anything, please let me know."
3. During this entire time, your date, a nice girl, is being ignored regardless of the number of times she says the server's name or just says, "hello," to him.
4. When you get the wine (which he approves of), and you have a small drip on your chin, and he licks his finger and then touches the drop, that's where it gets creepy.
5. When your bill comes at the end of the night, and the server hands it to you, and you see his name, phone number, and a note asking you to call him, that's a pretty big sign.
The meal itself, as well as the wine, was great. Riddle's is still one of our favorite places, and we returned there for dinner one night during our reunion. Our families even met each other for the first time over dinner there. However, let me finish the story of our first date.
As you'll recall, we've been to the movies, and we've had a nice dinner where the server liked me a little too much, but the boy and girl on the date have had some very nice discussions about life, movies, and such. I decided that I would invite her to my home for coffee (and I do mean coffee, folks. We had a lot of wine). When we arrived at my house (which wasn't far from the restaurant), everything looked normal. I use the word "looked", children, because it appeared normal, but it was, in fact, not normal. You see two of my friends who lived across the street had an argument, and one stormed off. She needed a place to go, so she went over to my house where my then roommate (you'll recall that I had a faculty member living with me for a little bit) was drunk on some of my wine collection and let her in. So, I've returned to my home to have coffee with my date (having told my roommate to skeedadle for the night) to find that he and another friend of mine were sitting in my living room extremely drunk and had called other people over to join them. That's right: an impromptu party was going on in my house. Not good. My wife was game to talk with everyone, but I could tell she was tired. After all, we had started around 7 and it was close to 1 am now...and a school night. (And we know that we're not supposed to stay up late on a school night, right children?) I told everyone that I would be right back and that, "my house better be clean and all of you gone when I return!"
I took my lovely date home, kissed her goodnight (not our first kiss, but that's another story), and drove home in a really good mood. When I returned, to my surprise, the house was a immaculate.
So what's the moral of our story, kids? Well, good guys can have a nice time out, but you have to be careful that your server may find you attractive. You also have to be careful that people will take over your space when you're not there. Still, my lovely wife must have thought it was nice too, because she married me in the end.
I hope this story makes you feel better, and, if you're single, I hope that it shows you that there's hope for everyone. Have a good night.

Ramblings for the Evening (8/3/05)

Note: This post contains possibly offensive jokes. You've been warned, blah, blah, blah.
Satan goes to Hell
Seriously. Miroslav Satan signed with the New York Islanders. Sure, there won't be the awesome headline about Satan and the Devils, but Satan is going to be playing in Long Island. That's really and truly Hell on Earth.
No one dies in Canadian plane crash
Once again Canada is able to get something right that we Americans really can't. Not a single person from the plane died. Beyond that, there was no pushing or shoving to get out. It was, "a textbook evacuation," they said. We can be embarrassed now.
South Korean doctors clone a dog
Politically correct version: Congratulations. Science around the world takes another stride toward conquering the unknown of death.
Politically incorrect version: Congratulations. No one will go hungry again.
Americans are becoming ruder (No Duh)
According to a poll on CNN (if we can actually believe the media these days), Americans are now the rudest people in the world. First of all, HAHAHAHAHA. Second of all, this is news? How could we not be? Before you get all riled up and start a "Love it or leave it" comment, really think about it. I got my haircut today. While I was in the chair, a customer came in and wanted a cut as well. The woman cutting my hair wanted to finish the one section before helping the customer, but the customer was impatient. After twenty seconds, the customer said, "Heellllooo. I want some service here." Jen (the stylist) put her scissors and walked over to help Rude Customer (RC from here on). RC tapped repeatedly on the desk and said, "I want a cut...now."
"You'll have to wait about fifteen minutes. I have to finish him first."
RC was not having that. "Fifteen minutes. That's bullshit. I want a cut right now. He can wait. I'm in a hurry. Let's go. You, in the chair (she meant me), get out of the chair. Now!"
Neither Jen nor I could believe this chick. Jen looked at me and asked, "Do you believe this?"
I sat quietly for a second, then said, "Wow. That was rude."
RC turned red and said, "Fuck you both. I didn't want to help your business anyway. Screw you bitch and (now pointing at me) screw you fuckhead!" And with that, she stormed out.
It's not just instances like that, however, that prove the point. When I was at the New England Aquarium, two parents pushed (without asking me to move or anything) my wife and I over so they and their kids could see penguins. When I said, "Excuse me, you could have asked us to move," the response I got was, "We have children. You HAVE to move for us." They did the same thing while we waited in line for the IMAX movie. Because they had kids, they believed they should be first.
Students, parents, and the general public have become ruder as well. I'm used to students dropping f-bombs on me (thus be sent out of my room), but after I failed one student for not only not showing up, but doing no work as well, her mom called me and bitched me out. You want to make a point with me? Then don't call me, "a retarded asshole," because YOUR kid didn't show up to class. How can I help your kid to learn if they aren't in my classroom? That's preposterous to blame me. Oy vey.
On a better note
Ok, so enough of the blah, blah, blah and wah, wah, wah. Go look at Meredith's photos. She's quite a talented photgrapher (in my humble opinion).
Have a good night.

