Thursdays with Poozer

A heartwarming tale about a man, his child, and the world that doesn't understand them.
Ok, not really.
I've had one of those days. It started badly, it didn't get any better, and it ended up just as annoying. Other than my son, that is.
Let me tell you a tale of a man facing off against a city....
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7:15 am: It starts with a knock at my front door. You see my neighbors are out of town right now. I have a spare key and have agreed to water their plants and take their trash to the curb, but that's it. Someone else is supposed to be feeding their cats.
This person forgot the key, but was told I would have a spare.
So, at 7:15, the knocking on my door became a bang as I searched for clothes to answer the door in.
"Ummm. Can I help you?" I ask still in a slight fog of sleep. You see I took the late shift. The very late shift so my wife could sleep. It was part of her "24 hours of you" I gave her.
She had 24 hours for it all to be about her health and well-being. I took the kid for everything except feedings (which I can't do...until he goes to bottle feeding...which I'll get to later). So, when he was fussy, I got up. When he couldn't sleep between 4 and 5, I took him. You get the idea.
"It's about time. I was knocking forever," the gal says.
"Yeah...I have this new kid. Month old today, in fact, and we were sleeping."
"Whatever. I need the key."
"Go to the other door and be quiet. I'll get you the key," I tell her.
After fetching the key, I go and shower. My son is feeding, so I have some time.
I get dressed and see the gal attempting to leave with my key. I go out while still putting on my shirt. The gal sees me...and STARTS TO BACK UP FASTER!
Seeing that she is trying to take my key, I run into the street, calling her, and then finally bang on her hood.
"What are you doing?!" She screams.
"You're trying to take my key," I reply. "I need it in order to let their cat in tomorrow."
"I don't have your key," she says.
I look in and it's in the cup holder. I tell her so.
"Oh...is that yours?" she says, then hands it to me.
"Try not to forget your key tomorrow," I tell her," Because I won't be opening up no matter what. Have a nice day now."
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10:30 am: I have just dropped my wife at her appointment at Litespa. As part of her day, I have gotten her a pedicure and haircut. Her feet are pretty raw, and she wants the haircut. I'm an obliging husband, so I set it up for her. This means I will have Poozer to myself for a few hours. No problem. We'll go pick up the professional pictures we had done then go for a walk around downtown.
No problem...right?
I was wrong.
The first issue came when I picked up the pictures at Ridgedale Mall.
Explain something to me, folks: What is it about a man pushing around a stroller all by himself that makes people either nervous or stupid?
I swear, people would stop and stare at me as I walked through that mall. I felt like I was wearing the Scarlet "P" (for parent). I was waiting for that scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers when the woman points at Donald Sutherland and makes that horrendous, alien noise. I tought one woman was going to do that when her daughter asked her, "Where is that baby's mommy?"
As for the stupid part? Well in both entering the mall and leaving it, I ran into people unwilling to hold the door open. In one case, the guy saw me coming and let go of the door just a split second before I got there. This meant I had to grab the door before it slammed into the side of my son's stroller without somehow jarring his head to one side when I had to move quickly.
And what is it about people touching babies? Seriously! I walked past a kiosk and this woman saw Little Leab all passed out in his stroller. She rushed up next to me and started to talk to me.
"He's adorable!"
"What? Oh, thanks."
"Look at his hair!"
At this point she tries to touch his head. What? Have I somehow given her permission to touch his head by acknowledging her compliment?
I didn't quite slap her hand, but I made a quick swerve and said, "Oh. When he's sleeping...you really can't touch him. He gets angry. Sorry."
Slightly annoyed, I set back to downtown Minneapolis.
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11:35 am: While walking around, I came to the realization about a few things.
1. I now walk much slower than I used to. Now that sounds odd, but you have to understand: I'm a New Yorker. If any of us entered into the speed walking competition in the Olympics, we'd win by miles. MILES, I tell you. Yet, as I walked about the Skyway today, I was much slower than almost everyone around me. It astonished me. I didn't want to go speeding along. No, slow and steady to keep Poozer comfortable and to people watch. I had a lot of time to kill. Yet business people were blowing by me so fast that I could almost feel the wind. One guy voiced his displeasure at me (while on a cell phone as well) and then shoved into a tiny space between the stroller and the wall to pass me. There was room on the left (made me think of those bikers who scream "On the Left!" while passing), but he chose the right. Then he was angry when he almost biffed it. I was all the way over. What else was I supposed to do? At one point, I pulled over to get some cash from an ATM. I was amazed at how fast people came by. You know how in some music videos the protagonist stands still and is clear, yet the world rushes around him? That's what it was like. It was an odd feeling.
2. People do not like strollers or men with strollers. I was obvious people were annoyed with me walking around with a stroller. I took up too much space on the elevator, I was too slow, and I was not always looking where I was going. I admit all these, but sometimes, people without strollers are just as guilty. I walked to the second floor of the IDS building, and pulled over to the extreme side (near Potbelly). I was nowhere near a door or anything. A woman walking, reading (could have been a day planner, could have been court documents), and talking on a cell phone wasn't paying attention. She walked extremely quickly into my stroller and nearly knocked it over. I caught it, but not before my son woke up.
I was annoyed (the running theme of the day). This woman then turned and started yelling at me about how "People and their fucking strollers. Go someplace else with that thing. Get out of the way!"
Now, I'm already annoyed, and my son is chirping, having been woken from his slumber by this caffeine-crazed idiot, so, in my best annoyed-teacher voice, I said, "Lady...get off the damn phone and watch what your doing. If my son had been hurt, I swear I'd have thrown you over this balcony. Get your shit together and move on before I claim you hurt a baby."
