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.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Thursday, August 04, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
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...
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...
Monday, August 01, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, July 29, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, July 25, 2005
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.
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.
Stalking the Century Mark
And so we hit 100. That’s right my valued readers, this would be my one hundredth post. The big centennial, a perfect score on a test, the amount you’re supposed to give at work, etc., etc., etc.
I promised guest stars and funny stories, so I’ll try to deliver as best I can.
I’ve been thinking about dating in modern times (again) because of two things that have happened in the last week. First of all, many of the blogs I read have been discussing how hard it is to date in modern society. How do you meet people? How do know who a person really is? On and on it goes. The other event came from a discussion at a birthday party about the number of times that you have either proposed or been proposed to by someone.
My number was more than anyone else at the table including the women. Most of the guys were at the number one. Maybe this is because they were being proud MACHO men, who didn’t want to admit they had been shot down. Even Rock Hudson, a closet homosexual, was married for three years, AND on the first try. You got shot down, and Rock Hudson didn’t? Ouch! What do think of that Rock? Too far? No? Thanks for dropping by…
Anyway, the guys (except for myself) were all at one, and the women at this table were at two (except for Jessie, because her boyfriends were, well, not bright). So when it got around to me, I answered with a number no one was expecting.
“Three.”
You know that noise that cartoon characters make when they whip their heads around really quickly? That “whoosh” noise. They all made that noise. “Three!?” was shouted so loud by one of them that the other tables at La Bodega turned and stared straight into my soul (or so it felt).
So let’s explain this “three”. For the deaf, Marlee Matlin will be signing. Ok, first of all, only two of the three were my asking. The second person was my wife. She actually married me (sucker). The first person I asked was a girl I dated in college for two years. Convinced that she loved me (though I later found out I was wrong, but that’s another story), and convinced that I loved her, I asked her to marry me. She said yes. Fortunately (because I love my wife a hell of a lot more) the coupling did not last.
The strangest one, however, is number three. You see, I was not the one to ask for number three. Nope, I was asked.
In a very strange twist, I gained a stalker while in college. That’s right. A nice girl we’ll call Kelly decided that I was her soulmate. Her SOULMATE! This is a girl who called me from Paris. Why? She was lonely and needed someone to talk to. She would come by my home (I lived alone in a house while in college) at two or three in the morning. Have you ever had a woman (or a man for that matter) show up at your home in the cliché of a trenchcoat and nothing else? I have. And much to the chagrin of many of my friends, I refused to take advantage of the situation. I did not want to lead this girl on at all. I was not interested, and I was not going to let her think I was. However, my greatest shock came during the summer of 1999 just before I started dating my now wife. Kelly was not getting the hints. I had even gone as far as telling her face to face that I was just not interested. I admit that I am a flirt, but with her, due to the fact that I was uncomfortable with how she was, for example, attacking other women who even talked to me. When I say attacked, I don’t mean, “Get away from him, he’s mine!” No. I mean, “Die bitch!” and then grab a blunt object and swing away.
Anyway, one (ironically) dark and stormy night, I was home alone, watching Red Corner (a [actually] brilliant Richard Gere film) when my back door opened. Now I was used to my neighbors at the time getting drunk and attempting to kick in my door, because they were so sure that’s where they lived, but this was a key turning, not a kick. There was Kelly, who had stolen my emergency key from my friend’s apartment across town. She had TAKEN THE KEY. He didn’t give it to her. He knew the score.
So there she is, dripping wet, in my kitchen. I’m slightly inebriated and in my boxer shorts (as it is a typical St. Louis summer night: hot and humid even though it’s raining). She hands me a card with a poem on it (It was e.e. Cummings’ "May i feel said he"). If you don’t know the poem, it ends with “You are Mine said she.” I thank her, and sprint to go get pants. After putting on some, I ask her for the key. No problem. She then begins a speech that I will always remember. She tells me about how, “God created Eve to be with Adam.” (Never a good start with me.) Next, she talks about how, “Even now God makes two people that are so perfect for each other, they NEED to be together.” She then drops to her knee and asks me, “Will you be my Adam?”
I admit, it’s incredibly sweet, but I had never given her any indication that I even remotely liked her. I didn’t take her ring. I told her that she was sweet for asking, but it would never work, because I didn’t feel that way about her. “I think you’re a very nice girl, and that some guy out there will love you, but that guy will NEVER be me.” I know it sounds harsh, but I had to say it. It was the only way she would learn. Now, one or two of you out there might think that I’m a bastard, but how else do you get through to a stalker? Before this final speech, I had tried using friends as decoy girlfriends (and one decoy boyfriend, who ended up trying to get me to make out with him, which was SO strange), I had fallen (on purpose) out of a second story window into a hammock in order to avoid her (and let me tell you, that really hurt. The hammock didn’t break and neither did it, but it launched me forward into some rose bushes. Ouch!), and I had even tried getting other people who were friends with her to tell her she was making a mistake. That didn’t work either.
She stopped showing up and calling me. She started dating a friend of mine, but he later told me that she would call him by my name in the bedroom and always talked about me. She even once confronted my wife. Since we left St. Louis, however, we have not heard from her.