I Keep Hearing that Song by The Police...

Due to the suggestion of one of my loyal readers, we're going to talk about something near and dear to my heart: stalkers. Now, I've already talked about one stalker from when I was in college (We called her Kelly). However, I had a stalker back in high school, and a student who actually stalked me during my student teaching.
When I was a senior in high school, there was a junior girl (we'll call her Laura) who followed me no matter where I was in school. If I was in my English class, she was outside the door both before and after class. Bio II, same thing. During an appointment with my college counselor, she was there when I got out. I didn't tell anyone I was meeting with the CC, so Laura must have followed me. Don't get me wrong, she was a pretty girl, who was quite smart, but I was not interested and was getting ready to go away to college. Beyond that, there's something very creepy about a person always being there when you turn around. She followed me home, she would call me at odd hours, and she even showed up at the theatre one afternoon while I was working on the lights. I climbed down off some scaffolding, turned around, and there she was. It was like a bad horror movie. I could hear that music from one of those films whenever she was around me. I ended up telling her that I needed space, and that she was creeping me out. I guess, from what others told me, I made her cry...alot. Several of my friends thought I was a complete ass for doing that. One guy even told me that I should take her on a date. "You know, like a pity date. Make her think she's got a chance." That, to me, would be much worse.
Now, the girl who stalked while I student taught was different. I want to make this clear: this is not Emma I'm talking about here. She has her own story for another time with its own issues. No this girl we'll call Kristen. After two months of teaching, I began to notice that no matter what room I was in, Kristen would come by and ask me questions. If I was on the third floor, she would be there. It got so bad, at one point, that when I headed out to my car, she would be next to it waiting for me. That's dedication, folks. She discovered which car was mine. Anyone else starting to wonder if the bunny is in the pot yet? (Anyone really get that reference?) The worst moment, however, was while I was working on a show for my supervising teacher.
I had finished my student teaching and was subbing for a colleague while he was out recuperating from (for lack of a better term) dislocated muscle. While breaking up a fight, he pulled his bicep muscle off the bone. It required surgery.
So, I'm working on this show, and I have to paint the set. Because I am painting, I have changed out of my nice teacher clothes and into painting clothes (which is to say I look like a hobo). Having put everything in my bag, I begin painting. While I am painting, I notice that Kristen is hanging out near my bag. I was not aware that she knew I was back. I finish painting a wall and turn to see her holding my wallet. She flips over my license, telling me about how she, "loves the picture," and starts looking through my personal photos. When she gets to my wife, her entire face goes from smiling, to frowning, to anger. "Who's this?!" she yells at me. "That would be my wife," I respond while grabbing my wallet. "She's not right for you," I hear back as I walk away.
The piece de resistance (excuse my bad French), however, comes from the last day of school. As I hug the seniors goodbye and tell the rest of the students I will see them later, Kristen comes to me for a hug. I, honestly, don't feel comfortable, but I give her a guy hug (one quick pat and move away). As I start to pull off, she grabs on to me tighter and kisses my cheek. The two faculty members standing next to me stare at me intently. "I'm going to miss you sooo much," she tells me, "I really hope college guys are like you." Then off she goes with tears streaming down her face. My two colleagues start to ask me what the hell that was, and I can only muster, "that was weird. Must be hormones or something." (Hey, I was embarrassed. Wouldn't you be?)
I haven't heard from Kristen since the day after she said goodbye. She showed up at my home to tell me about her upcoming trip and to say "Goodbye forever." She was visibly disappointed when my wife answered the door.
Between my stalker, and the student who was infatuated with me (that would be Emma), St. Thomas had to start prepping teachers for what to do if these things happen. I was asked back during the spring semester if I would be willing to speak to student teachers about my experiences. The program also interviewed me in order to create a new page in the student teaching handbook about how to deal with these situations. It's always a thrill when an administrator tells you, "Because of you, we've had to change the handbooks. Nice work."
So there you go, oh loyal readers, even little ole I.T. here has had his share of stalkers. Which is odd, because, as one student told me, "you're really not that good looking." She may be right, look at the picture...