No more words, she left. She asked the person on the phone if he or she heard what I said, and her flustered tone told me that this person didn't. Even if he or she had, I was near a camera. I could back it up in court.
Still, she wasn't the only one. Several people didn't pay attention to or didn't care about the stroller. I also heard a few people looking at me and saying things like, "A guy...alone...with a stroller...that's weird, man."
3. You can never go home again. I went by St. Thomas, which was a mistake. None of the teachers I would want to talk to were there. Security followed me around the building (this goes back to the whole "guy with a stroller" thing) as if my stroller had an explosive in it instead of a baby.
I crossed over the business school (which was nice...I guess) into the law school. I had never been in the law building before. After today, I will never go back. Why you ask? Because I was kicked out. That's right, I was kicked out of the building.
Why?
Well, I was on the second floor. You have to go by the library in order to get to the elevators. I stopped to buy myself a drink, and while it was dispensing, Poozer let out a chirp. Then I got in to the elevator. I was met by a security officer.
"Sir, you're going to have to leave. Your son is being too loud."
"Ok, I'm on my way out anyway. Just waiting for the elevator."
"Good, because we have people here studying to become lawyers, and they don't need your child's noise to distract them."
"Ok then."
From below, I hear someone say (quite loudly, I might add), "Yeah, get that damn kid out of here. We're trying to study!"
The elevator arrives, and I go down to the first floor. It's now that I see the person who yelled up.
He and his friend are playing ping-pong. Apparently, as I was told on the way out, the baby's cry made him lose the point.
Sigh.
This led to an interesting moment outside.
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1:50 pm: With Poozer having been fed and changed and such, it was then we headed through our adventure at St. Thomas. He did, in fact, eat from a bottle, but it was work. He really hated it. It's going to be interesting. Back to the point. He and I have left St. Thomas and are walking across toward Litespa, when we see...WCCO's Jason DeRusha walking up 12th (and obviously heading back to WCCO. I call out to him:
"He...DeRusha!"
But he keeps walking.
I try again.
"Yo, DERUSHA!"
My son stirs a little.
Now, I'm not going to run, but I do step a little quicker.
At this point, he turns and looks right at me, so I yell,
"DeRusha, you fucking rock!"
He keeps walking. It's at this point I notice the trail of headphones in his ears. He couldn't hear me. He was lost in whatever music he was listening to while walking.
I wasn't going to run after him, as I had my son and needed to get my wife, but it was nice to see him out and about. Shows that not all those news people are afraid to descend among the people.
Should we start calling him, "The People's Reporter," a la The Rock (as the People's Champion)?
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7:45 PM: This is the point where I almost lose faith in all humanity. Forget the people who don't see my son. I expect that of people without children, because I used to be one of them.
What hurts, however, is when the people that you trust or have helped in the past do not reciprocate.
I was tired this evening as I did the things I normally do on Thursday night: Mow the lawn, clean the house (vacuum, clean the bathroom, wipe down the kitchen), take out the recycling, and so on. I also had to take my neighbor's recycling and trash out as well. (They're gone, remember?)
So it's not a bad night out, and almost all of the people on my street are out on their lawns or talking to each other or whatever.
I'm taking my recycling to the curb, when I hit a patch in the driveway and my bin starts to tip.
I've got it, but just barely.
Slowly I can feel it tipping away from me, so I call out, "Hey! I need some help here please. PLEASE! I NEED SOME HELP HERE!"
No one moves. They just stare.
"ANY...TIME...NOW!"
Again, no one moves. Hell, two doors down, they get up...and watch. That's right. They watched. They never left their lawn.
I lost it. In slow motion before my eyes, the whole can tipped, and a large chunk of my recycling spilled out into my garden and the street.
"Dammit!" I shout.
I now hear laughter coming from a few different people.
"Would anyone mind helping me please?" I ask.
Again, I am surprised when no one comes to help me. No one!
They again watch as I pick up every piece that has fallen out. It takes me about five minutes.
I even hear the guy across the street commenting to his friend about the items in my stuff.
Are you kidding me? Where is the supposed Minnesota Nice? Oh, that's right...it's passive/aggressive behavior...not common courtesy.
These are all people that I have helped in the past.
The guy commenting to his wife? I helped him clean out his gutters.
The people on the lawn? I showed them how to fix their mower.
Yet when I ask for help? Forget it.
I grew up in places where houses weren't so close or where there were apartments. I had always seen these places in movies, or heard stories about neighbors being friends. It seemed so nice, but in reality, Bob and Jim don't really barbeque together.
My neighborhood still won't accept my wife and I after three years because we're too young. Hell, one of the people on the block recently put their house up for sale because of the, "young people...they're annoying."
Young people? There's my wife and I, and one other couple under 35. That's it.
The reason they wouldn't help me? Because I'm young. That's harsh.
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1 am: My son is asleep next to me as I write.
Shortly before he passed out, he smiled at me. Whether it was a real smile or gas, he still smiled. It made the world better, at least for a little while.
In my family, we talk about how my father has become anti-social in some ways, but on days like today, I'm not sure he's wrong. Do I want my son to be angry at the world? No, but I won't protect him completely from it. That's the problem I have with people who don't inform their children about reality: They truly believe ignorance is bliss, but it just leads to more trouble.
I hope my son learns from me without becoming me.
I also hope that my son one day looks back and understands that no matter what kind of person I become, I love him, and he is a huge part of my sanity now.
I don't know. I'm tired and rambling. He's a month old today (according to me. My wife says it's by the day he was born, so four tuesdays later, which means he's one month and two days old today).
In some ways it's funny. If my 19 year old self saw me now, he'd kick my ass. I got married (swore I wouldn't), had a child (been told I shouldn't), and I work a "normal" job (Had an offer to work for Momix, but turned it down...he would have REALLY been pissed by that one).
When the hell did I become a person?

