Story Time with Uncle Leab: Furry Children

You get two posts today, folks. Joy.
During my sophomore year of college, I was with my Ex (I never use her name, I just refer to her as, "my Ex.") walking around the neighborhood we both lived in (I was at 6652, she was at 6625). As we stroll around the neighborhood, we find this cat all alone with no tags. Now, I know better than my Ex, but she doesn't listen to me.
"Honey, it belongs to someone. Let it go home."
"No," she says, "It's a lost cat. We can take care of it. It can be OURS."
"But it IS someone else's cat."
We start walking away, but this cat, a beautiful Chartreux, follows us.
"See?" she says.
"It's just wanting attention. Keep moving."
We do, but the cat follows us ALL the way back to her apartment. So, we take the cat in for the night. However, we need to go get a litter box and cat food I am told. So we do, and the cat stays with us for that night. The next morning, as I leave for class, the cat comes outside with me and bolts across the way to another apartment complex. I watch as this cat climbs the fire escape and scratches at a window. My Ex and I had been played. The cat was just looking for a free meal.
I relayed this information to my Ex that evening.
"I want a kitten."
"I'm sorry," I say. "Could you repeat that?"
"I WANT a KITTEN," she tells me forcefully.
"Uh-huh. Is it going to stay with you?"
"No," she tells me. "Libby (her roommate, but not her real name) is allergic. I thought it could stay at your place."
"Um...."
Obviously my Ex could tell I was not really in favor, so she started telling me about how I had more space then she did in my apartment (I was in a whopping 500 square foot apartment, she and Libby were in a three bedroom 1,200 square foot apartment). I was young, stupid, and in love. I made a poor decision.
"All right. We'll go tomorrow and get a kitten."
I had never owned an animal by myself before. While other kids had a turtle, or fish, or whatever, I shared a dog with my other family members. Usually my mother took care of the pets. She was used to them. We have bad luck in my family when it comes to dogs. Over the course of my life, my family has owned nine dogs. They were unlucky. A few run over, some cancer here and there, and one that my mother hated so much she put a concrete slab over where he was buried. This dog was the only dog I have ever seen walk up to my father and pee on him. Funny, but also dangerous.
When it came to cats, however, there were only ever two. Cats are incredibly easy to take care of and very independent. Still, I had never really had a pet that was just mine.
The next morning, I read in the paper about an animal shelter that was bringing cats for adoption to a pet store. Armed with this knowledge, we headed to that store in the afternoon. It was surprisingly empty. Most people did not want to adopt a cat (no, they wanted puppies).
I head to the back with my Ex and look at the place where these kittens are supposed to be.
Inside of a glass case with three levels is a small grey and white kitten and an orange tabby kitten.
"LOOK AT THE ORANGE ONE!!!!" My Ex screams so loud a child turns and looks at us.
"He's cute, but I like the other one. He seems playful."
It's at this point the Humane Society member, who has been lurking, sweeps in to me.
"You know," the gal says, "if you get both, they can play with each other instead of the furniture. They'll take care of each other, which means you won't have to worry."
"That sounds great," my Ex says.
I was not sure, however. The gal from the Humane Society could tell I was wavering.
"Look," she says. "You adopt these two cats, and I'll do this: This cat (the grey one) full adoption price. This one will be halved."
I don't want two cats. "I'm still not sure."
My Ex could tell what the problem was. "Look, graduation is only a few months away. I'll take the orange one with me when I go, and you can keep the grey one."
That sounded good, but I wanted more from the Humane Society (yeah, I'm going to Hell).
"Ok," I said. "Throw in two bowls, some food, and a litter box, and you got a deal."
"Great!" she says.
The gal opens the case and hands the tabby to my Ex, who squeals with delight. Then she takes out the grey one. As he leaving, a little black head appears and mews at me.
"I didn't see this one," I say.
"Oh. These three came in together," the gal tells me.
Immediately, I am wracked with emotion (it sucks, let me tell you).
I don't want three cats. I don't really even want two, but I get this feeling I cannot split them up.
The black cat mews again. My heart rips itself into pieces at that sound and then comes together again.
"What about the black one?" I ask.
"Weeeelll," the gal starts. "How about this? You pay full adoption fees on the grey one, half on the orange one, none on the black one, aannnnnd you get a free food bowl, but you have to pay for litter, litter box, and food. I will, however, pay for your first vet visit."
I mull it over.
My Ex is giddy at this point and squeezing my hand so hard it might break.
"Deal."
It's at this moment, on October 10th, 1997, I become a pet owner.
The first few months would be difficult but very fun. All three cats stayed with me at my little apartment.
It wasn't long before hair was on my clothes, and people who dropped by would lift their noses to the air and say, "You have cats, don't you?"
My father was worried sick about it. "He's a theatre major who owns cats? That's not good."
It was amazingly fun watching this little beings with giant heads scurrying around my apartment. They would all cuddle with me in the bed and would lie all over each other all the time.
Their names were hard to come by. My Ex and I argued, and I was able to strike a compromise: I would name two of them, she would name the one she was to take with her (the orange cat). She had her name right away. The orange cat became Oscar, named after her uncle.
I named the grey cat Ulysses (yes, I am a bibliophile).
The black cat was given the name Sam Spade (still a bibliophile).
I even came up with ways to remember their names.
Oscar the Orange was a mighty viking.
Sam Spade wore a black trenchcoat.
Ulysses S. Grant fought the Grey Coats.
Yes, I am a nerd.
The plan stopped working when my Ex graduated. Instead of taking Oscar, she looked at me and said, "I only liked him when he was a kitten. Now, he's not pretty anymore."
Thus I was left with three cats.
Many of my friends would joke we were like The Brady Bunch.
This is the story of a man named Leab
Who was bringing up three boys on his own.
All of them were really hairy, like their father.
The youngest one was grey.
I heard it a great deal. It was funny, but slightly annoying the six hundredth time.
I have now had my cats for almost nine years. My wife graciously accepted the fact I had cats. When we started dating, she had lovebirds, but she gave them up for the cats. They love her as much I do. In fact, Ulysses cares for her more than me.
They say cats cannot think, but survive on instinct alone. I disagree. I have seen my cats work up plans.
I once was so drunk that my cats talked to me about life and what I was doing wrong.
Let me introduce you to them:
Ulysses:
The unquestioned alpha cat. He is now totally my wife's cat. She calls, he runs.
My wife likes to say he is the most human of the three. He's done the following:
1. Learned how to open doors. It's creepy, but he can reach up and turn a handle.
2. Tries to use silverware. We had fish the other night. He really wanted some, so he started pawing at my wife's fork in order to try and use it. It's still the damnedest thing I have ever seen.
3. Gets in the shower. This is a cat. Cats usually hate water. He's not super keen on it, but he'll try to shower with me most mornings. I think he just wants the attention.
4. He goes limp like a baby when you pick him up. He loves being held by my wife.
The greatest Ulysses story deals with when he tried to catch a bird. My wife and I were living in a second floor apartment in Brooklyn Center and used to let our cats out on the balcony. A bird lands on the railing, and Ulysses REALLY wants it. SO he jumps...and misses. He plunges down to the ground. My wife sees this and freaks out. She bolts out the door and runs to the front of the building. Ulysses is fine. He's just obviously mad at missing the bird. She brings him in the building, where another tenant brings out her dog, he freaks out and bolts up the steps. The owner pulls the dog outside. Ulysses, still panicked, runs away from my wife's loving arms and bolts back down the steps to try and get back outside. One problem: it's a glass door. Though I wasn't there, my wife tells me it was the ultimate accordian cat. He crumpled up and then expanded again. Still, he wasn't willing to show he was in pain, so he tried to play it off. That's this cat.
Oscar:
This is the trickster cat and the beautiful one. My nickname for him is The EVIL Cat! If it's Saturday, and I'm trying to sleep, he'll be there to wake me up.
If I'm, oh let's say, typing, he has to get into my lap. This cat has to be whereever I am. As I sit at my computer right now, he is the chair next to me sleeping. Should I leave to do anything, he'll follow.
When I wake up in the morning and go to shower, he is already sitting on the sink. He drinks from the faucet for a few seconds and then takes off (usually when Ulysses comes in to hop in the shower).
Oscar is the cat my Ex was supposed to take and, indeed, when I first got him, he was with her all the time. He slept on her side of the bed and would always want her to feed him.
Now, he's mine. It's kind of ironic.
Oscar is also the troublemaker. He doesn't want fighting, but when it starts, he jumps in and makes things worse. He likes to pick on Sam a great deal, which is unfortunate.
And finally,
Sam:
He is the most cat-like of the three cats. I know, that sounds odd, but Sam is afraid of new people, lies around all day on the bed, and pretty much avoids the other cats. He also, unlike the other two, is desperate to be outside all the time. Even when it's raining, snowing, or freezing, he finds a way to walk around outside. The others will hang back, but he blazes the trail.
Sam is the biggest of the three cats. (He's a whopping 20 pounds, but seems to be all muscle, which kinda frightens me at times.) However, he is the only cat that can go anywhere near my neighbors' cats. Again, I don't know why, but he can approach them. The other cats get hissed at and occasionally swatted.
I knew Sam was special the moment he attacked a Doberman Pincher. I know what you're thinking. "Oh my God, Leab, that's awful." It's not what you think.
When I lived in St. Louis, the guy across the alley from me owned a Doberman. This dog was mean. Well, one night while the cats were in my yard, the guy's dog gets away and comes right at my cats. While Oscar and Ulysses bolt for the house, Sam just stands there. The dog approaches, and Sam whacks him. It's almost like Cat-Fu. He just hits this dog full force in the nose, and the dog stops. I am finally able to pick up Sam at this point. The dog (his name was Brute, pronounced Bruteh) is still standing there feeling his nose.
Like I said before, I'm coming up on nine years of owning these cats. I love them. They take care of me, and I of them. If I've had a horrible day, they're there for me when I walk in the door.
I used to be a dog person, but now, I'm not sure I'll ever own a dog. I didn't want these cats when I first saw them.
Now, I'm not sure I can really be happy without them.
So it goes.