Stalkers can be tough to deal with, right Hollywood superstars and singers Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, Tom Jones, and James Woods? Am I wrong? No? Brad? Nothing? Thanks ladies and gentlemen, I bring you here to impress and you just sit there….
The crew I was dining with that night just couldn’t believe that story. One gal sat with her mouth wide open until I tossed a shrimp in it and almost made her choke (um, my bad). Little ole me, the dude who looks like Greg Grunberg, had a stalker, and a serious one at that.
Well, that’ll do it for 100. I hope it made you laugh or think or something. For 101, maybe I’ll talk about more failed dating. I don’t mind, it makes others feel better and makes me laugh at my own stupidity.
Thanks for taking the time to read this loooonng post. Special thanks to all my guest stars. Look for former mayor Ed Koch, Todd McFarlane, Goran Ivanesivic, several ex-girlfriends (or girls I've dated), and more!
I promised guest stars and funny stories, so I’ll try to deliver as best I can.
I’ve been thinking about dating in modern times (again) because of two things that have happened in the last week. First of all, many of the blogs I read have been discussing how hard it is to date in modern society. How do you meet people? How do know who a person really is? On and on it goes. The other event came from a discussion at a birthday party about the number of times that you have either proposed or been proposed to by someone.
My number was more than anyone else at the table including the women. Most of the guys were at the number one. Maybe this is because they were being proud MACHO men, who didn’t want to admit they had been shot down. Even Rock Hudson, a closet homosexual, was married for three years, AND on the first try. You got shot down, and Rock Hudson didn’t? Ouch! What do think of that Rock? Too far? No? Thanks for dropping by…
Anyway, the guys (except for myself) were all at one, and the women at this table were at two (except for Jessie, because her boyfriends were, well, not bright). So when it got around to me, I answered with a number no one was expecting.
“Three.”
You know that noise that cartoon characters make when they whip their heads around really quickly? That “whoosh” noise. They all made that noise. “Three!?” was shouted so loud by one of them that the other tables at La Bodega turned and stared straight into my soul (or so it felt).
So let’s explain this “three”. For the deaf, Marlee Matlin will be signing. Ok, first of all, only two of the three were my asking. The second person was my wife. She actually married me (sucker). The first person I asked was a girl I dated in college for two years. Convinced that she loved me (though I later found out I was wrong, but that’s another story), and convinced that I loved her, I asked her to marry me. She said yes. Fortunately (because I love my wife a hell of a lot more) the coupling did not last.
The strangest one, however, is number three. You see, I was not the one to ask for number three. Nope, I was asked.
In a very strange twist, I gained a stalker while in college. That’s right. A nice girl we’ll call Kelly decided that I was her soulmate. Her SOULMATE! This is a girl who called me from Paris. Why? She was lonely and needed someone to talk to. She would come by my home (I lived alone in a house while in college) at two or three in the morning. Have you ever had a woman (or a man for that matter) show up at your home in the cliché of a trenchcoat and nothing else? I have. And much to the chagrin of many of my friends, I refused to take advantage of the situation. I did not want to lead this girl on at all. I was not interested, and I was not going to let her think I was. However, my greatest shock came during the summer of 1999 just before I started dating my now wife. Kelly was not getting the hints. I had even gone as far as telling her face to face that I was just not interested. I admit that I am a flirt, but with her, due to the fact that I was uncomfortable with how she was, for example, attacking other women who even talked to me. When I say attacked, I don’t mean, “Get away from him, he’s mine!” No. I mean, “Die bitch!” and then grab a blunt object and swing away.
Anyway, one (ironically) dark and stormy night, I was home alone, watching Red Corner (a [actually] brilliant Richard Gere film) when my back door opened. Now I was used to my neighbors at the time getting drunk and attempting to kick in my door, because they were so sure that’s where they lived, but this was a key turning, not a kick. There was Kelly, who had stolen my emergency key from my friend’s apartment across town. She had TAKEN THE KEY. He didn’t give it to her. He knew the score.
So there she is, dripping wet, in my kitchen. I’m slightly inebriated and in my boxer shorts (as it is a typical St. Louis summer night: hot and humid even though it’s raining). She hands me a card with a poem on it (It was e.e. Cummings’ "May i feel said he"). If you don’t know the poem, it ends with “You are Mine said she.” I thank her, and sprint to go get pants. After putting on some, I ask her for the key. No problem. She then begins a speech that I will always remember. She tells me about how, “God created Eve to be with Adam.” (Never a good start with me.) Next, she talks about how, “Even now God makes two people that are so perfect for each other, they NEED to be together.” She then drops to her knee and asks me, “Will you be my Adam?”
I admit, it’s incredibly sweet, but I had never given her any indication that I even remotely liked her. I didn’t take her ring. I told her that she was sweet for asking, but it would never work, because I didn’t feel that way about her. “I think you’re a very nice girl, and that some guy out there will love you, but that guy will NEVER be me.” I know it sounds harsh, but I had to say it. It was the only way she would learn. Now, one or two of you out there might think that I’m a bastard, but how else do you get through to a stalker? Before this final speech, I had tried using friends as decoy girlfriends (and one decoy boyfriend, who ended up trying to get me to make out with him, which was SO strange), I had fallen (on purpose) out of a second story window into a hammock in order to avoid her (and let me tell you, that really hurt. The hammock didn’t break and neither did it, but it launched me forward into some rose bushes. Ouch!), and I had even tried getting other people who were friends with her to tell her she was making a mistake. That didn’t work either.