Namaste.

Summertime Hockey

Wow, so The Minnesota Wild apparently listened when their fans complained this off-season.
Several million dollars later (and one trade that is a wait-and-see), the team is completely different.
Suddenly there is an offensive-defenseman in the form of Kim Johnsson.
There is a "Banger" in the form of Keith Carney.
Down and dirty forward? They signed Mark Parrish.
All of the youngsters are back as well.
If there is a questionable move, it is the Pavol Demitra trade. I understand that this was done in order to make Marion Gaborik re-sign, but Patrick O'Sullivan was considered one of the best prospects in the NHL. Not in the system, but in the entire league. Demitra, though very talented, is 31 years old, and he has been getting injured more frequently (a concussion, a leg injury, and an eye injury most recently).
If O'Sullivan goes on to be like Ovechkin, and the Wild miss the playoffs again, then the system will have to be completely overhauled. However, if Demitra returns to the form he showed in St. Louis, and the Wild beat up on the Northwest division, then all is right as rain...except for one thing:
Guys....Unless you make the playoffs, do NOT raise ticket prices again. I'm not sure the fans will respond to that very well.
Maybe I should start a blog a la Batgirl about the Wild...what do you think?
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Other strange news in Hockey.
Neil Smith.
You've probably never heard of him, but he was the general manager of the New York Rangers when they won the Stanley Cup in 1994.
He was fired and replaced, so he went on to be an announcer.
Recently the New York Islanders (a team I really dislike) hired him. When I say recently, I mean 40 days ago.
So how odd is it that after the draft and the free agent signing he has helped complete, he was fired today and replaced by a goalie on the team. Garth Snow, the back up goalie, retired and took his place.
Now this is strange for several reasons.
1. Many Islander fans are now wondering what the hell is going on. The team made several positive moves in the last month and seemed to be heading in a good direction.
2. Snow is one year older than my sister (He's in his 30's). I wonder if the owner of the Islanders (Mr. Charles Wang) is hoping for the same miracle that happened to the Boston Red Sox (Theo Epstein is a very young man as well).
3. Neil Smith has won a Stanley Cup. Don't overlook that. Yet, here is a guy who has never done been a general manager, and he is expected to help a team return to greatness (in the mid 80's, the Islanders won four Stanley Cups in a row).
Now I look at it this way:
Think of the staff of a typical office (let's use a paper company like on The Office). You have the executives, the middle management, and the "grunts" or workers. The "grunts" take care of the warehouse, the middle management balances all the numbers, and the executives oversee the whole operation.
This is the same thing in hockey. The "grunts" are the players, the middle management are the coaches, and the executives are the GMs and the owners. Got it?
Now, imagine this business. One day, the president hires a new VP and says, "I have complete confidence in you."
After one month, the president looks at what the VP has been doing and talks to the workers. The workers say, "We like him, but he was out of management for a long time...seems strange. Still...he's really good."
The president says, "Interesting." Then, he fires the VP after only a month.
Instead of promoting from middle management (who might know the job or understand exactly what to do), the president takes one of the "grunts" and says, "You have the job now. Good luck." The "grunt" the president picked is younger than all of the middle management, has only been with the company for a few years, and has never done the job expected of him (has no training).
Looking at this company, do you have confidence?
This is why most Islander fans are now wondering what happened? My take? Wang is a VERY controlling owner. It's possible that Smith was not doing what he wanted and so he was fired. Plus Mike Milbury is still with the Islanders, and he is a control freak.
This bares watching. If the Islanders make more moves and are terrible then Snow will be roasted. If, however, they do nothing else and play amazingly, the fans will probably say, "Hey Smith did a great job."
In the end I feel bad for Snow (who, by the way, lost his last five decisions in goal). He may be hit harder than Isiah Thomas in New York.
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The last two Stanley Cup Champions have been in the Southeast part of the country (Tampa Bay and Carolina).
That's troubling.
No wonder the Canadians are angry. It would be like the Toronto Blue Jays winning the World Series every year.
I guess this means that Phoenix has to win this year. A hockey team in the desert....Go figure.
Namaste.

Let Sleeping Babes Lie

Is this baby really asleep, or is he contemplating the destruction of the Earth?
Isn't it amazing how much he looks like Winston Churchill?
That being said, here is the reason why, though I am losing sleep, I am quite content.
It's Poozer at his best.

The Taming of the Roo: Part I

Before he was born, my wife and I called our soon Roo.
It was born out of two ideas:
1. We both like the world of the Hundred Acre Woods, and
2. Every freaking time someone in my family creates a plan for us to go to Australia together, someone either gets pregnant or has health issues.
I had made a killer plan to go to the land down under, but it was not to happen. Thus, Poozer was called Roo in the womb because he was the child to Kanga (my wife) and kangaroos are found in Australia. Pretty simple.
Now, I don't plan on going through all the details (I think we can skip conception, right?), but many funny things happened over the course of the nine months leading up to and including my son's birth. Let's start in the beginning (but after conception, sheesh).
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My wife and two of her friends went to New York in October of 2005. It was the first weekend of October, and my wife wasn't feeling well. This was supposed to be a girls' weekend in the NYC, but Mrs. Leab really wasn't in the partying mood.
I was here alone. It was me, my cats, and a deck of cards (they're quite good blackjack players, really).
When I first spoke to the gang of girls, I thought something was up. One of her friends said, "Yeah, she's not really feeling well. Threw up her dinner."
"Well, did she drink?" I asked.
"No, she only had water."
That set off the alarm bell in my head. I immediately assumed she was pregnant.
For the two months since they had set up the trip, all my wife had talked about was going to Babbo. My wife and I had been to another of Mario Batali's restaurants (Esca) where we were told that, while the food there was good, Babbo's food and wine were better.
As the story was related to me, my wife had such bad morning sickness (that would be the worst it was for her. The rest of the time she wasn't too bad) that she could only look at the food she ordered. She couldn't eat it. (On a side note, she ended up boxing up the food and giving it to my father. I have no idea if he ever ate it.)
Again, having talked to her friend, I am already suspicious. My wife calls me and says, "I think I just had some bad food," but I hear something in the background that sounds like laughing.
Fast forward two days. My wife returns home and gives me a gift. From Tiffany's no less (which is horrible, because my first thought was "Dammit! She spent money on me...and too much to boot."
I open the box.
It's a spoon with animals on it. I remark:
"It's a spoon. A very small spoon." My wife is smiling. "Seems like a baby spoon."
"It is," she says.
"You're pregnant...." I say.
"Yes!" she screams.
"I knew it. I knew you didn't have food poisoning," I say.
Now some people say that upon hearing they are going to be adding to their family that their mind races with possibilities. I have to tell you: It's true.
In my mind I started flashing through every room in my house trying to figure out what I would need to do to baby proof.
That led to me thinking about all of the things I would need to pay for:
Day Care
Doctors
Crib
Clothes
College
Prom
Books
And on and on it went.
My final thought I said aloud. In my best Roy Scheider voice, I say, "We're gonna need a bigger house...."
My wife laughed and told me to breathe.
But the images and thoughts kept running through my head:
What about my cats?
Am I going to have to get a more family-friendly car?
How is this going to work with the school year?
Private or public school for the kid?
I tried very hard to keep myself calm in front of my wife. I was excited, but there was a dark undercurrent to it.
If I was to become a parent, then my parents would be moving into the grandparent phase...which meant they were closing to leaving this Earth.
I know, I know. Strange thought, but it still wormed its way into my head. As I celebrated the beginning of my wife's pregnancy, I started worrying over what would happen to my parents. How much longer would I have them to help me? How soon before I, like my parents, became an orphan?
Of course these were not rational thoughts, but the first few minutes after being told you're going to be a parent rarely are.
I ended up getting a storage space out in Plymouth in order to clean out my house. (This was required as I had, according to my wife, "Too many books for one house.")
The pregnancy would be normal with some very interesting times ahead.