Ramblings for the Morning (8/1/05)

Hockey's back!
Yes! I must admit that I am very happy right now. I've said it before, I love hockey. So now it's back, and, though most of the world really doesn't care, all is bright and shiny again. This leads to my next point...
Satan is cut by the Sabres
I mentioned in a previous post that a senator in New Jersey wants to change the name of the New Jersey Devils. I said it before, and I'll say it again: I want Miroslav Satan (it's pronounced SHA-tan) to go to the Devils. It would be such a great headline:
"Satan comes to New Jersey" with the by line: "No one surprised"
That way this senator would have EVEN MORE to be upset about.
Growing number of teachers having sex
More and more teachers, particularly women, are getting in trouble for having sex. Even today, according to the New York Post, a catholic school teacher is in trouble for sleeping with, "four boys."
Now here's the issue. If you're a girl and you sleep with your teacher, you're branded a slut, whore, whatever. However, if you're a guy and you sleep with your teacher, you're considered a hero, or god among men (if the teacher is a woman. If it's a guy...that's another story all together. Come on, you remember what high school kids are like). The four boys may be in trouble with their parents (and possibly God depending on their strength of faith), but among their peers they will be envied. It's totally screwed up. I believe in the last six months, I have read about at least 15 teachers (ten women, five men) who have been arrested or in trouble for having a student who's "hot for teacher." It's unfortunate. And yet, as several of my students will point out, I had a student who made a very improper proposal to me. Did I accept? No. Do I know what she was thinking? No. We had only spoken to each other a few times. Honestly, I wasn't fully aware that she was in my class until a few days before the end of school. It's too bad.
Sticking with the education theme, we'll end with this...
Students rate their teachers
I was unaware of this website. Apparently, students out there can decide how cool (or not) their teachers are as well as leave comments. Most of the people I work with got good ratings. That's nice to see. I have no ratings, which is also nice to see. I don't mind criticism. Hell, I work with teenagers, so I'm very used to it. On the first day of summer school, the first thing one student told me was that if I was going to be her teacher, I had to wear better shoes. Was she planning at staring at my feet the whole time? I don't know.
So, if you have a teacher out there that you love, or hate, or whatever, go on over to the website and give them a rating. It's your chance to tell that teacher what you think of them. If, however, you're one of my students, stay away from my name. I have no rating, and want to keep it that way.