She stopped showing up and calling me. She started dating a friend of mine, but he later told me that she would call him by my name in the bedroom and always talked about me. She even once confronted my wife. Since we left St. Louis, however, we have not heard from her.
Stalkers can be tough to deal with, right Hollywood superstars and singers Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, Tom Jones, and James Woods? Am I wrong? No? Brad? Nothing? Thanks ladies and gentlemen, I bring you here to impress and you just sit there….
The crew I was dining with that night just couldn’t believe that story. One gal sat with her mouth wide open until I tossed a shrimp in it and almost made her choke (um, my bad). Little ole me, the dude who looks like Greg Grunberg, had a stalker, and a serious one at that.
Well, that’ll do it for 100. I hope it made you laugh or think or something. For 101, maybe I’ll talk about more failed dating. I don’t mind, it makes others feel better and makes me laugh at my own stupidity.
Thanks for taking the time to read this loooonng post. Special thanks to all my guest stars. Look for former mayor Ed Koch, Todd McFarlane, Goran Ivanesivic, several ex-girlfriends (or girls I've dated), and more!
Friday, July 22, 2005
Hypocrisy 7/22/05
When you tell someone you "hate" all of your friends, but you can't "live without them", that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you scream and shout, "It's absolutely wrong," that a show is adding a lesbian character, and then you talk about how you want two of the "hotter female" characters on that show to have, "graphic sex," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you sit there and say that only white people can be racist, and then you call a Hmong student a "chink," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you say that a person has done something so unforgivable that they should be killed or fired, and then you do it too, and say, "Well, this is different," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you complain that society concentrates on looks too much, and then you get a boob job, that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you say there is no God, and then you pray to him for help at a sporting event or "time of crisis," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you say, "I'm not a yuppie," and then you refuse to eat somewhere, because it's, "too white trash," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you say you hate a particular actor/actress/athelte/politician, and then you follow their every move saying, "I'm just fascinated by them," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you complain that no one notices the homeless, and then you don't give a dollar, that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you say that it's never you causing the trouble, and then you punch someone for no reason, that's
HYPOCRISY!
And finally (for today),
When you tell people that there's nothing to worry about, but they should panic anyway, that's
HYPOCRISY!
Feel free to drop me some of your ideas of hypocrisy. I'm always curious to hear. Also, the next post will be my 100th, so look for some crazy story that will (attempt to) make you laugh and for guest stars.
Have a nice weekend!
HYPOCRISY!
When you scream and shout, "It's absolutely wrong," that a show is adding a lesbian character, and then you talk about how you want two of the "hotter female" characters on that show to have, "graphic sex," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you sit there and say that only white people can be racist, and then you call a Hmong student a "chink," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you say that a person has done something so unforgivable that they should be killed or fired, and then you do it too, and say, "Well, this is different," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you complain that society concentrates on looks too much, and then you get a boob job, that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you say there is no God, and then you pray to him for help at a sporting event or "time of crisis," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you say, "I'm not a yuppie," and then you refuse to eat somewhere, because it's, "too white trash," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you say you hate a particular actor/actress/athelte/politician, and then you follow their every move saying, "I'm just fascinated by them," that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you complain that no one notices the homeless, and then you don't give a dollar, that's
HYPOCRISY!
When you say that it's never you causing the trouble, and then you punch someone for no reason, that's
HYPOCRISY!
And finally (for today),
When you tell people that there's nothing to worry about, but they should panic anyway, that's
HYPOCRISY!
Feel free to drop me some of your ideas of hypocrisy. I'm always curious to hear. Also, the next post will be my 100th, so look for some crazy story that will (attempt to) make you laugh and for guest stars.
Have a nice weekend!
And, Like a Rollercoaster....
Sigh.
You're up one day, and then the next something happens that just makes you want bang your head on the chalk board over and over and over.
After being happy (though not exuberantly so) yesterday, my students today (and yes, I know it's Friday) really frustrated me. It wasn't so much their behavior in class, as right after. See, on Tuesday, they will all be taking the Basic Standards Test in Reading, and I am working very hard to prepare them. As I have said before, many of them have told me they just don't care about the test, school, or anything.
So today they took a mock test in order to see if what we have been doing for the last four weeks has been sticking. Out of 31 kids, 10 received passing grades. Of those ten, only 4 got higher than 75% (which is considered passing for the BST). Now, I could go off on a rant about this, but that's not what's annoying me. Honestly, I expected these scores. What angered me was what happened after they found out their scores.