What? Me? Sensationalize?

This is the last I'm going to say about this topic.
I finished reading a Colorado woman's account of how their meeting with Katie Couric went.
It sounded a great deal like our meeting save for less contradicting.
There was a P.C. crowd, though it seems that their crowd ran the entire gamut of the monetary spectrum (ours did not).
All in all nothing in their gathering that was said was really different than ours.
That's unfortunate. It seems then that this verifies what I thought about the tour: It was never about getting our ideas, but rather validating what they knew already.
We want technology used.
We want our news to be objective.
We want stories we care about or are relevant.
We want to have less sensationalism...or do we?
Coming out of the Minneapolis meeting, it seems that the only thing anyone cares about is Matt Bartel's Pen.
Sadly this is why no one will ever care about the news again, and why we will always have news stations or pundits in charge.
I'm sorry that his pen was taken, but look how he has benefited from it...and look how the story has taken off.
We say we don't want sensationalized news, but then we eagerly await and cheer as a pen being taken away makes it on to the national news circuit.
Don't get me wrong, it's great for MN Speak, but I'm sorry that the main thing anyone will remember is that moment.
Not the fact that the whole thing was really a PR stunt, not the fact that it made the news, however short a time, relevant again. No, people will only remember that a guy's pen got taken away.
This does, as my sister pointed out, mean one other thing: Whereas "blogs" were thought of as only a passing fad, this incident does give them more power and credibility. In essence, the era of the trusted journalist only being from a newspaper or TV has had the coffin lid nailed shut.
If the story is true (and I hate saying it, but in someways it sounds too ridiculous to be true), then the producers of the TV news felt that a guy who writes online can be considered a journalist, which means that his pen was taken away (in compromise) to keep him from writing about the event (which is funny, because they knew I was a blogger as well and never said anything). Nevermind that Matt could have, oh I don't know, borrowed a pen from someone else. It's the principle of the matter.
Bloggers and online news journalists (sometimes called civilian journalists) have been given credibility from this single action.
It's just too bad that all we care about is not the fact that someone, as much of a public relations stunt as it was, actually cared about our opinions, but that a writing instrument was taken away.
And yes, I know I'm just as guilty for mentioning it.
I guess my problem is that we want controversy. We are so desperate for schadenfreude that we look for it anywhere and pimp it hard.
Welcome to the 21st century.
That's the last I'm going to say about the whole Katie Couric affair. I wish her good luck, because she will need it if she wants to compete with other news programs or the internet.
As for the whole pen incident...It was two days ago. Time to move on and get on with our lives.
Namaste.