Acting Out

Frustration.
It's the hardest feeling to deal with at any given time.
We may not understand love, but the feeling of love makes us elated. Anger can fuel us to do amazing things (like build an entire set in a night).
Frustration, however, weighs on us. It invades every pore of our being and pulls us down to the ground. I feel like Gulliver lashed to the land.
(Incidentally, the picture...makes me think of Tom with his computer at work.) So why am I frustrated?
It started out as anger, but it became frustration due to reponse. Let me explain:
I'm the Tech Theatre guy at my school. My college degree is in lighting, I have a grasp of sound, and I can design and build a set (though non-warped wood would be nice...I'm just saying). When a show comes up, I am expected to be on call. Fine. Currently, there are two shows running at once. This means two different sound setups, two different lighting setups, and two different stage setups. So today, I had to run back and forth between the booth and backstage to get everything for show 1 ready. Between that, and coverage, dealing with a fellow faculty member who was talking my ear off, and a person unwilling to work with me, I started feeling that tug on the back of my brain. Frustration was waking up in my head and stretching out.
When setup 2 came, it got worse. With only a few minutes to put that show together, only a few students actually listened or even moved. As I'm jumping off the tops of ladders trying to move quickly and help them, I see students just standing there. I ask them to help me, and they just look at me as I'm talking to them in Russian. Fine. I get it done, but frustration is now awake in my brain and having coffee. Before the show starts, I explain, "No one leave afterward, we need to put everything back."
With no one to run the opening, I have to bolt back up to the booth and get the lights ready and going. I'm lucky at this point because there is one person who ends taking over the board for a few minutes, but still: my knee is throbbing, my back is killing me, and not a single person has talked to me other than to say, "We have to get the set up." or, "Make sure you hit the blackout at...."
So, show 2 ends, and I ask for help in getting the stage back to setup 1. Not much is needed for this, just clearing the stage. So, I end up watching as almost everyone leaves. Frustration now sticks out it's arms and grabs my spine slowly working toward my stomach. There are only a few students left now. A couple actually help me, but most just sit there and watch. Even after asking for help, they just sit there. Frustration starts to fill my stomach and make it feel like lead. My entire body is now slumping because of the new weight. Two students and myself are doing all the work.
In an attempt to calm myself down and remove the feelings I was having, I ducked into the scene shop. We call it a scene shop, but realistically, it's nothing more than a closet. Now, when I was in high school, I was part of a crew (of three) that made sure to go to the shop at our school and clean it up once a week. Tools were put in their proper place, paint check, trash taken care of, and floors cleaned. It would like this picture. We took pride in it, and we made sure it was always easy to get into and get what we needed.
As I walked into the shop today, I was mortified. Tools strewn about the floor, trash EVERYWHERE, and, worst of all, things were missing. Last year, I bought several hundred dollars worth of tools for the department. I made a clear edict: when not in use, the tools go in their cases and are stored. This has not been happening. What's worse? All the drills I got are now missing. I presume stolen as the shop has been left unlocked several times, unbeknowst to me. Having seen this, the feeling of frustration took over almost all my body, but I kept fighting against it. What finally put me over the edge was the most simple thing: I did not get a single thank you for the amount of work I did. Nothing. I gave up my prep period for one show. Nothing. I gave up my lunch for the other. Nothing. So, realizing this, frustration took over my whole body, and I snapped. Did I yell at the students? No. I would prefer not to do that. I know they haven't taken care of the theatre, but I'm just as guilty for not pushing them to do so. No, I just told them to leave. I kicked them out of the theatre so I could clean up without them around and then search for my missing tools. I never found them, though I was tipped on where to look (and need to talk to a few people tomorrow).
I eventually overcame my frustration by breathing and, honestly, by teaching the fourth hour class. Concluding Cloud Nine allowed me to turn my frustration into sarcasm then into humor. Laughing is always the best way to overcome and negative emotion. We take in more air which then makes us feel better. It sounds strange, but for some reason it works.
I know they mean well, but damn. When you do favors or bust your ass for someone, all you ask is for two words. I didn't say anything when I bought tools for them. I didn't say anything when I stayed late and skipped classes to build them sets. I didn't even say anything when I called in sick in order to spend a full day painting or building or whatever. I'm saying something now, because I watched almost a full class of students twiddle their thumbs while a few people did all the work. Then they gave me grief.
Maybe I'm off base. I don't know. I just know that my freshman, who sometimes act like idiots, thank me for working with them.
Then again, what do I know? I'm just some schmuck teacher, folks. I could be wrong.

Ramblings for the Evening (1/17/06)