One girl in the second period class scored a 90%. Highest grade of all 31 kids. She was really proud of herself, and I honestly was proud of her too, because she had come a really long way in four weeks. Unfortunately, as soon as the kids found out that she had scored so well, they began ruthlessly teasing her. One kid called her "Teacher's Pet." That's not so bad. What made it worse was when they started talking about the sexual favors she must have exchanged and called her a traitor to the other kids as well as not being true to her race. That's right. Because the other kids had scored so low, and she didn't, that meant she wasn't, "black." Once again, I'm not kidding. They kept talking about how white her skin was, etc., etc. With so much being thrown at her, she started to cry. Well, I wasn't going to stand for it. I quickly shut down the kids who were causing the problems, and then I gave them a very evil punishment. I made them go out in the hall, I grabbed a few textbooks off the shelves, and they had to hold out their arms with the textbooks in their hands. If the books droppped, they would go to the office to be punished. If they managed to stand there with the books out for ten minutes, I would only chastise them. What happened, you ask? Two kids dropped the books right away and were sent to the office. As this was their fourth time there, they aren't coming back. One kid made it, and then he apologized to her. Did he mean it? I have no clue.
Yeah, Tuesday is going to be very hard for these kids. Most of them aren't going to get credit for the class, because they haven't been doing to work or showing up. They love to talk to each other all the time, but you can't talk at all during the BST, or you'll be thrown out. Think about that: five weeks of work and sitting in an incredibly hot building only to blow it on the day of the test. The whole reason you're there, gone. All because you couldn't be quiet for two hours.
If none of the numbers change drastically next week, this will be the final tally:
Period 1: 12 kids (lost ten from the first day). 5 kids will get credit for the class. Probably 2 will pass the BST.
Period 2: 19 kids (lost seven from the first day). 3 kids will get credit for the class. Probably 4, maybe 5 will pass the BST.
So, that means out of 31, 8 will get credit and 6 will pass the BST. That's LOW! It makes me feel like a bad teacher. Granted, I can only do so much, but it still frustrates me that it's happening on my watch.
You're up one day, and then the next something happens that just makes you want bang your head on the chalk board over and over and over.
After being happy (though not exuberantly so) yesterday, my students today (and yes, I know it's Friday) really frustrated me. It wasn't so much their behavior in class, as right after. See, on Tuesday, they will all be taking the Basic Standards Test in Reading, and I am working very hard to prepare them. As I have said before, many of them have told me they just don't care about the test, school, or anything.
So today they took a mock test in order to see if what we have been doing for the last four weeks has been sticking. Out of 31 kids, 10 received passing grades. Of those ten, only 4 got higher than 75% (which is considered passing for the BST). Now, I could go off on a rant about this, but that's not what's annoying me. Honestly, I expected these scores. What angered me was what happened after they found out their scores.
One girl in the second period class scored a 90%. Highest grade of all 31 kids. She was really proud of herself, and I honestly was proud of her too, because she had come a really long way in four weeks. Unfortunately, as soon as the kids found out that she had scored so well, they began ruthlessly teasing her. One kid called her "Teacher's Pet." That's not so bad. What made it worse was when they started talking about the sexual favors she must have exchanged and called her a traitor to the other kids as well as not being true to her race. That's right. Because the other kids had scored so low, and she didn't, that meant she wasn't, "black." Once again, I'm not kidding. They kept talking about how white her skin was, etc., etc. With so much being thrown at her, she started to cry. Well, I wasn't going to stand for it. I quickly shut down the kids who were causing the problems, and then I gave them a very evil punishment. I made them go out in the hall, I grabbed a few textbooks off the shelves, and they had to hold out their arms with the textbooks in their hands. If the books droppped, they would go to the office to be punished. If they managed to stand there with the books out for ten minutes, I would only chastise them. What happened, you ask? Two kids dropped the books right away and were sent to the office. As this was their fourth time there, they aren't coming back. One kid made it, and then he apologized to her. Did he mean it? I have no clue.
Yeah, Tuesday is going to be very hard for these kids. Most of them aren't going to get credit for the class, because they haven't been doing to work or showing up. They love to talk to each other all the time, but you can't talk at all during the BST, or you'll be thrown out. Think about that: five weeks of work and sitting in an incredibly hot building only to blow it on the day of the test. The whole reason you're there, gone. All because you couldn't be quiet for two hours.
If none of the numbers change drastically next week, this will be the final tally:
Period 1: 12 kids (lost ten from the first day). 5 kids will get credit for the class. Probably 2 will pass the BST.
Period 2: 19 kids (lost seven from the first day). 3 kids will get credit for the class. Probably 4, maybe 5 will pass the BST.
So, that means out of 31, 8 will get credit and 6 will pass the BST. That's LOW! It makes me feel like a bad teacher. Granted, I can only do so much, but it still frustrates me that it's happening on my watch.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
And Now...Master Leab
Well, I'm done. That's right. As of 8:15 tonight, I finished my final Master's class. Done, finito, no mas, das Ende. I will only have to walk on to the St. Thomas campus one more time in order to pick up my diploma. After that, I'm gone.
After all the money I've sunk into that school, and after all the crap I've put up with from them, I cannot tell you the relief that I am feeling now that I am done. It's very strange to me that I now have a Master's Degree. I can remember the day I received my Bachelor's Degree. That, to me, was the proudest day of my life and it happened with such pomp and circumstance (no pun intended). Today, however, I don't feel like I've done something special. No, I just feel like I've completed a walk down the street and back. There has been some pretty scenery, but nothing really special.
It's weird.
I do admit that right now I feel really tired. That's because all the pressure I've been under to finish has passed.