Hanging with Ms. Couric

The town hall meeting was today. While most people are currently talking about Matt's pen being taken, I can tell you the little guy's story.
Let me make it clear: I am not Lee-Ann Stephens, the Minnesota Teacher of the year, nor am I a member of the press (as apparently Matt Bartell is considered), nor am I a well-known priest, rich business person, or a minority.
I am just some schmuck, who was invited because Jason DeRusha reads my blog.
Imagine being developmentally challenged and being invited to a MENSA meeting. That's how I felt this morning.
So here's my story.
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I woke up early this morning, which I haven't really done in a while. The baby usually sleeps between 4 and 8, so getting up and moving at 6 was kind of hard, to be honest. Moving on.
Since it has been re-opened, I have not been to the Minneapolis Library. I know many people really like it, but I can't help it: I don't. It's really cold. Not in a temperature way, but in a design way. It doesn't feel inviting to me. It's narrow. Instead of saying, "Please...get a book, sit, and read for a while," it says, "You! Get a book and get out!"
The event was on the second floor. There was a nice continental breakfast, yada, yada, yada.
After checking in, I right away felt out of place. First of all, the woman to man ratio ended up being 8 to 1 in favor of women. I have no problem with that, but I somehow knew it would be that way.
Every man I saw was in a suit. I was not. Let me make this clear: I'm a teacher, a new parent, and on break. I wore a polo and khakis. This made me an outsider which was clear by the fact that NO ONE would come near me at my table. At one point a group of people (and I was shocked how many people knew each other) chose to sit on the floor (in really nice clothing) rather than stand at my table. I stood alone for a long time...until a priest named Dale joined me.
Very nice and articulate man. I put aside all of my feelings about religion and the Church while talking to him.
So let's get to the good stuff: the actual meeting.
I sat dead center. The meeting itself? Pointless. Nothing was really accomplished. While Katie Couric and Rome Hartman were well spoken (and sometimes humorous), there was nothing to really be gained. For every single thing one person said, someone else said the exact opposite. At one point it was mentioned that the news needs to be more objective. Thirty seconds later: the next person said the news needs to be "personal."
It was a shame.
I promised DeRusha I would not pull any punches, so here we go:
1. The entire event was amazingly political. I'm sorry, the make-up of the room was a P.C wet dream. I was easily one of the youngest people in the room, but there were African-Americans (I already mentioned Ms. Stephens), Hmong, Hispanic, old, young, intellectual, working man, Native American, etc.
At one point, toward the end of the meeting, a young black man had been holding his hand up for awhile (most people at the meeting forgot the whole "let's hold our hand up" thing and just stood up and talked). A woman walked down the aisle, caught Hartman's eye and pointed at the young man, mouthing, "You MUST call on him." The young man mentioned Africa, and the crowd murmured its approval. The whole event, though intending to get out "real opinions" didn't, which leads to my next point:
2. Minnesota Nice creates too many damn problems. Almost EVERY SINGLE PERSON, except for myself and one other guy, prefaced their thoughts or speeches with, "Welcome to Minnesota, Katie," or "I loved the Today Show." Sigh. Beyond that, they were unwilling to stir it up, yet afterward people were complaining. You had your chance to say something and you didn't. You're not allowed to bitch when you had the opportunity to talk.
One guy, beyond myself, was willing to actually comment on what people were saying and say something controversial. No one wanted to debate (which both Couric and Hartman said they wanted as part of their introduction). It was too bad.
3. Their questions weren't answered. They said, "We want to talk about the news, not ideas for what we should talk about," yet the group spent more time talking about what should be talked about. ("We're a fly-over state," one woman commented. "You should do stories that would make us interested...not just what's important on the coasts.")
What saddened me was that most people there didn't hear the "WORLD" part. They said the world should be talked about, but their ideas were Minnesota-centric.
So I know what you're thinking at this point: "Leab, you can't shut up, so what did you say?"
Well:
4. I did speak. I waited patiently and then said the following:
"My name is Leab, and I'm a high school English teacher. (This immediately had people coughing or talking. I'm not the Minnesota Teacher of the Year, so what does it matter what I say? To continue....)
First of all, you mentioned Murrow. Well, he let the beast out, and it's time to put it back in. The news needs to return to being objective, which it has not been in a long time. It's obviously slanted which is why certain people watch only certain channels. Most people nowadays might say that being objective is being wishy-washy, but they're wrong. This is a chance for you to prove that. (I heard no murmurs at this point, so either they agreed with me or thought I was nuts.) I teach a lesson on propaganda, and my students, more often than not, brought me one of two things: either a political speech, predominantly Bush, or news casts. Many were actually from the Today Show as well. They see it this way, because the news creates fear or tells us who to vote for instead of just reporting the facts.
Now if you ask my students where they get their news, they will tell you blogs, the web, or The Daily Show. Our own WCCO here has people like Jason DeRusha who have blogs, which leads me to ask (and here I turned around to Don Shelby) when are you going to have your own blog, Mr. Shelby?"
Shelby responded with, "Sssssh. Don't give them any ideas!"
I turned back and continued, "You need to embrace technology. Either through a blog, Ipods, or making the website work with the news. We don't really have the time to sit down and watch the news when it's on, so give us the chance to see it when we can."
I didn't get much of a response. The woman sitting next to me made a comment about how, "I shouldn't have said that."
Couric's response to what I said was a frown. She then talked about how blogs really cannot have journalistic integrity and how they are usually emotional and full of anger and hate. She ignored that there are some that aren't that way (again, see WCCO's), but whatever. I wasn't wearing a business suit, I wasn't a minority, and I didn't have a position like Hennepin County Coordinator. I was a nobody, so who cares what I think?
At the end, we were allowed to have pictures taken with Ms. Couric. I was in the final group and was allowed to talk to her. Here is how the conversation went.
"Are you a Mets fan?" She asked me. It was obvious she noticed my hat I had with me.
"Yes. I know you like the Yankees. Both teams are having great seasons."
"That's true, but the Mets are leading their division."
"But you can't count out Steinbrenner's cash and drive. Well, good luck with the rest of your day," I said to her.
"Thanks. May I ask you something?"
"Yes you may," I replied.
"Your students really brought in the Today Show?"
"Yes. One even brought in the Colonoscopy episode."
"Can I ask you another question?"
"Of course."
"Who invited you to this meeting today?"
"A local reporter put in my name. Wanted the 'Everyman' perspective. I'm the 'Everyman' apparently."
"I see." LONG PAUSE. "Well thanks for coming out M." (she used my name here, which was disarming as I said it only once."
I next talked to Rome Hartman.
"Did you really show your class Good Night and Good Luck?" He asked me.
"Yes. They understood it, though they found it slow."
We chatted for a while about news, websites, and blogs (he was surprisingly for them), then he asked me:
"So how did you end up here today?"
It was at this point I realized that I really did look out of place. I didn't kiss anyone's ass, which meant I was not exactly what they were looking for.
I told him the same thing I told Ms. Couric.
"Interesting." LONG PAUSE. "So how long have you been teaching?"
I talked to him for five more minutes or roughly until my bladder started screaming at me. We talked about teachers, how people don't really understand what it's like to be a teacher, and, of course, how everyone compares our education system to Japan's or another country's (and here's a tip folks: Stop doing that. Our system is not like anyone else's, so shut up with the whole, "Why aren't we like Japan?" crap.)
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In the end, there were an amazing amount of Katie fans there. DeRusha had mentioned, at one point, that they wanted serious thinkers, not fans, at this meeting, but so many people fawned over her.
Still, I didn't have my pen taken, so I guess that's something...right?
Thanks to DeRusha for getting me invited, but I just don't feel that ANYTHING was really accomplished. They listened...and then decided they were going to do whatever they were going to do.
The bottom line is this: As one person said, "Until you decide who your target audience is, it's impossible to decide how your show will work."
That's really it. If you aim for older people, you'll need feel good stories. Aim for the younger crowd, and you'll have to explain EVERYTHING.
That's it. Still, I'll email ideas to you, CBS News. I have a lot of them.
Courage.
Namaste.

Town Hall Times

So I read DeRusha's blog everyday.
I noticed that his latest entry is lovingly sarcastic when it comes to Katie Couric.
My question: Should I feel guilty that I have been invited to be one of the "community members" she is meeting with tomorrow morning?
That's right. Ole Leab has been invited (in no small part thanks to DeRusha) to meet with Ms. Couric and discuss issues, "that are important to you and your community."
I have a great deal of things I could say, but I really don't want to be:
A: Taken into custody, and
B: Beaten to death by Minnesotans who hate transplants (of which there are too many right now...you know...that whole "Murderapolis" thing is being put on the people who aren't from here....)
So, while Jason is "Duluth", I will sing his praises and pimp him out WCBS. Hell, he'd do well in New York.
Right now, I'm thinking about talking about (what else) education issues.
Anyone have anything they'd rather have me talk about with her?
And how funny is it that I, an angry transplant, have been asked to talk about what issues are bothering me.
I assume Ms. Couric, seen here during her cheerleading days, will probably nod her head, appear interested in what we have to say, tell a P.A. to write some notes, and then disappear.
After all, the invite says, "No Press, No Cameras, Just Conversation."
The email also made it clear that WE are not to bring cameras to this thing.
I would imagine that's bad for P.R. Here is America's newest sweetheart and yet we, the general public who CBS hopes will watch her, are being told not to expect autographs or photos.
Personally? I don't care. I don't buy into the whole "celebrity" thing. Never have. When I was a kid, I worked at a fair selling raffle tickets. Then mayor Ed Koch came. I walked right up to him and said, "You're Mayor Ed Koch, you're going to buy some raffle tickets from me."
Both he and his aide (or friend or whoever he was) stared at me in disbelief...then they both bought raffle tickets.
I once met Mark McGwire at a restaurant in St. Louis. Again, it was just like meeting anybody (for me at least).
I've never been one to be star struck.
So if this thing tomorrow turns into a giant "Oh my God, I LOVE YOU!" fest, I'll be pissed. I'm going in order to actually get issues on the docket. That's it.
Plus the free food. I mean old habits die hard, folks.
So thanks, DeRusha, for getting me in to this little shindig. I'll try not to embarass you too much....
No really.
Namaste.