For the (High School) Seniors 7/31/05

Author's Note: This post is to be taken with a grain of salt AND pepper. If you take it too seriously, well...you can't sue me because you've been officially warned as of...now.
With August literally hours away, I decided to throw a little advice toward the seniors of this upcoming school year. However, in the style of fellow blogger Admin Worm, I have decided to elaborate on the "fabulous" advice from this weekend's USA Weekend.
According to their "expert", there are five things every senior needs to do in order to get into the college they want. I, however, think that there are hidden meanings within each point. Let's take a look:
1. Get friendly with professors
What they say: You want to get noticed in order to help you get in to the college or class you want.
What they don't say: "Getting friendly" may include wine, food, and fellacio. You want that "A", don't you? You have to REALLY earn it.
2. Pound the Keyboard
What they say: Focus on that application, particularly the academic interests, and the essay.
What they don't say: You will be breaking many a keyboard as the frustration rises from trying to lie about your interest in Quantum Physics. Be prepared to snap two to four keyboards trying to write in iambic pentameter.
3. Open your mouth
What they say: During the interview, answer in detail and elaborate when you can.
What they don't say: On the one hand, the interviewer really doesn't care. On the other, what they really mean is learn how to chug a beer in three to four seconds, otherwise the people at the party will think you suck. This could also tie back into the first point (Don't make me have to spell it out for you, folks).
4. Be creative with your high school choices
What they say: Schools are looking for students who go after their interests.
What they don't say: If you thought that you could coast by with all those "Rocks for Jocks" classes, you were wrong. Get ready for community college, my friend...unless you're the star running back, in which case: SCHOLARSHIP.
5. Get a "real" job
What they say: The "tougher" your job is, the better chance you have of being accepted.
What they don't say: Sorry Mr./Ms. Fry Cook, it's not good enough. They want you working with handicapped, crack-addicted, aborted children in Guatemala. Besides, they may not want you to act like Paris Hilton, but they sure want that Hilton money. Your parents offer a library, and you're in like Flynn.
Hopefully this guide will help you with the rigorous college process. If you have any questions, Dr. I.T will be here to help. Good hunting.

It's a Wally World

Author's Note: The following post may, in fact, be offensive to you. If it is, um, tough.
I have a confession to make: Wal-Mart scares the holy hell out of me.
Whenever I walk into that blue building, I feel like an alien from Mars. Seriously. I grew up with local stores. You wanted food, you went to the market. Meat? Go to the butcher. You need a hammer, you head to the local hardware store. Wally World (as I call Wal-Mart) removes that need, which I guess makes it convenient (hence the term convenience store) but it loses something because of that. Should we be proud of the fact that we can pick up a pair of jeans, a jug of milk, steel-belted radial tires, and a blanket in the same store? I guess there's nothing more "American" than Wal-Mart (except maybe Target), but I miss the mom and pop stores. I could go to Winchell's Hardware on 22nd and put it on "the tab." Sure, at the end of the month it had to be paid off, but the service was such that the people there knew who you were, knew about your life, and maybe even knew what you needed to pick up before you even told them. That's great service. Now, at the Big Blue Box, you get people who look at you and make assumptions without even asking. As I walked around Wal-Mart this afternoon, I was looking for a cat carrier. You see I have a few precocious cats who are heading to the vet on Monday. When they are returned to me, they are usually in fowl moods and turn their joint carrier into steel cage death matches. I decided to end this and by separate carriers for them. I started to walk toward the pet section (which is behind the pharmacy and next to auto parts....Auto parts and pets? Ok then.) when I was stopped by "Gerald." Instead of just asking me if I needed help, "Gerald" told me, "the diet section is right over here." He then flashed me a big ole smile. Now, how would you react to this. Sure, I admit I'm overweight, and kinda short...just look at my picture...but that doesn't mean that I should be pointed toward the aisle o' Slim Fast. I just smiled at "Gerald" and said, "Hey thanks Chief," and I kept walking toward the pet section. Within seconds, I heard him helping someone else toward the toothpaste aisle.
I think my real problem with Wal-Mart occurred to me while I waited in line to check out. All of the magazines near the check out counter had country stars or (and I quote) "Bitchin' Cars," on the covers. The guy in front of me, AND the woman behind me as well as the cashier had mullets, and the music twanging over my head was countrireffic. A quick glance around showed me that no one working nor anyone shopping was anything other than white. The woman behind me with the gorgeous woe-man mullet wore a shirt that read, "America. Love it, or I'll kick your ass out!" Classy all the way. Yes, my ultimate problem with Wal-Mart, and the reason I feel like an outsider is that, honestly, I felt like everyone there (and I really hate making generalizations) that I had contact with was white trash. It's one thing to be a patriot. It's another to have a giant tattoo of a bald eagle facing one way and President G.W. Bush's face going the other with an American flag in the middle. I know this because in the next aisle over, a rather large pregnant woman was wearing a mid-riff revealing shirt and the tattoo was popping out. Other problems? The pet section had a huge hole in the wall (about the size of a fist) with graffiti next to it. Why wasn't that cleaned up? Don't you want your store to be clean and look good for the general public?
My wife has a similar take on the whole thing. She feels that Wally World is nothing more than a warehouse designed to make us feel that there's nothing better out there. "Poor lighting, subpar choices make us feel that we can't get any better. This is out lot in life." I feel bad, because my cynical nature is rubbing off on her.
Now don't get me wrong, it's not just Wal-Mart where I feel out of place. A few weeks ago my wife dragged me down to the Galleria near the Southdale Mall to look at furniture in Gabberts. From the moment I walked into the place, I was uncomfortable. The gentleman and his wife (or girlfriend or mistress or whatever) by the door were talking about how, "the $3,000 Eames chair was cheap," and they should, "buy two for the guest house." Sigh. The guy even had that Thurston Howell III (the Billionaire on Gilligan's Island) accent. "I loove Moneeey." If you've seen the show, you know what I mean. Seriously, walking around that place and seeing how much stuff cost was appalling. I felt extreme rage at not only the prices, but the way people were talking about money in the store.
Seriously, is there any middle ground anymore? During the election, one pundit talked about how "Bush's audience is the Wal-Mart crowd", and, "Kerry's audience is the Williams-Sonoma crowd." Is that the division we have now?
So why does Wal-Mart scare me? Because it represents so many things I don't really like. The death of the independent shop, the fact that it still seems to be ok that women are paid less than men and still treated like second class citizens, the fact that cheaper has become more important than better, the fact that God can still be used as a weapon against those we don't like, and the fact that if you walk into a place and don't "look the part" of the people usually there, you will be singled out and questioned. I fully admit that I go there, and Target, to find certain items that would be harder to find else where, but I would rather schlep 40 minutes away to a co-op than give Wal-Mart my grocery money. I would rather go to my local hardware store and scrounge for the right size screws than head to Home Depot. Sure, there are things at HD which are easier to find, but you have to support your local economy, don't you?
Maybe it's just me. I don't know. Perhaps life will seem better after some much needed wine. Have a good weekend everyone.