So, here's a toast to myself and anyone else that finished their Master's today at St. Thomas. Congratulations. Now go get a job.
After all the money I've sunk into that school, and after all the crap I've put up with from them, I cannot tell you the relief that I am feeling now that I am done. It's very strange to me that I now have a Master's Degree. I can remember the day I received my Bachelor's Degree. That, to me, was the proudest day of my life and it happened with such pomp and circumstance (no pun intended). Today, however, I don't feel like I've done something special. No, I just feel like I've completed a walk down the street and back. There has been some pretty scenery, but nothing really special.
It's weird.
I do admit that right now I feel really tired. That's because all the pressure I've been under to finish has passed.
So, here's a toast to myself and anyone else that finished their Master's today at St. Thomas. Congratulations. Now go get a job.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Natural Selection at Work (7/20/05)
Sometimes you can just see natural selection about to work. As I drove home from work today, I stopped at a red light on Dowling Ave. The day turned out to be nice, so I was looking around at how the newly found sunshine was pouring down on the wonderful green (and brown) Earth. It was at this moment that I saw Darwin's theory at work. (Note: I REALLY wish I had a camera for this.) I saw a man on a bicycle. He was traveling quite fast and was wearing only shorts and a t-shirt. He had no helmet on. His neck was tilted so that he could talk on a cell phone. His hand kept moving back and forth from the handle bar to the phone. It was what was in his right hand that was interesting. As this man traveled with phone in hand, he had a baby in the other. I'm not kidding. He was cradling an infant in his other hand. The baby was wearing a jumper and that was about it. Can you imagine what this guy was thinking?
I need to get to Roy's house, but I have the baby. Ok, I'll take the baby with me and ride over. Hmm, I should make sure he's there, though. Sooo I'll call him as we go.
Yup, natural selection. With the choice of road, the choice of transportation, and a squirming baby, something bad is bound to happen. I'll need to check the paper tomorrow...
The other moment occured at school today during a break between classes. One of the students was waiting outside the nurse's office, because she said she didn't "feel right." As I sat there for my lunch duty, I watched this student stare at a electrical socket. I didn't understand why. She then pulled out a metal clip from her hair and started to put it in the socket. Now a very quick dialogue shot through my head, and it went like this:
Dude, she's going to hurt herself. Stop her!
But if I don't stop her, then she'll learn a valuable lesson.
Yes, but if she remembers that you were here, you could get sued.
She can't see me....Besides I could a good laugh.
No! Now tell that girl to stop before she turns extra crispy.
And with that, I yelled down the hall, "Hey! Get that clip away from the socket before you hurt yourself!"
She just turned looked at me and said, "Huh? How could this hurt me?" Luckily the nurse came out at that point, because I just didn't have it in me to explain it to her. It was obvious that Darwin would have loved this girl.
So there you go folks. You want ways to balance out the ever-growing population of this planet? Believe me, somehow people will get themselves to shuffle off this mortal coil.
I need to get to Roy's house, but I have the baby. Ok, I'll take the baby with me and ride over. Hmm, I should make sure he's there, though. Sooo I'll call him as we go.
Yup, natural selection. With the choice of road, the choice of transportation, and a squirming baby, something bad is bound to happen. I'll need to check the paper tomorrow...
The other moment occured at school today during a break between classes. One of the students was waiting outside the nurse's office, because she said she didn't "feel right." As I sat there for my lunch duty, I watched this student stare at a electrical socket. I didn't understand why. She then pulled out a metal clip from her hair and started to put it in the socket. Now a very quick dialogue shot through my head, and it went like this:
Dude, she's going to hurt herself. Stop her!
But if I don't stop her, then she'll learn a valuable lesson.
Yes, but if she remembers that you were here, you could get sued.
She can't see me....Besides I could a good laugh.
No! Now tell that girl to stop before she turns extra crispy.
And with that, I yelled down the hall, "Hey! Get that clip away from the socket before you hurt yourself!"
She just turned looked at me and said, "Huh? How could this hurt me?" Luckily the nurse came out at that point, because I just didn't have it in me to explain it to her. It was obvious that Darwin would have loved this girl.
So there you go folks. You want ways to balance out the ever-growing population of this planet? Believe me, somehow people will get themselves to shuffle off this mortal coil.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Mistaken Identity
I know this doesn't just happen to me or my family, but I swear it happens to us more than anyone else I know.
Once a week, at least, I am stopped by people who ask me if I am someone "famous." I'm not kidding. It doesn't just happen to me either. Let's start with my father.
A long time ago, when I was a young, cynical boy with promise, I was walking down Broadway with my father and one of my sisters. At the time, Burger King was running a promotion (yes, I have probably talked about this before) to find "Herb". If you saw Herb in a Burger King restaurant, you could win money. Now, Herb was a man with glasses, bald, and wore garish 80's sportcoats. Well, my father fit that same description, so as we walked by the BK, a man shoots out of the store and grabs my father. At the top of his lungs, he is screaming, "I've got Herb! I've got Herb," and he is attempting to drag my father into Burger King. Now my sister and I are young at this point, so when a rather large guy is dragging your father away, you can't really do much except scream or kick. We did both. My father, who I am still convinced is part of a super secret agency, managed to whip the guy off of him and into the door. Standing there ready to fight with his eyes blazing, my father asked, "what the hell is going on?!" The man, slightly dazed, said, "Aren't you Herb, man?" Within seconds, the manager of the BK came out and explained everything. Old Man Leab just looked at the manager and said, "That's preposterous. I'm not this Herb guy." And on our merry way we went...until it happened again ten blocks later. I'm not kidding. Another guy saw my father and screamed, "It's Herb! Hey man, I need the money. Come here, come here." It was at that point that my father realized, "we need to take a cab."