Oy vey everybody.
Long weekends are REALLY hard to bounce back from in schools. Students sometimes haven't seen each other or talked to each other so they talk and talk and talk. My first hour was insane trying to keep them quiet and work on multi-paragraph essays.
Still, fourth hour today...very odd. I'll get to that. There's so much fun stuff going on in the world.
So, without further ado: A COW...ONSTAGE?!
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Axing Reporters:
Now, I'm not one for going after reporters (I mean, one of my most loyal readers is a local reporter), but after seeing this story, I don't think I would blame the guy for grabbing a chair and administering a beatdown. Check it out and let me know what you think.
Now, this leads to my next question: What the worst thing you've ever seen a reporter do? Let me clarify: on air. I don't want to hear about Geraldo and hookers. Old news. What do I mean? Well, here's an example:
I went to college in St. Louis. Now, Fox 2 in St. Louis had a reporter out in University City (actually down the street from where I lived at the time) doing a story about the aftermath of an ice storm. The reporter is walking down the sidewalk to show how bad the ice is. This is live. Think DeRusha in November at that Best Buy. I wish I could remember the name of the reporter, but it was a guy. He's walking LIVE on the nightly news and loses his footing. His hand shoots out to try and catch something. Instead, he punches threw a car window, thereby breaking his hand and setting off a car alarm. What made it better was the fact that the lights around him shot on as concerned college students thought it was THEIR cars being broken into by some maniac. The camera guy cuts the feed, and the audience is left seeing the two anchors who look shellshocked. The male anchor says, "Oh jeez, I sure hope he's ok." The female anchor, however, is desperately trying not to burst out laughing. They moved to the next story with the male anchor doing all the work. The female anchor suddenly disappeared. Gotta love Missouri.
Another one I remember which is similar to the Leaning Tower story (again click on the link and thanks to Rick for that), was a guy in New York setting up dominoes for charity. A reporter stepped in the wrong place and started them going. Now, they were lucky the guy who set up the dominoes had in fact put in protective dividers. Still, when it was done, the reporter looked at Domino Man (his given title for this job) and DM said, "You need to leave right now." Classic.
Anyone seen something similar?
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We the Jury Find the Defendant...NOOOOOOO:
Ok, so I couldn't think of a better title for this. In essence, a TWO year old was brought in for jury duty. Now a few things bother me about this:
1. The reason she was summoned was because the census information about her was incorrect. It had July 4, 1776 as her birthday. That would make her 230 YEARS OLD! Would you really want that person on your jury? If I had a 230 year old coming in, that person would be a teacher. Ok, ignore the census for a second then and let's move on to....
2. She gets a 16 year reprieve (insert fake laughter here). I get hatemail about my humor and this judge gets a laugh on the news? Fine. Moving on....
3. Would this girl really be any worse than typical juror? Seriously:
A. Free daycare for mom and dad. SCORE!
B. Other jurors usually act like two-year olds. She has an excuse.
C. It might expedite the process. "Your Honor. We have a verdict."
"You only met for a few minutes. How?"
"Well Your Honor, we couldn't take all the 'NOOOOOO' from Juror 8. We decided to give into her...oh and she needs a change and a nap."
Maybe it's just me, but wouldn't that be a great way to punish kids? No detention, you get jury duty. Enjoy! Or is that too mean?
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Shatner's Stoned:
Ok, William Shatner sold his kidney stone to Goldenpalace.com (I'm not linking to them. Just type it in, Lazy) for $25,000. Let me think about that for a second.......I'm sorry, my brain just died a little. This is a kidney stone, ladies and gentlemen. For all intents and purposes, it's substances that break off from urine and crystalize in the kidney. Yes, they hurt. Kidney stones and gall stones are apparently the closest in terms of pain a man can get to actually understanding the pain of birth (so swears my doctor). There are two different aspects of trouble here. So let's hit them one at a time:
1. William Shatner: Oh, Captain Kirk. You won an Emmy recently. You did put out two albums ("Mr....Tambourine....Man.......Playasongforme! KHAN!"), and you are an accomplished writer.
Still, selling your kidney stone? I applaud that MOST of the money is going to charity, but still, sir, you're supposed to be better than this. What's next? Will Captain Kirk sell his sperm like Vincent Gallo? (Don't even get me started on Gallo...Bastard. Brown Bunny was basically a giant excuse for him to get a blowjob from Chloe Sevigny, and his demands to "buy" his sperm are ridiculous. Don't believe me? Check it out. Bottom of the page.) You wanted $100,000 for the damn thing. You probably would have gotten it from some rich Star Trek fan, but you decided to sell to the Golden Palace instead. Nice work. Now...
2. Golden Palace: You're a real piece of work. Let's review:
You bought a cane that was supposedly haunted by its former owner.
You bought a cheese sandwich which supposedly had the Virgin Mary in it. (And I'm sorry, but I see Rita Hayworth. Is that wrong?)
You paid a woman to have your logo TATOOED to her forhead.
You have paid SEVERAL women and men to streak sporting events in your name.
You bought a species of monkey...ok then.
And, my personal favorite:
You bought a woman's baby's name. Yes, you did pay her $15,000, but now this kid is forever named Goldenpalace.com. I sense therapy in the future. (Oh, and I haven't forgotten about you, Melissa. You tell people to call her Goldie. I can't wait to see the marriage invite....)
Have we become so desperate for money that we will let companies like Golden Palace buy our bodies, minds, and souls?
And finally....
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Cloud Nine (Or where the boys are women, and the women are men...yeah:
Two years in a row I have taught the play Cloud Nine to the Theatre IB class. Both classes LOVED the play. Honestly, part of me is shocked, and part of me isn't.
For those of you who don't know the play, here's a quick summary:
The play starts in 1879 in Imperial Africa. We have men playing men, men playing women, and women playing boys. Oh, and a white man playing a black servant (I love Theatre of the Absurd...look it up). Now, as the characters go through the ideas of colonialism and gender roles (and their inequality), many sexcapades ensue. Married people cheat, boys play with dolls and love their "uncles". As one students explained it today (or maybe it was me, I don't remember) this has everything but "Man on Goat" action. (Cue walk a chicken.)
Now, in the second act, everything changes. The play jumps forward a hundred years to 1979, but, the characters only age...25 years.
While things have gotten "looser" than the Victorian era, Caryl Churchill (the playwright) suggests that things haven't changed as much as people think. While women and homosexuals have gained more favor, men still rule the world.
Now, I like some of Churchill's work, because she influenced by Bertolt Brecht (look it up. I can't do it all for you). This means her work is off-kilter. The whole "Butter scene" in Vinegar Tom is poignant, hysterical, disgusting all at once.
So why do the students like this play? It's outrageous. It's full of sex and swearing. It also does something that Shakespeare (at this point) has stopped doing: the play challenges them. Instead of nice neat package, the students are given a Rubic's Cube of a play. Several students commented to me about how they want to do Cloud Nine for their Spring play. While I'm all for it (I love challenging material), I somehow cannot see the district or even the school giving us the go. It's too bad.
Check out the play. Seriously. Go and get some culture. It's a real thinker.
That's all I got for tonight.
Namaste.
Ok, ok. Here's a kitten, you gluttons.

Ok, I just wanted to see if I could make you laugh.
Here's a real kitten:

Mail Mondays (01/16/06)

Ok, so we came back early.
The weather sucks, and, with the Wild down and both of us out of it, we left early. I've only walked out of one game before tonight. The St. Louis Blues gave up six goals in the first period. It was over.
I've also only ever walked out of one film. Go ahead and try and guess it (send you ideas to ironicteachings@hotmail.com).
So, how about some mail?
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Leab,
You really aren't funny. I bet you're the kind of guy who tells a joke and then laughs at it.
I bet you think you're really funny, don't you funny guy?
Is that why you started copying Slanderous Minneapolis?
You're not funny.
A New Reader

Dear New Reader,
Nope. I make fun of myself a great deal. Much of my humor is self-deprication. Why? It's funny because it's true.
I started doing the slander on Thursdays, because I miss Slanderous Minneapolis. To me, it's one of the funniest sites I have ever read. Very smart, yet bitchy.
The whole "You're not funny" thing. I'm an acquired taste like (insert your food item here). Ask the students I work with on a daily basis. I make some of them laugh hysterically, but not right off the bat. At first, I was "really weird." Later on, it was "tee hee, you're sorta funny." Now they can laugh.
Sorry if you don't like it. Don't come back then. Think of my blog as a restaurant. Don't like the service? Not a fan of the food? Hate the decor? Don't return then. Put it in the "Oh God, never again" pile.
Don't come back over and over and then bitch. That's just silly.
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Leabenstein,
Are your three cats named after authors?
I mean, you ARE an English teacher.
Jumpin' Jiminy

JJ,
Nope. Good guess though.
You'll have to wait.
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Leab,
Are you aware that the mouse story was fake?
Frankie V.

Frankie,
Yeah, it saddens me that this gentleman would make up such a great story just to cover the fact he may have burned down his own house.
I just loved the idea of a kamikazee mouse taking this man's house as revenge.
Oh well.
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Leab
Red or white?
Don

Don,
Uh, I am assuming you mean wine. Otherwise...uh...I have no idea what it could be. I prefer white. Not because I'm a snob, not because red makes me feel sick. I just like the taste of white better.
Granted if I'm going to eat red meat, it's red wine (I'm not a heathen, you know). However, if I'm going to have wine for the sake of wine, I would open a bottle of Whitehaven Sauvignon Blanc. It's buttery, but has a hint of fruit taste to it. Very nice. Otherwise it's Toasted Head Chardonnay. Ah, Toasted Head. It's a wine I originally picked up for it's label. I mean a flaming spitting bear? That's freaking awesome. I know that's not really a reason to pick up a wine (I'm expecting the guys at Winecast to continue banning me as spam because of what I just said), but I got lucky. It ended up being an affordable wine that was quite tasty. Try it and let me know what you think. (ironicteachings@hotmail.com)
If you want ideas of wines for pairings, let me know. Always happy to help.
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That's it for this week.
Tomorrow, Ramblings about things such as the two year old jurist and Wednesday brings a story about my cats.
Hope you like it. Otherwise I may jump off a cliff *
Namaste
*An empty threat...or is it? It is...isn't it? Sure...perhaps...no it is.