Guten Abend, Meine Freunde

Und jetzt für meine deutschen Freunde, David Hasselhoff!
Seriously, I have no idea what this is from, but he is like a god in Germany. He's released at least 13 albums (THIRTEEN) over there, and all of them have been hits.
Seriously, there are sites like THIS which shows one of "Michael Knight's" most famous photos. Good ole DH buck naked with only some puppies to cover himself. Here, we find it ridiculous, but in Germany, it's a photo that can be seen everywhere.
Last year my wife and I were in Northern Germany with my family (We were just outside of Rostock). It was gorgeous. If you've never been to Germany, I highly recommend it. The south is honestly alot better than the north, but that's just my humble opinion. Many Germans, especially those from Berlin, would disagree with me. Anyway, one day we went for a walk around Rostock. Now, you have to understand: Rostock is on the northeastern tip of Germany. It's only a stone's throw away from Poland and was, at one point, essentially Russian. Much of the city's signs and shops still have Russian along with German in or on them. As we walked up what could be called, "Main Street," we noticed a poster on the side of a building for an upcoming concert. We crossed the street, and, lo and behold, we discovered that it was for David Hasselhoff. It was a HUGE glamour shot with him in (what looked like) black leather pants, an open white shirt, and an expression that was somewhere between constipation and awkward orgasm. Very odd, yet very humorous.
So, if you're a Hasselhoff fan, you're going to love the link at the beginning. It's him singing a timeless classic, though I don't really get the dogs that are involved (you'll see). Enjoy.