Reality Snaps Back

I had to go to work yesterday. For the first time since June, I walked into the school at which I work. It was hard.
I went for two reasons:
1. I can't seem to check my work email from home (which I need to do in order to prep for a class I have to take in August).
2. In order to drop of a couple of items (tickets for a co-worker, a picture of my son for my principal's "Wall of Hope," and to pick up some books that have been added to next year's curriculum.
The first issue came with the drive. It's been a month since the school year finished, so I had already forgotten how long the drive is from my home to the school. By the time I exited 94 at Snelling, I was almost livid. Having spent so much time at home with my son the last three weeks, I haven't really been out driving with the Minnesota folk.
Here's a quick update: Most Minnesotans still can't drive.
I watched a guy in a Ford truck shoot across four lanes to cut off a 16 wheeler in order to get off the freeway. I watched another person (couldn't see if it was a man or a woman) drive on the shoulder because no one would let his or her car on the freeway.
With anger running through my veins, I entered the school. It was hot. Very hot. Not comfortable.
I started in the office. My principal was gone, so I left the photo with her secretary (who really runs the school, but no one talks about that).
Borrowing a key from the secretary, I headed up to my office (I left my keys with her) to check my work email. As I went, I ran into some of my colleagues who were just standing out in the hallway (there were classes going on, but whatever).
"Hey...did you have to kid?" I was asked.
"Well, seeing as how it's now OVER a month since the due date, it's pretty safe to say yes." I replied.
"Pictures?"
I showed them the two I had (both of which are in earlier posts).
"He's adorable," I'm told.
"Thanks," I reply.
"So are you miserable?" Another colleague asks.
"Excuse me?" I reply.
"Is he keeping you up all the time? I mean you look good, so either you're relaxed, which means all is well, or you're working extremely hard to make it look like all is well."
"Does it matter which?" I asked.
"Testy, are we?"
"No," I replied. "All is well. The Poozer sleeps through the night. WE have to wake HIM up."
"What?" comes the general consensus.
"That's right. He's great."
I watch my colleagues faces fall, which tells me that they were, in some ways, hoping I was going to be miserable. That tells you a great deal about the people I work with at this school.
Leaving the group, I headed over to my office, which was open as people were working in there. It was then I discovered the real reason I'm pissed.
You see I share a room with other people. My desk is in the corner (away from the door which is perfect, because I can hide then). Now I mentioned before that some people tried to take my desk and area for themselves, but were told they couldn't have it by me and the principal.
Well, when I walked in yesterday, I discovered they didn't listen. All of my boxes had been stacked in a different corner, and my desk had been taken over by someone else. One of the boxes had been opened, and my stapler was missing (I later found it on another desk. My name is even on it, folks). There was also note on one of the boxes that read:
"Leab,
Here's your stuff. It will need to move somewhere else by August 1.
We need the key to your desk so [name protected] can use it.
Thanks."
Needless to say, I am not happy. All of my stuff is now stacked in a corner of the principal's office, and I will not be able to figure out where I am going to be until August.
The problem here is not that I have had my desk usurped, but the fact that the people who did were told not to do it by myself AND the principal...and then did it anyway.
I left a note for the principal. Mine read:
"I don't really care that they moved me out. However, whatever room I end up in, I want that desk. It's my desk, and I will not clean it out.
I have the keys to it as well.
Hope you're having a good summer."
And with that, I left.
That's why reality really sucks. When I'm with my son, it's all clear. I feel at peace around him and my wife. The second I step back into my place of work, I feel that dreariness. Yes, if work were meant to be fun, they would call it Super Action Fun Time, but this is different.
My wife is going to be dropping in on her work next week. I have no doubt that she will get a much different reception. I also have no doubt that her desk and her will have been left untouched.
Am I high on the Totem Pole at work? Oh God no, but remember, the Totem Pole needs the lower people in order to stand up. I'm so damn sick of people thinking they can get away with whatever they want. And I can't believe they waited until I was gone for the Summer.
It doesn't make me want to rush back. Hell, my wife and I have been discussing the idea of me becoming a stay-at-home father. Incidents like this don't make me want to rush back to work.
Of course, what do I know? I'm the homeless teacher now. Can you spare a dime for a cart?
Namaste.

Neglected Kitties

My cats have voiced their displeasure lately. They're upset over the fact that the humans in the house are fawning over another little human instead of them. So, following Sophe's lead, I placed the cats where anyone can seen them. Thus I present:
Ulysses,
Sam,
and
Oscar.

Enjoy them as I have for the last nine years (Their collective birthday was yesterday).
Because some of you are probably more human fans, here is another picture of my lovely son.
Enjoy.
Namaste.

Racism...or Art?