Monday, Monday

Sorry, boys and girls.
It's monday, so we should have Mail Mondays, buuuut I'm tired, going to a hockey game, and really busy prepping for second semester.
So here's a puppy.
Have a nice night.

Quick Fix (01/12/06)

Ok, so here's a quick image to make you laugh.
Regardless of how you feel about Brokeback Mountain (and many people are chiming in with their feelings), this poster, for anyone who grew up in the 80s, is hysterical. I could imagine a whole line of these with Cobra Commander and one of the G.I. Joes, or two of the Transformers.
Enjoy.

Slander a la Leab (01/12/06)

The triumphant return of Slander a la Leab. Why do I hear crickets...and an echo? Wow, that's weird.
Oh well, let's get to tonight's SLANDERAMA!
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Camp Fox 9
With the demise of Camp Snoopy coming in just a week, a new suitor has already swooped into the Mall of America and bought the camp. Preparations have begun on the new FOX 9 CAMP FOR KIDS.
That's right.
Not content with creating buzz via the blimp, Fox 9 wants to start grabbing younger viewers.
"We've been number one with adults in the Twin Cities," Jeff Passolt remarked, but it's time to start doing what Big Tobacco does: Grab them while they're young!"
To that end, the Fox Corp has bought out the park and is in the process of designing or renaming current rides.
The Twister is going to be renamed The Fair and Balanced Coaster. "The news can twist and turn with every fact or secret learned," Passolt commented. "This ride will show that."
The log run is going to be removed. In it's place will be a giant water slide on the back of a giant replica of Passolt's head. Riders will climb up the side and then ride down the back into a giant pool of creamy water.
"It's supposed to be like the hair gel he puts in his hair," co-anchor Robyne Robinson commented. "They'll see what I deal with everyday. Have you ever picked up the copy after he's touched his hair? It's NASTY!"
The merry go-round will be stripped and re-covered in Robinson designed jewelry. It's new name will be Rox Go-Round. In addition, riders will be able to purchase jewelry right off the ride. That's getting the kids AND parents involved. Something they can even share.
Other areas include:
The Chef Andrew Zimmern Chowhounds! stage. Kids can learn how to cook their favorite foods and bully restaurants into free meals. Every Friday night the Chowhounds! show will come from the stage with audience participation.
Janie Peterson Weather Center where kids can fire snow, rain, or even hail at each other. Oh, and they can also learn how weather works...and stuff.
The Fox 9 Minnesota Sports Area. Just like the real Minnesota teams, there's enough flash and pizzaz to make you think it's going to be good. Then the lack of spending disappoints and sends the kids home angry and cursing professional sports. Nothing like getting kids to understand the real Minnesota sports scene.
And, to tie them to the parent corporation, the Bill O'Reilly Virtual Desk.
The park expects to be ready to open sometime in March.

Fun With Lists (Part Drei) 01/11/06

I had a list thrown at me in my mail this morning. I do have a story, which I'll get to later, but I thought this list was pretty funny. So, enjoy, and please, feel free to use it as well. I have searched this list and found it on multiple blogs, so others have definitely done it first.
A is for age: A lady never tells her age. Wait...I'm a guy! Damn! 27.
B is for Booze of choice: Wine. White wine to be exact. You need names? Sigh. Toasted Head Chardonnay, Whitehaven Sauvignon Blanc, and Conundrum White Table Wine. Damn...now I need a glass. Excuse me.
C is for career: I'm a teacher. Yup. High school English teacher. I'm the one that you end up either loving or hating by the time you leave. I also do tech work, but that's another issue all together.
D is for your dog's name: No dog, folks. I like to travel, and that's hard with a dog. I have three cats, however. They would be Oscar, Sam, and Ulysses. Good luck trying to figure out where the names come from, folks. (Mmmm. Smells like a challenge.)
E is for essential items you use everyday: Hmm. How to answer this.... Pants? Hmm. Ok, Two bottles of water, a computer, a pen (usually purple), annnnd sarcastic wit. The last one is the most essential.
F is for favorite song at the moment: Right now? Hmm. Ok, there's two:
1. Overkill by Colin Hay (the acoustic version of the Men at Work tune.
2. Lovetown by Peter Gabriel.
G is for favorite games: Trivial Pursuit, The Tick Boardgame, Blackjack, and The Movies.
H is for hometown: New York, New York, it's a hell of a town! Though my parents now live in a small town in Connecticut now.
I is for instruments you play: Cello, then Bass Guitar.
J is for jam or jelly you like: Can I answer this with music? Yes? No? Hello?
K is for Kids: Not yet. I sure hope they look like my wife....
L is for last kiss: Hang on....2 seconds ago.
M is for most admired trait: You tell me. Hang on. "Honey...." She says my humor and my heart. I trust her.
N is for the name of your crush: My beautiful wife.
O is for overnight hospital stays: I had a concussion in high school and had to be observed. When I was seven, I had to have several teeth removed at once (some of which were located almost inside my jaw. I apparently did two things wrong that day:
1. I was told to count down from 20 when the anesthesia started. I managed to do it. Then I was told to go from 100 and made it to around 50. The doctors thought it was weird.
2. I was injected with a chemical to calm me down. It didn't work, and entertained the doctors. I'm told "Like mother, like son." Awesome.
P is for phobias: None really. Oh wait! Umm...uuhhhh. Nope.
Q is for quotes you like: "The reasonable man attempts to adapt himself to the world. The unreasonable man attempts to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man." -Ralph Waldo Emerson.
R is for biggest regret: I would say it was my first Ex, but she taught me a great deal about life.
S is for sweets of your choice: Twizzlers.
T is for the time you wake up:6:02 am CST. At least that's when the alarm goes off. Sometimes I'm in bed for it, most times I'm already up. I love insomnia.
U is for underwear: Boxers. Yup. I was briefs until high school, then I wised up.
V is for vegetable you love: Carrots. I love em (using love here folks). Broccoli too. Just started getting into asparagus. My sister once ate SO many carrots that she had an orange tint. That's awesome.
W is for worst habit: I'm really blunt, I like to joke around, and I have no problem telling people about their issues when I see them struggling with the same problems I used to have.
X is for x-rays you've had: Are we including MRI or CT scans? If so then the entire body. Mouth, knees, arms, legs, feet, head, etc.
Y is for yummy food you make: We cook a great deal. Mostly from Rachael Ray's books. Favorite dish would have to be what I made for my wife on our second date: Swiss Chicken with rice, carrots, and hot fudge cupcakes.
Z is for zodiac sign: Scorpio! Water sign, baby. Those of you who understand and/or believe in the zodiac will love this: I married a Sagittarius. Mull over that one for a while.