Someone's Dream Comes True

Because of this lovely invention, several geeks everywhere are imagining how their dreams can come true. There are several possible outcomes here:

1. We have the very beginning of the whole Blade Runner thing coming true. We'll create very life-like androids that will do all of our work until they rebel and come after us...or become human than us and teach us how to understand the rain....
2. Lonely men (and some women) everywhere will have a chance for some hot, electric looooove (a la Barry White). Have you ever watched the show Futurama? In one episode, Fry (the thawed human) downloads Lucy Liu into a robot for some loving. You just try and tell me that there aren't people thinking about ordering their own (insert hot female here) robot.
3. Everything will work out perfectly. Ha, there's no such thing as a utopia. It really more of a distopia, but we try not to notice the bad parts. See Animal Farm, 1984, Brave New World, The Giver, The Island (if you dare), The Village, and on and on I could go. People who choose this outcome remember every film that ever had a robot in servitude to man...and how it went awry. "Klatuu Barada Nikto," mean anything to you?
I guess we'll just have to wait and see how Repliee Q1 works out. Perhaps this robot will take the place of living spouses and then people will go to court over whether or not man and robot can be married....Wouldn't that be a fun little arguement?

Size Matters

Ok, I get it. My posts are too long. I'll try to make them shorter. No need to write me an email with the words, "You've made my eyes bleed from trying to read everything." I'll work on having less to talk about (boy that looks weird).

Curses (in Many Forms)

The Dentist's Office
In the last two years, the dentist's office I go to has turned over a lot of employees. For my last four visits, I have seen a new dentist each time. Over the course of five years of visiting this office, the only people who have remained the same are the two receptionists Pam and Nancy. Lovely women, who if they ever leave then so will I. Anyway, two years ago, I saw Dr. C. Nice guy, but too much garlic in his breath. He used to do that thing (that I really dislike) where he would have all his tools in your mouth, and then he would ask you questions where you couldn't just answer, "Yes," or, "No." You can't move your mouth or tongue, but he wants your opinion on a Baroque style couch? Not fun. He also didn't shoot me up with enough Novacaine to finish my filling, so I felt it all. Awesome. Two days after seeing me, he left for parts unknown.
Next came Dr. P. Nice guy, bad hair plugs. He liked to tell me all about his kids' potty training, and his first wife's infidelity. Great topics when you can't go anywhere. After I saw him, he left to go open his own office in Rogers. It's a little too far for me. At the same time, three receptionists or hygenists left.
The next dentist was my favorite. Dr. C. She was Canadian and quite nice. The sad thing is that I knew more about Canada than she did, but that's fine. It was only her second day when she saw me. She knew how to ask only yes or no questions when the tools were in, and then ask the complicated questions later. That was nice. After seeing her, she left three weeks later for North Carolina. Also my hygenist quit, and another receptionist I like took off.
So yesterday I saw another new dentist, and a new hygenist. However, everyone now thinks that I am cursed. Whoever sees me will end up leaving for some reason. That's the joke. In six months, we'll see if it's true.
The Tennis Court
I joined a tennis league a few weeks back. Once a week, I get to try and get some exercise and work out my agression by crushing a little ball. It's fun, usually. Today, however, was frustrating and annoying. I admit that I can be obnoxious and loud, but when I play tennis, I try to be courteous to other players out there. The gentleman I played today does not think like I do. No, he pretty much swore as loud as he could and acted like a big kid. I slammed a hard forehand down the line, and he was right there for it, but he missed. He let out the loudest tirade of F-bombs that I have ever seen to the point where every other player on the other courts turned and stared. He cursed to high heaven everytime he lost. It was really unprofessional and annoying. Very unsportsmanlike. What's worse is that after I won the first set, he started cheating me. If a ball was near the line, he called it out and usually late. I hit a beautiful ace right by him. I start to move over to the other side, and he goes, "Umm. Yeah. Uh, that was, um, out. Yeah." I was pissed. He did this to me over and over and over. I ended up losing the second set, and he didn't want to play a full third set, so we had to play a tiebreaker where he cheated me out of points again. Now granted, I should have won the second set. I should have played better so he couldn't cheat me, but still....COME ON! Are some people that petty and desperate that they NEED to win? The cursing was one thing, but the cheating was another.
At School
After tossing one of my students out of the classroom today for totally inappropriate behavior, he was swearing up a storm. I pulled him into the hallway and tried to calm him down, then I explained to him that between his behavior and his absence of work and attendance, he would not be getting credit for the class. He then told me, to my face mind you, "I hope you and your wife die, and I can dance on your grave, bitch." Now, I can't hit him. That would get me sued, but I can use words against him. I looked him, stepped up to his face, and said, "If anyone's going to die around here, it's you. You can't even read the back of a bottle of water. How are you going to know if you're drinking poison? How are you going to be able to do anything if you can't even read the note that's on my door? Get used to this phrase: 'Do you want fries with that,' because that's your future. Now get to the office!"
I shouldn't have lost my temper, but this is a kid who thinks that I should allow him to pass, because this is his, "second time taking the class, and I failed last time, so you have to let me pass." Bottom line: he's not passing. End of story.
At Home
My lawn is a mess. One of my neighbors, for the first time ever a few days ago, commented that my lawn, "looked so nice." Ever since then, Crabgrass, Clover, and other lovely little broadleaf weeds have sprung up all over the place. Add to that the brown spots from all the heat, and it suddenly looks like death paid a visit and crapped on my lawn. It's embarrassing, at least to me, because it says, again to me, that I don't take care of the lawn. My neighbor, by saying something nice, cursed my lawn. It's like when you watch a sport (say Hockey), and the announcer says, "this team hasn't lost to the other team in six years." What happens? Your team loses. It's karma rearing around and kicking you like a mule.
But hey, curses can be broken. Maybe something better is around the corner.