So Sony is running these ads for their new "white" PSP (the system is currently only available in black).
These are just a sample of about a hundred pictures that Sony took.
Many people are screaming to high heaven that these ads are blatantly racist, but I'm honestly not so sure. Yes it does feature a white woman and a black woman throwing down, but as I said before there are about 100 pictures of various poses where black is dominant or white is dominant or they are just posing.
Some feel that "The two images comprising the ad are intended to sway sympathies to the 'white' by in some way vilifying the black. There is clearly tension in the imagery that's built upon racial tension. There's an overall feeling of 'white'superiority that stems from the fact that the white model has a sort of rock star, supermodel look while the black model has a more proletarian appearance."(BroBuzz.)
On the other hand, some see it the other way where white is actually vilified because of the way she is treating black, and the fact that black is not shown in the same "rock star" fashion. She is in fact the poor or middle America rising to show the upper class all their evils (I'm not making this stuff up).
Now, these ads were only run in Holland, but people across the world saw these ads online and the debate erupted.
Sony became worried that they would be hit with lawsuits and changed the ads to the one on the right which features only the one model put into two colors. (Which is worse, isn't it? I mean they got rid of the black model all together....)
But are these ads really racist? Or is it all in the interpretation? Could it be that these ads were designed to be merely avant garde and instead people have blown them out of proportion?
What if it was the other way? Look at the DS Lite. It was shown all in white in most of the ads. What if Nintendo started pimping a black DS in the same manner as Sony is doing here? Would everyone still say it was racist?
You tell me, dear readers. Have we all lost our minds? Are these ads racist or not?

Ramblings for the Morning (7/8/2006)

Ok, so I haven't posted in a while. Sorry. Kind of busy with stuff. You know, new kid and all.
I'm making the effort now.
So, without further ado: MAAAATT DAAAMOON!
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The Fourth of July:
My wife and I took it easy on the Fourth. We didn't really go anywhere. In fact, she and Poozer went to bed early while I stayed up late (I take the late shift and then sleep from 3 to 7. Seems to work).
From where I live, you can see a few fireworks displays (depends on who is doing what). I decided to walk outside and grab some air...plus I had some diapers to take out. The second I stepped outside (and I'm not trying to be crass) I felt like I was in a war zone of sorts. Every direction had sounds of fireworks exploding. Many of my neighbors had them, which was strange as well. So, as I took the walk from my door to my trash can, I heard all of these noises.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Craaaaccckklllle!
Foooooop!
And on and on it went. I half expected for Tom Hanks to pop out of my garden and tell me we had to, "Take that beach!"
I did, at two points, almost jump out of my skin when my neighbors set off fireworks near me (and in one case almost hit me).
As I rounded the corner to go back into my house, my neighbors on my right set off a bunch of firecrackers. Those pops sound an awful lot like gunfire. And, as if that wasn't enough, one of the families down the street had bottle rockets and were setting them off. Well, one of their kids apparently wasn't being careful and either picked up the rocket or knocked it over. All I know is that while I was talking to my neighbors on my other side, a flash hit their house not far from where we were standing. That's right, we were almost hit by a bottle rocket.
It reminded me of a party I had gone to while in college where the hosts thought it would be funny to fire bottle rockets at cars and people who passed by their home. I guess when you're drunk enough that's funny. Well, they did it for two solid hours...until one of the cars they hit was a cop car. Let's just say Leab didn't have bail money that night for anyone.
Back the point, as I heard the fireworks, that's when the whole idea (crass as it may be) about a war zone came into my head. There were flashes everywhere, pops and crackling everywhere. It's no wonder that many veterans have their PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) triggered on this holiday. With all of the noises and such, I suspect that it can remind people of being in a war zone.
On the bright side, though my neighbor's kid was, my son was not afraid of the noises or the fireworks at all.
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Snakes in the Grass:
I don't really have a good title for this, but that's ok. I'm quite frustrated with my wife's friends and co-workers. On Thursday night, a few of my wife's friends called and said they would be coming over Friday night. Immediately my wife went into semi-crisis mode.
See, when I have friends or family come, I don't do alot. I pick up shoes, clean the dishes, and make sure the toilet works.
My wife, on the other hand, hands me a list and says, "Get to it." Thus vacuuming is done, toilets are scrubbed, and refrigerators are cleaned out. (And I don't get the last. Why would a guest be going into my fridge?)
So, my wife gets all gussied up as this is the first time she's seen anyone since giving birth to our son. She's actually nervous (whereas I couldn't care less). I, on the other hand, am wearing the clothes that I had on while mowing and weeding.
Evening comes and so do her friends and co-workers...and this is where I get pissed off.
When someone has given birth, you have to, oh I don't know, acknowledge the baby. So, they come in, and my wife is holding Poozer. The first person says, "Yeah, he's cute. Now hand him off to Dad over there." The baby is handed to me. The friends and co-workers then proceed to spend the next ten minutes talking about stuff that they have been or will be doing. Remember: my lovely wife has just gone through pregnancy and labor. It's usually polite to talk to the mother about that first. Don't tell her about how you're jetting off to the Dominican Republic and doing all these things that she (and I quote), "Can't do now that you have Little Leab."
When my wife was finally able to talk about the baby, she was quickly shut down by her friends who instead told a story about a marathon they all ran in together with a whole bunch of in-jokes that made no sense. I was irate. They were in our home supposedly for her, but treated her as nothing more than a spectator.
The final kicker, however, came before they left. They were in our house for less than a half an hour. Everyone was heading out to a meeting at Psycho Suzi's...and they wanted my wife to go. We were just a pit stop on the way. The conversation went like this:
Them: "Come to Psycho Suzi's with us. It's Schnooka's (a nickname) birthday. Come party. We miss you."
My wife: "I shouldn't. He (the baby, not me) eats every two hours. Plus, I'm tired...and a little sore."
Them: "So?! Throw some milk in a bottle and bring a donut cushion. He (indicating me) can stay here with the baby. Come on! We need our drinking buddy back."
(Note: See, my wife is quite a fun drunk. When she drinks, she does and says things she wouldn't normally do. She's also up for almost anything. That's why they want her.)
My wife: "I can't drink yet. I'm breastfeeding. I won't be pumping and dumping yet. Plus there's all that smoke (I'm guessing my wife is unaware of the smoking ban)."
Them: "Excuses. Come on!"
My wife: "You know, after everything he's done today, it wouldn't be fair to him (indicating me) to just leave him with the baby. He needs to rest too. He's only been sleeping around three hours a day."
Them: "It's fine. Look he doesn't care, right?"
Me: "Actually, I do. She needs to rest. Not go off drinking."
Them: "You're biased. You just don't want to watch the baby."
It's at this point that I take the kid with me to put him in his crib. If I'm going to fight, I'm not going to do it in front of him.
When I return, my wife has finished explaining that she will not go.
Her friends and co-workers are angry. "We wasted a trip," one of them says.
I watch my wife's face fall a little. This group has done what birth couldn't do. They have actually broken my wife's spirit a little.
You have to understand that these people standing in my living room upset over my wife's decision are close to forty. They act like children, because (in my opinion) they are afraid to be adults.
They came not to see our child, but to grab my wife and make her go out drinking. I agree with them that she should get out of the house, but heading off to a bar is not necessarily the best choice. What's worse is turning on her, because she won't go. That just pisses me off.
She's a parent now, folks, and unlike the movies, you don't give birth and then get back in the game right away. It takes time.
I made one mistake last night. Tired and angry, I kicked everyone out last night. I was polite, but I still told everyone to leave because, "The kid needs to eat now."
After getting my wife set up, I went outside to water our plants. The group was still standing in my driveway bitching about my wife's refusal to come. Much like high school kids, they started talking in hushed whispers when I came outside.
Again, my problem is not that they asked her to go out. In due time I'd like to see my wife go out with her friends. The problem I have is that they were upset, because she wouldn't go out right then.
Maybe i'm just overreacting....
and finally:
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Truth, Justice...and All That Stuff:
My family was in town recently. The came to visit the baby (their first grandson/nephew. They already have a granddaughter/neice). My father and I had free tickets to see Superman Returns, so we left my mother and sister with my wife and took off.
It's a beautiful film...but very disappointing.
I can move beyond the giant Christ allegoy (no less than seven shots with Superman having his arms outstretched, and having his side pierced by Kryptonite), but the film still has some problems. This is, of course, my opinion, so feel free to disagree.
1. Kate Bosworth's Lois Lane does not work. First of all she looks like she's 14. Secondly, you never really buy her being the tough gal that you did with Margot Kidder or even Dana Delany in the cartoon. The youth issue leads to problem number two....
2. The kid. Sigh. Another kid introduced into a series. This is supposed to be Lois' child, but again, she looks way to young to have had a child. Also the kid...is kind of annoying.
3. The plot. Ok, so Luthor wants to create a new island. Great. Here's the problem: From the moment the island starts to be created and is supposed to destroy Metropolis, the film flops. How exactly does Superman save Metropolis? What is the point of the ending? At the end of the original Superman film with Christopher Reeve, Supes saves Lois and puts Luthor in jail. Here we're left with a few false endings and then possibly the most anti-climatic ending. I won't spoil it, but you see it coming from the moment certain characters are introduced. It's annoying.
4. Not enough Luthor/Superman intrigue. They spend five minutes together on screen. That's it. Five minutes. That's not enough for the hero and villain. It's just not enough. They don't even really talk to each other.
5. While the film is lyrical (beautifully shot), it is overly long at points. At over two and a half hours, there are some points that can be cut out. Sadly, most of the points that could be cut are from the Lois/Superman romance angle.
6. Truth, Justice...All that stuff? We can no longer say the American Way? Has it become so taboo to say the American Way because of America's recent actions? Even though we've done some stupid stuff, are we not a great country anymore?
Are there positives? Sure.
1. Brandon Routh is Christopher Reeve as Superman. He is. He does a great Chris Reeve impression throughout the entire film.
2. There are some great inside jokes that you can get if you understand film. Singer borrows some shots from The Day The Earth Stood Still, and more. Plus, Perry White has a great line about Academy Awards.
3. The music. Ok, this only works because they used John Williams' score from the old film.
4. Kevin Spacey and Parker Posey are the best parts of the film. Spacey is obviously having fun, and Parker Posey is always great.
Here's the deal. If you really like Superman and have the time and patience, it's an interesting film and well shot. However, if you're looking for a big action film, this is NOT it. This is more of an art film than an action film.
Of course that's just my opinion, I'm more of a Green Lantern fan....
Namaste.