Ramblings for the Evening (01/10/06)

Tuesday.
Tomorrow is hump day (for those of you with a high school mind, that's another term for Wednesday).
I have to tell you, I love the sitemeter.
Looking over the number of people who looked for Sherno today, I found a few people had been to the blog by searching for, "Mr. Leab's Blog."
What does this tell me? It means more students have been googling my name.
Am I nervous? Does this face look nervous?
How about we get to tonight's ramblings. It's short.
So, without further ado: PUNCH IT!
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It's like the Necronomicon:
Anyone who reads this blog a fan of H.P Lovecraft? Ok, then how about Ash from the Evil Dead series? I'm betting for more of you it's the latter. There's nothing wrong with that. I, myself, am a big fan of the Evil Dead series.
For those of you unfamiliar with the series (or with Lovecraft), the films revolve around The Necronomicon, or the Book of the Dead. Essentially, the book, which is, "written in blood and bound in human skin," has the power to raise the dead (called Deadites...seriously). Now, throughout the three films, Ash, played by Bruce Campbell, has to deal with his friends being possessed, his friends (and girlfriend) dying, and with a malevolent demon that casts him back in time. While the first film was supposed to be horror, the lack of budget actually made it quite funny. The direcetor, Sam Raimi, was able to capitalize on this and made two sequels that were both cult hits and quite funny. For example, the best gag in Evil Dead 2 finds Ash (our hero) having to cut off his hand (which has been possessed. Just go with it). Now, his hand attacks him, etc, etc. He grabs his cut off hand and beats it with a book, then throws it in a trash can and throws that book on top of it. The book? A Farewell to Arms. How brilliant is that?
At this point you're asking: "Leab, why the hell are you talking about this? What's the deal?"
Well, I read an article today about a bunch of books in Brown's library that are bound in human skin. That's right, boys and girls, human skin of the "bring out your dead" variety.
Does it make sense? Sure. Bibliophiles, if you're out there, back me up.
Skin makes a great binding because of it's ability to last. When we embalm a person, the fluid keeps the skin from rotting. Binding a book in the 1500s was probably the same way.
Even better? The books Brown has are medical texts. It works out perfectly.
There are several people who have picked up the text and freaked out at the fact it's made from us (IT'S PEOPLE!!!). I asked my wife:
"Honey, would you ever pick up a book made of skin?"
"What? Ewwwwww."
"Oh come on. How is that really any different from leather?"
"It's people."
"Yeah, but it's not like they went to a prisoner and flayed him, then threw the skin on a book. They probably tanned it, and such."
"It doesn't matter."
See, even rationally thinking people are frightened by it.
I'm not, but then again, maybe it's just me....
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You know what? That's going to be it for the night.
Tomorrow, I'll tell another story...maybe. I've noticed story time doesn't generate any comments (or real mail). One student did ask me today if I was almost married (yup).
Still, that student also has goyum issues. It works out.
Until tomorrow.
Namaste.

Ramblings for the Evening (01/09/06)

I know, I know, dear reader, it's Monday, and usually it means mail time, but I was unhappy with the mail I received this week. Mostly angry mail, which isn't worth even repeating (lot of the "you'll burn in Hell, yada, yada, yada" kind of mail).
So, I present a special monday ramblings. Love it or leave it.
So, without further ado: GRASSHOPPER!
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The Legality of Stamp Scalping:
On Sunday, the post office went to its new 39 cent stamp. Dozens of people stormed the post offices around the metro area attempting to pick up 1 and 2 cent stamps. I...was one of those schmoes. That's right, at 11:30 am on Saturday, I stood in a long line that reached out my post office's door. What was amazing to me was how people reacted in that line. Why does the post office lower our manner and tolerance levels? As we intrepid postal customers braved the 40 degree weather in order to use our remaining stamps (such cheapskates we are), the man at the front of the line made a large purchase. "That'll be 200 dollars, please," the clerk said.
After a quick transaction, the clerk whispered something to another clerk. A small pow-wow took place. Suddenly three pieces of paper were produced from behind the counter:
"We're sorry for the inconvenience, but we no longer have 1 or 2 cent stamps."
All hell broke loose among the crowd.
"I've been here for a half an hour! How could you run out of stamps?!"
"What the hell, lady?!"
"I think I pooped my pants!" (This wasn't said, but the woman behind me smelled like she did.)
"What do I do now?"
Murmurs arose as the back of line started breaking off and going toward the man who had the 200 dollar purchase.
Slowly what happened dawned on those of us toward the front of the line: The man had bought ALL of the 1 and 2 cent stamps this post office had.
After purchasing some 39 cent stamps (I always buy the Breast Cancer Stamps. Do some good, people), I made my way outside only to see the guy who had bought the stamps standing across the street. I had some time to kill (my lovely but sick wife was passed out at the time), so I went over to see what the hub-bub around this guy was.
A large crowd had gathered around him, and as I stepped on the curb, I found out why.
"1 cent stamps are 5 cents, and 2 cent stamps are a dime."
That's right. He was selling stamps at a higher price, and he was making that profit.
Now, I don't know the rules, but I assume (someone correct me if I'm wrong) selling stamps at a higher price is...what's the word...hmmm...oh yeah...ILLEGAL!
Seriously, how horrible is it to prey on the people who don't think about how they're being gouged?
I know, you're thinking, "Leab, if they're stupid, it's they're own damn fault. I mean look at Benny Hinn's followers."
Well, you're right, but it's still preying upon older people who may not be able to make the leap between the price gouge and just buying a sheet of 39 cent stamps ($7.80).
I've seen this kind of trick with gas stations in New York, I've seen this during storm season in Missouri (after a particularly bad tornado, several mini-marts raised the prices of "the essentials" accordingly), and I've seen this with art and books after someone dies.
Inevitably, someone will figure out how to make money on something. A person is smart. People are dumb, but a person is smart. This guy, whoever he is, probably made a ton of money. He did it in a smart way. Not necessarily a good way, but he was smart about it.
Still, I want to know: Is what he did illegal?
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Conversations with my Wife I:
It's up to you to figure out who is who in this conversation:
"What about love?"
"What about it? There are two kinds of love in this country."
"Oh?"
"Sure. There are those who love each other unconditionally. They cherish their time together, and they work as a unit to make the daily grind hurt less. That's the first."
"What's the other?"
"Easy, divorce."
"What?"
"Relationships without trust or love can't last. That's why we're still together. We love each other. We trust each other. We back each other up when going to war."
"Huh?"
"Sigh. Look, 50% of the relationships in this country end in divorce or actually just end, because the two people involved don't overcome the initial inertia."
"Nice alliteration."
"Haha. Seriously. When a relationship starts, it's all fun and new, but soon it's starts to hit the the bottom of the run (I'm using the rollercoaster analogy here). So what happens? The work has to begin to get the coaster back to the top for the drop. Overcoming the inertia."
"What about hot and heavy couples? Or what about bed buddies?"
"Ah, eventually it either ends or becomes more serious. Inertia."
"You're insane."
"But I love you. And you love me. Isn't that what matters?"
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Burning Down the House:
So there's this guy in New Mexico. He's burning leaves (tra la tra la tra la) and discovers a mouse. He looks at the mouse and ponders, "How shall I deal with this? Hmm. Ah, fire seems to be the mortal enemy of mice, thus I shall pitch this little vermin into the physical manifestation of Hell!" (Translation: Mousey go in the fire.)
So, Genius (as I call him) picks up the mouse and tosses it into the fire.
After a few seconds, the man returns to gathering leaves.
Our mouse, however, is not ready to shuffle off this mortal coil.
The little vermin, ablaze and all, bolts out of the pile of leaves and runs back into the man's house. Faster than our little 81 year guy can move, the house...catches on fire.
The mouse died, but it took this man's house with him.
This is one of those stories that makes you laugh, but at the same time, you feel bad for the guy...and the mouse.
and finally....
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Emu: It's a Real Bird:
There are people out there who really don't believe certain animals exist.
"There's no such thing as an emu, Leab. It's a made up bird."
Yeah. Well, here's proof. Look at this beautiful (yet extremely volatile) bird.
Are they pretty? Sure.
Are they mean? Oh most definitely.
So, to the students who were SO sure Emu's don't exist: Here's proof.
Oh and penguins. Yeah. Penguins CAN'T FLY. Get over it.

Ok kids. That's it for tonight.
Have a good evening and take care of yourselves.
Namaste.
Oh, and seniors. You're not out yet, so don't give me that "Too cool for school" crap.