Ramblings for the Afternoon (7/26/05)

The Comics Get It Right
Today's Non Sequitur has hit on the very essence of the problem with movies nowadays. You have to have a willing suspension of disbelief in order to get through most summer movies. Instead of the plausability, concentrate on the actual art. Is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory possible? Not really, but it sure is pretty.
The Test Has Occured
Today my reading students took their test. How did they do? Well, I won't know for weeks, but here's the breakdown for the day:
2 students did not show up for the test. That's right, five weeks of classes, and these two decide that the whole reason for showing up is unnecessary. Brilliant.
Of the 29 who showed up, seven attempted to sleep through the whole test. No matter how often they were tapped or whatever, they would put their heads back down and try to sleep.
3 students' tests will not be validated as they cheated. When you drop your answer sheet toward another student and look at their test while you're picking it up, it might or might not be cheating, but when you do it three times, that's cheating.
The other 19? A few did not finish the test, others rushed, and a few should be fine.
On Top of That, There's This Problem
I don't turn in my grades (or credits) until Friday. Several of my students in my second reading class have to be there everyday this week in order to get credit. Unfortunately the coordinator came into my class today and passed out completion certificates and passing grades. That's right, several of my students, a few who were not going to pass, have now been allowed to pass thanks to the coordinator. Not only does this totally and utterly undermine my authority, but she has now socially promoted students who do not deserve to move on to high school. What the hell? Seriously, WHAT THE HELL?!?! Why bother having these kids come into my class? Just pass them all the time then. What is the freaking point of me busting my ass for five weeks to prepare these kids for a test, when they can not show up, they can do no work, they can even skip the test that they're prepping for the whole time, and yet they can still be given credit for doing nothing. If the answer is, "I am being paid and that's enough," then things need to change. Look, when it comes to politics, I am not really a Democrat or a Republican. Think of it this way, if St. Paul is the Republican party and Minneapolis is the Democratic party, then I am somewhere neeeaaaar Tokyo. I really hate American politics (I'm using the word "hate" here, folks). And yet, politics has totally and utterly screwed up the school system. Is it the fault of one party or the other? Nope. It's BOTH their faults. However, I don't want to write pages upon pages of a political rant. Suffice to say, by allowing these kids to pass, because the district doesn't want older kids in lower classrooms. Great. My father once warned me about this. He's a History professor, and he's failed students only to have the administration change the grades without his consent. I guess this is what's happened here. Is it fair to me? No. Is it fair to the students? No way. Some of these kids just flat out cannot read, and yet, they will move into high school without being able to do the work. They are being cheated, and because they are moving on, they will probably fail on the standardized tests, meaning that the school will fail according to No Child Left Behind, which means less money, which then means fewer teachers, and on and on the vicious cycle goes. Oy VEY!
On a happier note,
I Got Quoted
In today's copy of USA Today, I found myself reading my own name and words in the "Life" section. An article talking about whether you like to go to the movies or you like to stay at home has my little ole opinion in there. It's very weird to read my own words that have been put out for a nation to read. Granted, maybe only five or six people see it, but it's still weird. My sister is a journalist for the Litchfield County Times in Connecticut. She's read by the entire state of Connecticut, and yet she still gets shocked sometimes seeing her name there in print. It is strange. People are looking at what you're saying and then making some sort of comment. Granted, I understand the blog is the same thing, but really only a few people really read this thing. Those of you that do are quite loyal (which is why you rock). It's all very odd.