He's not alone in mistaken identity. At my college graduation, several of my classmates thought that my oldest sister was Winona Ryder. I'm sitting there in my department (Performing Arts), and several Psychology majors behind me are pointing at my sister and saying, "Dude, Winona Ryder is AT OUR GRADUATION!!!!" I tried to explain that the woman they were pointing to was my sister, but then it turned into, "Dude! This guy's sister is Winona Ryder!" And then the questions began:
"What was Johnny Depp like?"
"Is she working on any films now?"
And on and on it went. No matter how much I explained that my sister was NOT Winona Ryder, they just keep thinking I was lying.
And my mother and other sister have been mistaken for famous people. It's insane.
So why bring up these examples? Because I get mistaken for people at least once a week. For the last few weeks, I have been asked if I was one of the following people: either Greg Grunberg or, oddly enough, Kevin Smith. Obviously, I am now extremely self concious about how I look. Today had to be the weirdest experience of it. I was in a Richfield-based Electronics store (Ok, it was Best Buy), and the guy at the counter starts to ring me up and then looks at me. He stops, puts the scanner down, and says, "Hey, are you that guy?" You have to understand, I'm used to this at this point. I get it alot:
"Did we go to school together?" No.
"Are you that guy on TV?" No.
"Did you used to be blond?" God, NO!
"Wait, wait, wait. How do I know you?" Um, I don't know.
Anyway, as soon as he said "guy," everyone turned and looked. "Um, who do you think I am?" I asked. As the guy at the counter is about to ask, two women in the next lane, switch to my lane to be closer to me. At the same time, two other employees walk over. Now there is a crowd as the guy says, "That guy on Alias. He was also on that other show...uh...Lost. Played the pilot."
"Do you mean Greg Grunberg?" I put forward.
At this point, the women next to me are pulling pens and some sort of paper products out of their purses. I'm really not kidding. They are preparing to ask me for an autograph if I am Mr. Grunberg. More employees come over. Now, I don't really get embarrassed. I make a mistake, I laugh it off. Some confronts me, I stand my ground. It takes alot to make me get blush. And yet, as I try to explain to Counter Guy that I am not him, more people are arriving. Out loud, I say, "Folks, I'm not him. I'm sorry. I may look like him, but I'm not him." My embarrassment is not for me, but rather for the people who started toward me, because they thought I was a celebrity.
If people aren't mistaking me for some random celebrity (and I am not ripping on those two gentlemen), then they forget who I am immediately. I have a friend who tells me all the time that I would, "make a great terrorist." (Welcome to my blog, American Government. I hope you enjoy your viewing.) That's right. Apparently, according to him, I look like everybody else. Brown hair, brown eyes, regular height, regular build, nothing that makes me special.
We created a test when we were in college. A bunch of us went to a bar in very similar clothing. We waited until a gaggle (yes, like geese) of single women came in and sat down. Then I would go over and talk to them and buy drinks. After a few minutes, I would leave and go to the other side of the bar, but be in plain sight of the table. If you had met me or seen me, then you couldn't miss me. So, the guys would spread out around the bar. One of them would then go over and ask the ladies, "Hey, where's the guy you were just speaking with." Now, 4 out of 5 times (and the even occasionally five out five times), they would point at someone else. They even pointed at a blond guy once. A BLOND GUY! I have dark brown hair, people, and they pointed at a blond guy. And before you ask, no, the lighting wasn't bad.
So, there you have it. Either I am completely anonymous and forgotten (and thus ready for covert work), or people think that I am some random celebrity (and I just can't imagine hanging out in Brooklyn Center, Minnesota).
So, if you thought you saw someone in the corner of your eye, watch out! It just might be me. Now, back to my anonymity.
Once a week, at least, I am stopped by people who ask me if I am someone "famous." I'm not kidding. It doesn't just happen to me either. Let's start with my father.
A long time ago, when I was a young, cynical boy with promise, I was walking down Broadway with my father and one of my sisters. At the time, Burger King was running a promotion (yes, I have probably talked about this before) to find "Herb". If you saw Herb in a Burger King restaurant, you could win money. Now, Herb was a man with glasses, bald, and wore garish 80's sportcoats. Well, my father fit that same description, so as we walked by the BK, a man shoots out of the store and grabs my father. At the top of his lungs, he is screaming, "I've got Herb! I've got Herb," and he is attempting to drag my father into Burger King. Now my sister and I are young at this point, so when a rather large guy is dragging your father away, you can't really do much except scream or kick. We did both. My father, who I am still convinced is part of a super secret agency, managed to whip the guy off of him and into the door. Standing there ready to fight with his eyes blazing, my father asked, "what the hell is going on?!" The man, slightly dazed, said, "Aren't you Herb, man?" Within seconds, the manager of the BK came out and explained everything. Old Man Leab just looked at the manager and said, "That's preposterous. I'm not this Herb guy." And on our merry way we went...until it happened again ten blocks later. I'm not kidding. Another guy saw my father and screamed, "It's Herb! Hey man, I need the money. Come here, come here." It was at that point that my father realized, "we need to take a cab."