Thursday Night Fatigue (or No, I'm not Slandering Tonight)

Sorry folks, there's no slander this week.
Why?
First of all, my wife is really sick. I'm officially on hair-holding duty. She didn't even get out of bed today, which means she's really sick. I'm overly macho, but my wife is a workaholic. She feels she HAS to go to work. She was going to try, but as she sat up, her stomach told her, "Lie back down, bitch!"
She has estimated her stomach has emptied eight times today. I was at work for three of those.
As such, there wasn't anytime for me to craft my slander. Plus, I wasn't really feeling it this week.
I thought about smacking Pat Robertson around, but Worm has that covered quite nicely. Still, Pat Robertson: You're an ASS!
This got me thinking though. A colleague of mine is extremely religious. So much so that this person's family does not celebrate Halloween (it's evil, dammit!), but actually dresses up and goes to church celebrates All Saints Day.
I offended this colleague today when I heard this person (I am avoiding the person's sex to tip off who it is) talking about how God is punishing the world, and Revelations is happening now.
Sigh.
Annoyed, I said what I have told anyone who has ever asked me my opinion on the bible.
"Revelations is the only chapter that takes place in the future. It is told by someone more or less anonymous and was written as if it would occur the day after the pen was put down. In my honest opinion (yes, notice I'm still in quotes here), Revelations is nothing more than an acid trip.
Someone bit down on some Wacky Weed or drink the funky Kool-Aid and saw serpents, seven-eyed lambs, etc."
That's right. I think it's all a chemical induced vision. I once got so drunk my cats talked to me. Should I stone them to death now?
If you want to believe in the Bible as a literal piece, that's your business and more power to you. However, if I don't want to, leave me alone. Don't tell me, "You'll burn in Hell." That just makes me want to make more comments about how, oh I don't know, Jesus can't be a blue-eyed white man. Look at his descriptions people. He was born in the middle-east, had nappy (my word, theirs is hair like wool) hair. Face it. NOT A WHITE MAN!
Look, the bottom line is this: Pat Robertson said what he said about Ariel Sharon for publicity. Most people have never heard of Robertson. Most people also can't identify who the 37th President was (uh, who is Nixon, Alex?), which means Robertson has to be controversial to get press. He once said, "Sharon is a good friend." Now he says God no like Ariel.
Press, Press, Press. There's no such thing as bad publicity, right O.J?
I'll leave you with this tonight as I must tend to my wife.
This sight contains the names and samples of music used in commercials. You watched a Pontiac commercial and want the name of the song? It's on this sight.
Go check it out.
I think my next slander piece is going to have to be about WCCO's new set.
I gotta go, I'm being beckoned to hold hair.
Namaste.

Story Time with Uncle Leab: The Girl from Wales

Let's step into the way back machine. It's the summer between my Junior and Senior year. I have been hired by a now defunct theatre company called Actors Renaissance Theatre (or ART for short). As a stage manager/prop guy/lighting bitch (my actual term was Master Electrician, but with the lighting designer I was working with, lighting bitch was more apt), I spent alot of time around the actors and almost never left the Theatre. During our second show (True West), the actress playing the mother (and would be a main actress in the next production) receives a letter from the INS. It seems that Theresa, a citizen of Wales, had sent in her work visa a day late. Yup, one day late. This meant she might be booted from the country. That's a problem. Theresa doesn't want to leave. "All my stuff is here, dammit!" she tells me. She talks to a lawyer (who happened to be married to another cast member. You have to love freebies) and asked for help.
"There is some paper work we can fill out. We have two weeks. If we don't get it done, you'll have to leave...or we'll need another idea."
I'm in the theatre being the lighting bitch...sorry, master electrician...when the artistic director comes in to talk to me.
"Leab. Come here for a sec."
As he says this, he neglects to notice I am holding a light and ten feet in the air.
"Ju...just...one...sec...second," I find myself saying.
After a few moments, I'm able to get down.
"What do you need, Nic?" I ask.
"Are you still single?"
Most of the people I'm working with are aware of my situation. I'm a drunk. I've bounced through a few different gals since losing the perceived love of my life, and I'm currently covered in hickies thanks to a visiting gal pal ( a beautiful Louisiana girl who I was nowhere near worthy of).
"Yeah. I don't have a sig ot (significant other) right now."
"Good," Nic responds. "I may need a favor."
"What's that?"
"Are you aware of Theresa's situation?"
"No."
Nic then proceeds to tell me how Theresa may be deported.
"So what do you want from me?" I ask.
"Would you be willing to help Theresa stay in the country? We REALLY need her."
"How....Uh, how could I help?"
"Well, she would need an American spouse."
It's at this point that the mechanism in my head clicks into place:
THEY WANT ME TO MARRY THIS WOMAN TO KEEP HER IN THE COUNTRY!
I have nothing against this woman. She's a lovely gal with a quirky sense of humor and only twenty-two years my senior.
The problem is I do not want to be in a sitcom.
The American guy marries the Welsh woman to keep her in country....Wait till the in-laws visit!
This becomes a little joke among my friends as well.
"Dead man walking," one gal tells me. "This man's getting married."
To be safe, Theresa and I meet on a Thursday.
"I guess," she begins," we should learn everything about each other in case they come and ask us."
"Where do we start?"
The next few hours involve me telling her about my family, her telling me about her father as well as how her mother died, and finally concocting a story about how we met (working on a show), our first date (dinner on the Hill), and our first kiss (in the park near the lake).
Three days later her lawyer returns with the news, "you can stay," which is great, because I really do not want to be married and in college.
For the rest of that year (not the summer, YEAR), I was made fun of by colleagues and friends.
At one point, ART attends an end of summer banquet all St. Louis theatre companies attend. It's placecard seating.
I end up next to Theresa, of course.
Halfway through the award ceremony, we are called to stand up for a round of applause on our marriage.
We have to tell everyone the entire story we concocted "just in case."
It's...slightly embarrassing, but more over it is strange watching these people hang on my everyword as I explain how I was prepared to commit a crime.

The last I heard, Theresa went back to Wales. Her father had died and left her everything including a house and farm. She went back to attend to it. I never heard from her again after that summer.
So much for fake true love.

Ramblings for the Evening (01/03/06)

First day back. Why is the first day back after break always so hard.
I know, part of it is getting back into the swing of things (like going to bed before 1 am and getting up while it's still dark. Damn I can't wait for Spring.), and part of it is overcoming the inertia of the kids (that's the hardest part).
So I saw the three Weird Sisters, the Freshman who all jumped for joy when they saw me (why? I don't know.), and my fellow faculty (some of whom were happy, some of whom...not so much).
Typical first day back.
Damn I'm tired.
So, without further ado: BEBOP DE LOO...THONG SONG!
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And When You Were Eight?:
I read this article today. An eight-year-old has done everything (including the youngest to the top of Mount Rainer) but climb to the peak of Everest. What were you doing when you were eight? Yeah, I was playing with friends and doing all sorts of, well, kid stuff. Now, his parents are mountain climbers which leads me to wonder: Is this another one of those kid does it because parents make him or her.
I knew a gal in high school who was a dancer. She started dancing at the age of three. Ballet mostly. She was never really given the choice. Her mother wanted her to dance, and she did it. Every day. EVERY DAY, she danced. She was given Christmas Day and Thanksgiving day off. That's it. Now, she's a professional dancer, but throughout high school, she was unhappy. She couldn't hang out with friends after school, because she had dance. She missed her prom (She was dancing in Detroit). You know any girls in or have been in high school? Prom is huge. Especially Senior Prom, yet Nancy (not her real name) was never allowed to be with us. She even had to stop dating her boyfriend, because her mother felt it interfered with dance.
Too many kids are now shuffled into programs, because the parents don't know what to do, don't want the kid to have free time, or are unsure of what to do. I worry about some of the upcoming kids being wound up way too tight because of parental influence.
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Cardentification:
It's amazing to me, but people truly can be identified by their cars. More often than not, your car is the representation of your personality.
I was driving back from St. Paul and stopped to get gas. A car pulled up next to me with multiple bumper stickers:
"It's a child, not a choice."
"Warning: In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned."
and my personal favorite, Calvin kneeling before a cross.
It sounds crass, but I knew it was a shorter woman, and I knew she would appear meek or mousey.
I was right.
Looking around the gas station, I started looking at the cars. I know this sounds stereotypical, and it is, but I was mostly right.
Honda Accord with huge muffler and rear spoiler had to be driven by Asian-American teens. Check.
"Pickup truck with Calvin peeing on a Chevy logo." Owner would be in an Arctic Cat jacket. Check.
The one that threw me off? A gray car with a single "Ralph Nader in 2004" bumpersticker.
Who voted for Nader? Would it be a man? A woman? I know I was staring because when the owner returned, he mentioned to his buddy about, "The dude staring at the car."
He was a fat, hairy Bruce Vilanch look-a-like. Couldn't have guessed that.
You tell me: Am I wrong? Can a car not tell us who the person inside is? If I drive a BMW, what does that say? A Pickup? A Subaru?
Maybe it's just me, but try it sometime. Instead of people-watching, watch cars and look at the drivers. The look and type of the car will usually match up with the driver.
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That's it for tonight.
Tomorrow, I'll tell the fun story about how I almost married a gal to keep her in the country. Those were good times.
Namaste.