A Dating Story
So, here's a bad date story to make people feel better. When, during the summer between my sophomore and junior year of college, I was suddenly single again, I was hanging out with a girl that lived down the street from me. We'll call her, Allie. Wonderful girl. She was (and continues to be) a fantastic web designer and artist. Her skin was so white, that I liked walking down the alley with her, because she lit up the walls. For a while, every night we would end up either on her steps or my porch and would just talk while she smoked. Well, after a while, I just decided to ask her on a date. We went on our first date to dinner and a movie. Dinner was at Fridays, and the movie, strangely enough, was Saving Private Ryan. On a side note, everyone of the dates she and I went on involved movies. I was on a date with her when I almost got my ass kicked seeing The Blair Witch Project.
Anyway, we're at Fridays. We get seated in the bar area, and the way it works is that the bar is sunken and lower than the eating area. As dinner progress, Allie puts her drink up on the edge of the table which is over the bannister (who designed it this way, I don't know, but it's REALLY brilliant). Allie, prone to falling down and other famous klutzy movements, swings her hand around and knocks the drink over the side. In slow motion, I shoot my hand out and catch the glass, but most of the drink spilled down on top of a couple below us. Now, I am a short guy, but at the time I was muscular and stocky. The drink had spilled all over a biker who was much bigger than I am. Imagine you're him. You're wet. You're unhappy, and you look up to see some guy holding the glass where the fluid came from that is now all over your head, shoulders, and chest. What's the first thing you think of or do? Would it be:
A. Grab a knife and stab, stab, stab.
B. Ask your date if she's ok, and then scream and shout.
C. Go up and pour your drink on top of the person who spilled it on you
D. B and C.
E. None of the above.
If you answered B and C, you're RIGHT! That's right. He asked the girl at his table if she was all right, then he screamed at me about being, "a little bitch," and then he came up, and even though I offered to pay his bill, he poured his beer over my head. I did nothing in retaliation, except laugh at him and ask if he was still in high school. He just grunted, swore under his breath, and walked off. The bartender ended up escorting them out. My bill was free, which was nice, and Allie just felt really bad. Over and over, she just kept saying, "Oh my God, I'm so sorry."
Now, very wet, and without extra clothes, I sat underneath the hand dryer in the bathroom for five minutes, then we headed to the movie theatre. Now, I don't know about you, but I've never thought of Saving Private Ryan as a date movie. And yet, there we were for two and a half hours. After watching it, neither one of us felt very romantic. On the contrary, we were quite, well, depressed. So when we returned to her apartment, nothing happened. I dropped her off, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and went home.
We were sort of together/ sort of not for a while. I ended up freaking her out by giving some of my stuff (an old Playstation and some games) to a co-worker of hers whose son was very sick. I didn't need the stuff anymore, so I figured he might like it. It was my understanding that the kid was essentially dying, so I wanted to make him feel better. This, along with our not-so-great dates, and my stalker, and a friend who was a homosexual but was still possessive of me ended any romance. She was also in love with a friend of mine. She'd never admit it, but I know it. I would bet that she still carries a torch for him.
Final Thought
It's kinda funny when you write about a stalker, and no one really says anything to you. Even weirder is when you go to work the next day, and you swear that the girl interviewing in the office is your former stalker.
Hope everyone is having a nice day. Until tomorrow, goodbye. Off I go to the dentist now.

One More Thing

All right, 102 will have to be about dating troubles. I just wanted to throw in that I have updated my profile with a few new items. Props to anyone who can tell me where the picture came from. It's not American, I will tell you that.
Also, because I've hit 100, will Willard Scott now be singing to my blog? Will it be on with the weather and a cup of yogurt?
Have a nice night.