He's not alone in mistaken identity. At my college graduation, several of my classmates thought that my oldest sister was Winona Ryder. I'm sitting there in my department (Performing Arts), and several Psychology majors behind me are pointing at my sister and saying, "Dude, Winona Ryder is AT OUR GRADUATION!!!!" I tried to explain that the woman they were pointing to was my sister, but then it turned into, "Dude! This guy's sister is Winona Ryder!" And then the questions began:
"What was Johnny Depp like?"
"Is she working on any films now?"
And on and on it went. No matter how much I explained that my sister was NOT Winona Ryder, they just keep thinking I was lying.
And my mother and other sister have been mistaken for famous people. It's insane.
So why bring up these examples? Because I get mistaken for people at least once a week. For the last few weeks, I have been asked if I was one of the following people: either Greg Grunberg or, oddly enough, Kevin Smith. Obviously, I am now extremely self concious about how I look. Today had to be the weirdest experience of it. I was in a Richfield-based Electronics store (Ok, it was Best Buy), and the guy at the counter starts to ring me up and then looks at me. He stops, puts the scanner down, and says, "Hey, are you that guy?" You have to understand, I'm used to this at this point. I get it alot:
"Did we go to school together?" No.
"Are you that guy on TV?" No.
"Did you used to be blond?" God, NO!
"Wait, wait, wait. How do I know you?" Um, I don't know.
Anyway, as soon as he said "guy," everyone turned and looked. "Um, who do you think I am?" I asked. As the guy at the counter is about to ask, two women in the next lane, switch to my lane to be closer to me. At the same time, two other employees walk over. Now there is a crowd as the guy says, "That guy on Alias. He was also on that other show...uh...Lost. Played the pilot."
"Do you mean Greg Grunberg?" I put forward.
At this point, the women next to me are pulling pens and some sort of paper products out of their purses. I'm really not kidding. They are preparing to ask me for an autograph if I am Mr. Grunberg. More employees come over. Now, I don't really get embarrassed. I make a mistake, I laugh it off. Some confronts me, I stand my ground. It takes alot to make me get blush. And yet, as I try to explain to Counter Guy that I am not him, more people are arriving. Out loud, I say, "Folks, I'm not him. I'm sorry. I may look like him, but I'm not him." My embarrassment is not for me, but rather for the people who started toward me, because they thought I was a celebrity.
If people aren't mistaking me for some random celebrity (and I am not ripping on those two gentlemen), then they forget who I am immediately. I have a friend who tells me all the time that I would, "make a great terrorist." (Welcome to my blog, American Government. I hope you enjoy your viewing.) That's right. Apparently, according to him, I look like everybody else. Brown hair, brown eyes, regular height, regular build, nothing that makes me special.
We created a test when we were in college. A bunch of us went to a bar in very similar clothing. We waited until a gaggle (yes, like geese) of single women came in and sat down. Then I would go over and talk to them and buy drinks. After a few minutes, I would leave and go to the other side of the bar, but be in plain sight of the table. If you had met me or seen me, then you couldn't miss me. So, the guys would spread out around the bar. One of them would then go over and ask the ladies, "Hey, where's the guy you were just speaking with." Now, 4 out of 5 times (and the even occasionally five out five times), they would point at someone else. They even pointed at a blond guy once. A BLOND GUY! I have dark brown hair, people, and they pointed at a blond guy. And before you ask, no, the lighting wasn't bad.
So, there you have it. Either I am completely anonymous and forgotten (and thus ready for covert work), or people think that I am some random celebrity (and I just can't imagine hanging out in Brooklyn Center, Minnesota).
So, if you thought you saw someone in the corner of your eye, watch out! It just might be me. Now, back to my anonymity.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Speed Racer in Site B
I know that I've been overly grim/down/depressing in my last few posts, so I thought I would throw in a quick post that might (or hopefully will) make you laugh.
So you might remember I mentioned that when I was working at the Tobacco Document Depository that it had a "Site B". If the main site was the warehouse from Raiders of the Lost Ark, then Site B was like Santa's workshop. A huge space that had only two rows of boxes and the rest was open space. That space was good for two things: driving (either golf balls or frisbees) and racing (mostly chairs).
When I went over to Site B, I usually was sent over with Randy (not his real name), who would usually be on the same wavelength with me about mischief. After returning the boxes that had been requested, Randy and I would often grab the chairs at the desks there and create an obstacle course. Next, using the two chairs with wheels, we would race to see who could get through the course faster. You have to understand: this job was incredibly boring and tedious. Cockroaches would die from boredom, and we're talking about the things that will inherit the Earth after the nuclear war. Anyway, I can remember one particular nasty race, Randy and I bumped each other alot. We were taking the corner around the second shelf and slammed into each other. The resulting bump sent both of us into the shelf and almost tipped it over. Luckily we caught it. After that, we set up on one side and then would run as fast as we could, jump into the chair, and ride it until it stopped. Then we measured the distance. Whoever went farther won.