Mail Mondays (01/02/06)

Annnnnnnnnd Happy New Year.
Yeah, I'm a day late and a dollar short, but it's the thought that counts.
Let me start by saying Arrested Development is the best show in television. Period. Tonight's episode was pure genius. They hit every type of gimmick other shows would do: Live feed (last line), stunt casting (Andy Richter in five parts), heartfelt (father and son bond!), and even 3D. They also threw in so many inside jokes. They producers shopped the show to HBO who passed. The line in the show?
"The Housing Builders Organization isn't going to want us?"
"The HBO passing on us? We don't need them."
"What are we going to do?"
"It's show time."
Brilliant.
If Showtime really does save the show, I think many people would be ecstatic.
I'm also happy to announce (if anyone who read this cares) that Futurama is going to return. As of right now it's only as a straight-to-DVD movie, but the producers have been talking about bringing the show back a la Family Guy. I don't know about you, but I found Futurama extremely funny. The episode where Fry switches hands with the Robot Devil was not only laugh out loud funny, but also quite touching.
So, how about the mail? Well, I got some really interesting nastygrams after the post about Don Shelby. Apparently he's loved by many a Minnesotan. There were a few "How dare you"s, a couple of "You crossed the line"s, and one, "I don't get it."
So, how about I stop rambling and get to the mail?
Yeah, I'm skipping Sherno Stops, because I missed a few days and don't have a full total.
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Ironic,
First of all, where the hell did the "Throwdown in Downtown" come from?
Secondly, that was the WORST ending I could have expected. The "Fight of the Century" ends up in a draw? Come on, that's a cop out. You cheated your readers!
We wanted Keillor to be left in a bloody pile.
We wanted the other guy (that would be Rex Sorgatz. It's good to see complainers really read) to be badly beaten.
We wanted an ENDING!
Disgruntled Reader

D.R.,
1. Short and simple: Rex Sorgatz was selling a shirt with the words, "A Prairie Ho Companion" on it. Keillor got pissed and fired off a cease and desist order. It was a perfect setup for a fight.
2. Sorry if you're unhappy, but that's how it ended. Why? Well, first of all, I opened it up to the public to decide who would win. One person voted for Rex, and one person voted for Keillor. Let's see...if I do the math...carry the four...yeah, that's one for each of them.
There will be another fight in a few months. I can almost guarantee that.
You can't be happy with every ending. I know a few films where the ending pissed me off (Matrix Revolutions, Saving Private Ryan [How could Matt Damon KNOW what the others experienced?], Crimson Tide, I could go on and on). However, did you laugh at all? Did you not find the whole Fan Man thing funny (a story which happened in real life)?
If not, then yes, I did fail you, but if you even giggled, then I did it right.
Sorry you don't like the way it went. How about suggesting an ending for the next one.
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Leabster,
Tice got fired.
Thoughts?
D-Rock

D-Rock,
I don't really like the Vikings. I feel bad for the guy, but EVERYONE saw it coming the minute management gave him their backing.
Whenever management says, "We back (fill in the blank) fully," he or she is getting fired. End of story.
He'll work again, probably in college.
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Leab,
Are you really married?
Also, your pics. Is that really your dad?
Curious J

Curious,
Yup. It's proof the universe is totally unfair.
I have a wife of almost five years (March 3rd to be exact).
Why?
Ask her. I think she's nuts.
Secondly, yup. That's my dad. I actually put that picture on stamps for him so he can send himself to others. If I ever have a production company (say, Ironic Teachings Productions), that would be my symbol. The man with the balloon.
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Mr. Leab
I don't like being the butt of someone's jokes.
Who the hell is "Diddy", and why are you comparing him to me?
I assure you I am a professional and would never smack a fellow anchor.
Shape up, sir.
Don Shelby

Dear Don,
Fake letters are always fun.
It's even better when someone emails you as "Don Shelby" with Don and Shelby in quotes throughout the entire letter.
If one weren't looking at the email carefully, one might miss that fact as well as the smiley face at the bottom of the page.
Good try though.
I somehow get the sense the REAL Don Shelby hasn't read this. Perhaps DeRusha will point him my way and then I'll really get my ass kicked.

Last one:
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Leab,
Fuck you so much for that Jingle Bells thing.
It was lame, but it almost gave me a heart attack.
You're a bastard.
A loving student

Dear meine studentin,
I got a few emails and comments about this.
I sent it to my wife, who screamed, and then got very angry at me.
(In case you missed it, here it is again.)
However, the angriest email came from a co-worker of my wife who didn't understand my warning...and watched it with her six year old son. Umm, he freaked, apparently peed himself (on her lap), and she was pissed at me. That was a fun email.

Well, that's it for tonight. School starts up again tomorrow, so my posting may become erratic.
I should have ramblings tomorrow and on Wednesday a fun story about how I almost married a gal to keep her in the country.
Take care.

Ramblings for the Evening (New Year's Ed)

So here I sit at my computer with 2006 having started in New York and ten minutes before the calendar changes here in the Twin Cities.
Oh, I know, dear reader, you're wondering, "Leab! What the hell are you doing on the computer?! There are New Year's parties aplenty you could be at right now. What's the deal?"
Well, here's the real deal: My wife and I were supposed to go to a party tonight. First, however, we had a hockey game to attend (the Wild beat the Canucks 4-3 in a thriller). We got home and started to get changed to make our way to the party. As we started to leave, she started not feeling well. Once in the car, I knew we weren't going anywhere. As I write this, she is currently on the couch next to me passed out. I tried to get her to go to bed, but she wants to be with me when the clock rolls over. She wants to see the ball drop in real time. I might wake her up. I don't know.
So, how about I ramble on and see if anyone besides my two devoted readers peruse this?
Without further ado: GOULET!
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Teachers Are ALWAYS on Call:
As I said, Mrs. Leab and I were at the Wild game tonight. During the first intermission, we started talking about the upcoming semester at the high school. The woman on my right turns and says, "Are you a teacher?"
"Yes," I reply. "I teach high school English. I'm the guy who every student hates by graduation."
"Oh, my daughter is in high school."
"So is mine," says the guy behind me.
"My son is at Central," The woman next to my wife says.
"We all go to Cretin," One of the guys in front me says.
I'm trapped, but it gets worse. One little question by the woman next to me gets an ugly ball rolling and leaves me talking in four directions for the rest of the night.
"My daughter here is a junior. She's trying to find a good journalism school. What do you recommend?"
After recommending a few far away from Minnesota (and a few closer for mom's sake), every single one of the people around me started asking me questions.
"How important is class rank?"
"Do they REALLY look at ACT scores?"
"Is the new ACT hard?"
I talked to these people, students and parents alike, for two more periods. That's about an hour and twenty minutes.
By the time the game was over, I was starting to get hoarse.
My wife, was even less thrilled than I was. "You need to start telling people you can't talk about it."
For me, the only issue is I am still on vacation, and I felt like I was teaching. I started to feel amped up. When I got home I had to take a few minutes to unwind myself (though I return to the building in a couple of days).
A couple of things amazed me about this:
1. There were many people freaking about the whole getting in to college process.
2. These people hung on my every word as if it were water in the desert. I can't get them into college, and many people would disagree with my assessments of the testing, what colleges are looking for, and so forth.
3. Mostly, however, I was just kind of pissed that I had no way to excuse myself. When I went to the bathroom to get away, one of the guys from Cretin followed me and kept talking to me. I almost peed on his shoe to make him shut up.
If you're a student and reading this, here's the best advice. It's hard, but you must follow it:
RELAX. Take a deep breath and relax. The whole college process seems difficult when you look at it, but it's really quite simple. Don't work yourself up into a lather. Relax.
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Christmas with the In-Laws:
I am a patient man. A very patient man. My in-laws are good people, but they attempted to cram Christmas down my throat this year.
Before I left for Missouri, my wife told her parents I was not in the Holiday mood this year. "He says he isn't feeling it. It's weird."
From the moment I stepped into their house, Christmas was everywhere, and I do mean EVERYWHERE. The toilet, the toilet paper, the room I slept in, the fact that several of the African animals my father-in-law had mounted were wearing Santa hats. Oy vey!
While the gifts were great (I was given certificates to various places, a nice sweater, a hockey jersey, and a few movies), the fact I wasn't in the spirit was never far from my in-laws' minds. "Perhaps watching A Christmas Carol will put you in the mood."
Didn't work.
I did smile a great deal when my wife opened her present from me. Because her work is so stressful, I got her a full day at Litespa. She's never had a spa day, not even on her wedding day.
However, the highlight of my time there had to be how my mother-in-law and my brother-in-law both inadvertantly insulted me.
Christmas Day. I'm sitting at my wife's aunt's dinner table next to my mother-in-law. Mrs. Leab's aunt is lamenting her daughter's choice of boyfriends (the 18 year old is currently dating a 25 year old fry-cook having just dumped a 32 year old).
"I don't understand why she dates them," the aunt says.
"Well," says my mother-in-law," they're never with the ones you want them to be with."
A moment passes as everyone turns and stares at me. It takes a full five seconds (I counted) for my m-o-l to figure out what she said.
As everyone continues to stare at me, I finally say (in a joking manner), "Yeah...it's tough when your only daughter marries the son of a dirty, dirty Jew. Sheesh."
I didn't let that one go for a full day. She would question my politics or beliefs or whatever, and I would respond with a comment about her daughter's taste in men. Awesome.
My brother-in-law, however, made it quite clear his sister was with me only because of money.
"Women only want one thing: money. Isn't that why you (my wife) married him (that would be me)?"
Stunned silence follows.
Don't get me wrong, it was a nice time down there, but it seems like everytime I see them now, my in-laws feel their daughter made a mistake. They hate that I'm not a practicing Christian, they hate that I'm not an Evangelical Republican (there was a FUN argument between my wife and her parents about Intelligent Design that ended with, "your husband has been brainwashing you again."). I like them, but I just wish we could talk about the world without it turning into either God, Bush, or Furher.
Is that too much to ask.
It's getting closer to the ole ball dropping, so let's finish....
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Well Wishing:
I hope that you all have a better 2006 than 2005. Even if 2005 was a great year for you, I hope that 2006 will be even better.
To my wife, for everyone to recognize how great you are, like I do.
To my parents, some rest.
To my sisters, for life to bring you your just rewards.
To Greta, I'm sorry to hear about your employment situation. So I hope they regret it.
To Emma, this change in your views on life is...refreshing. May it continue.
To Laura, no more goyum.
To the students at HP, a better second semester and good times.
To my readers, long life and strong eyes.
To DeRusha, for Seth to enjoy year two.
To Michele, Meridita, Worm, Everyone at MN Speak, for you to be recognized for the geniuses you truly are.
Here's to you.
Prost.
Happy New Year.

Slander a la Leab (12/30/05)

Wow, I got a really nasty email, because I didn't post a piece of slander yesterday. Sheesh.
You have to love the snow. I went out at 7:30 this morning to shovel. Did my entire driveway (both sides), the walkway, and the had to redo the end of the driveway when the plow driver slammed into the curb and dumped a BUNCH of snow blocking any chance for me to leave without reshoveling.
Then, when all was done, my neighbors came out, looked around and said, "Umm...you didn't do our path."
Sigh.
Before we start, I have to give a huge thank you/what are you thinking?/holy cow to Jason DeRusha. In a recent interview, DeRusha named Ironic Teachings as one of the blogs that he reads. I am unworthy. Thanks, I've a had a few people come through here (for an average of 4 seconds) because of that interview. Thanks for the plug.
Ok, so still recovering from the Holiday, but I know people want their slander.
So: Let's get to the SLANDERAMA!
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Don "Dondy" Shelby frightens co-workers:
Local news anchor and Minnesota personality Don Shelby has undergone some radical changes according to WCCO co-workers. Shelby, who had been a rather private person until recently, started hanging out with Sean "Diddy" Combs and even hosted a party with the rap mogul at the "Throwdown in Downtown".
"I don't know what it is," Terri Gruca remarked. "It's like that old episode of The Flinstones. Fred hits his head and suddenly thinks he's a race car driver. Don seems to be the same way. He slips on the ice outside the building, and suddenly he's 'player' in the rap world. It's weird."
Other members thought Shelby had been brainwashed. "After all," Paul Douglas explained, "We are right next to the Church of Scientology."
A spokesman for the church said Mr. Shelby had never been in the building.
Regardless of the reason, the straight arrow (and sometimes described as "overly anal retentive") anchor has let go.
After hosting what the City Pages is calling the "Best Party of 2005," Dondy, as he wants to be known, started acting strange around his co-workers.
"I think," Jason DeRusha, the man on the street reporter for WCCO, said, "he's been listening to too much of R. Kelly's Trapped in The Closet in his office."
Co-workers first noticed Shelby's love of the urban opera when he started rhythmically talking about what it was he was doing.
"I was sitting at my desk," DeRusha recalled. "Suddenly Mr. Shelby comes over. You have to understand, unless he tells you it's all right, you HAVE to call him Mr. Shelby. Ben [Tracy] called him 'Don', and Mr. Shelby turned on him, stared him down, and then whispered something that made Ben cry. I'm no idiot, I'll call him Mr. Shelby until he says it's ok."
When asked about calling him "Don" on the air, DeRusha had the expected answer: "We're the media. We HAVE to look like we're chummy. Let me finish my story. So, Mr. Shelby comes over to my desk and places some paper there. As he puts it down, I hear him singing, 'I walked over to DeRusha's desk, and I put the paper down. He looks up at me, I try to smile back.' Then as he walked off, he started singing about that."
The problem came to a head at a 9:30 rehearsal for that night's news. Dondy started reading the news, then singing about the fact that he was reading the news.
"...and those two kids were ok. (Singing) I read the story about the two kids in the fire."
When fellow evening anchor Amelia Santaniello felt she had seen enough, she called Shelby on it.
"Don, what the fuck are you doing?"
Shelby didn't like Amelia's approach. He pulled a gun, pointed it at her, and started singing, "The crazy bitch next to me started acting up. So I pulled my gun out and told her to 'shut the fuck up.' Then I waited for a response, but she just stared at me. So I got up and left."
It is unclear at this point what will be done to help Mr. Shelby, but insiders have hinted that he will be undergoing Steely Dan Therapy.
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News and Notes:
-Feeling pressure after his draw with Rex Sorgatz, Garrison Keillor has decided not to move his show. Insiders have commented Keillor feels that leaving would show that Sorgatz really won the fight.
-Chris Conangla's contract with UPN29 will expire in three days, and both sides are having trouble agreeing on stipulations. Conangla has asked for a hooker to be present under his desk at all times, "In case I get an itch...or something." The station has commented that they didn't give in to Jordanna's wish for a Swedish man servant, they won't give into Conangla.
-The entire Minnesota Twins organization is trying to figure out how to get more money for next season now that ex-Twin Jeff Reardon's crime career has been cut short. "We're going to have to field a bunch of AA guys. Jeff was our ticket to Mike Piazza."

That's it for today's edition. Hope it tides you over until next week.

4,134 Words

I am really tired. Back from seeing the in-laws. When my mind stops hurting, I'll write about it. So, because I am out of it, I present four pictures to tide you over.

I took this at the Missouri Botannical Garden. This is how I feel right now.

My wife. She has such piercing eyes I find beautiful. Then again, this is her pissed at me.

There's something about water in motion. When you capture the peak of a fountain, there's something alive about it.

This picture always makes me smile. It's my father. The week of my graduation from college, my wife and I took my parents to the St. Louis Zoo. To me, this is the quintessential representation of my father. A man with a balloon.

Happy Birthday, Lori.

I'm out.