I was setting up for my third run. I needed to go one foot farther than my second run in order to best Randy. As I took off running, I knew something wasn't right, but I ignored the feeling. I leapt into the chair at top speed. The chair swung around and...tipped over with me in it. Have you ever gone on a Slip N Slide? Now imagine that, but remove the plastic and the water, replace them both with hard concrete floor, and that was what I slid on. As my face slid along the concrete floor, I kept thinking about two things:
1. Is this going to leave a visible mark? Yup.
2. Am I still going to go further than Randy? Uh, nope.
I was close to beating him, but my face just slowed me down (it could have been the beard). There's something about when you are in the middle of an accident or some sort of pain experience that time slows down and you realize certain things. As I slid on my face, I was able to ask those two questions, but I was also able to think about the world.
"Is it time for me to get a new job? I mean I like the freedom of working here, but I think I need more. Is that a bolt in the floor? That's going to hurt (and it SO did. It left the mark). Is Randy laughing already? I guess this is funny in a morbid way. My wife would laugh. Here comes the bolt."
After that day, we stopped the chair distance trials, but continued the obstacle races. Other times, we would bring the driver or a frisbee golf disc over and just plug away. One time, however, Randy shanked the ball and somehow hit it juuuusst right so it ricocheted off the wall, off a pipe, and back at him. He didn't duck fast enough, so it plowed right into his chest and knocked him over. If you've ever been hit by a golf ball, it hurts. I admit, however, that I did laugh.
There are times that I do miss the cavernous emptiness of Site B. If I was sent over there to work on any documents, I was happily alone. No one to bug me with their blissful ignorance, no one to comment on my musical tastes, and no one to sit there and try to use me as free therapy.
Of course, just because I'm teaching summer school now doesn't mean that I'm not having fun every once in a while. A few of us teachers wait until the students leave and play a version of Bocci Ball in the halls (so as not to damage the lockers, we do have rules about heights, etc). It's not the same as chair races, but it sure is a good way to blow off steam.
So you might remember I mentioned that when I was working at the Tobacco Document Depository that it had a "Site B". If the main site was the warehouse from Raiders of the Lost Ark, then Site B was like Santa's workshop. A huge space that had only two rows of boxes and the rest was open space. That space was good for two things: driving (either golf balls or frisbees) and racing (mostly chairs).
When I went over to Site B, I usually was sent over with Randy (not his real name), who would usually be on the same wavelength with me about mischief. After returning the boxes that had been requested, Randy and I would often grab the chairs at the desks there and create an obstacle course. Next, using the two chairs with wheels, we would race to see who could get through the course faster. You have to understand: this job was incredibly boring and tedious. Cockroaches would die from boredom, and we're talking about the things that will inherit the Earth after the nuclear war. Anyway, I can remember one particular nasty race, Randy and I bumped each other alot. We were taking the corner around the second shelf and slammed into each other. The resulting bump sent both of us into the shelf and almost tipped it over. Luckily we caught it. After that, we set up on one side and then would run as fast as we could, jump into the chair, and ride it until it stopped. Then we measured the distance. Whoever went farther won.
I was setting up for my third run. I needed to go one foot farther than my second run in order to best Randy. As I took off running, I knew something wasn't right, but I ignored the feeling. I leapt into the chair at top speed. The chair swung around and...tipped over with me in it. Have you ever gone on a Slip N Slide? Now imagine that, but remove the plastic and the water, replace them both with hard concrete floor, and that was what I slid on. As my face slid along the concrete floor, I kept thinking about two things:
1. Is this going to leave a visible mark? Yup.
2. Am I still going to go further than Randy? Uh, nope.
I was close to beating him, but my face just slowed me down (it could have been the beard). There's something about when you are in the middle of an accident or some sort of pain experience that time slows down and you realize certain things. As I slid on my face, I was able to ask those two questions, but I was also able to think about the world.
"Is it time for me to get a new job? I mean I like the freedom of working here, but I think I need more. Is that a bolt in the floor? That's going to hurt (and it SO did. It left the mark). Is Randy laughing already? I guess this is funny in a morbid way. My wife would laugh. Here comes the bolt."
After that day, we stopped the chair distance trials, but continued the obstacle races. Other times, we would bring the driver or a frisbee golf disc over and just plug away. One time, however, Randy shanked the ball and somehow hit it juuuusst right so it ricocheted off the wall, off a pipe, and back at him. He didn't duck fast enough, so it plowed right into his chest and knocked him over. If you've ever been hit by a golf ball, it hurts. I admit, however, that I did laugh.
There are times that I do miss the cavernous emptiness of Site B. If I was sent over there to work on any documents, I was happily alone. No one to bug me with their blissful ignorance, no one to comment on my musical tastes, and no one to sit there and try to use me as free therapy.
Of course, just because I'm teaching summer school now doesn't mean that I'm not having fun every once in a while. A few of us teachers wait until the students leave and play a version of Bocci Ball in the halls (so as not to damage the lockers, we do have rules about heights, etc). It's not the same as chair races, but it sure is a good way to blow off steam.
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