The Zen of Parenthood

Parenting.
There are thousands of books on the subject. Anyone who has ever talked to a parent knows that each parent in the world has their own take on how to do things (how to soothe, how to feed, etc).
This post is not going to be about my advice to you on how to be a parent. I am not the world's greatest parent, but I'm not the worst either. Yet, the more I think on it, what makes someone the world's greatest parent? I don't know that either. As I said, this is not to be about how to be a parent as I have no real advice to give (I've only been a parent for a little over a week, folks).
No, this entry is about the Zen of Parenthood.
In some ways, parenting is a great deal like meditation. In the world of meditation, one is supposed to push aside all thoughts save for one and concentrate on that one thought into singularity.
Parenting is no different. The means are not the same as mediation, but the outcome is the same: to calm the mind.
Last night I couldn't sleep, so while my wife and son were out cold, I sat and watched Poozer doze. Those of you who are married, have children, or just have a significant other have, at one time or another, probably had that rush of thoughts that comes when you think about the relationship/life/etc.
What will happen tomorrow?
Will he/she still love me?
What If I get hit by a bus?
What will he/she be like when ten/fifteen years old?
How can I protect him/her from the troubles of this world?
On and on it goes.
Your brain runs at a million miles per hour with thoughts going so fast that they appear like those black shadows in the corners of your eye.
So how do you stop it?
You concentrate on one thought: his/her breath.
You watch this little person just breath. Concentrate on that as well as the idea that as long as that breath goes in and out, everything will be fine.
At the same time, you start to move in ways that feel like breathing.
This evening, as I was changing a diaper, my wife noticed that I wasn't looking at the baby while I was changing him. No, I was talking to her. Yet, there I was slapping on the necessary components (wipe, petroleum jelly, new diaper) without pausing.
You begin to move with a flow where you don't need to think. It's almost like second nature.
When I was doing theatre lighting professionally, I had the ability to not even look at what I was working on while doing it. Building a light from scratch, when you've done it enough, is like breathing. The same can be said for teaching (as can be seen with some of my colleagues). The explanation of Poe, the teaching of slope, or the understanding of French can be laid in your head in such a way that talking about them is like waving at someone. Any job can get that way.
Back to the point. After only two weeks, I have changed enough diapers that I can do it all with my eyes closed.
Parenting. It gets to a point where it's all a second nature. I love the fact that I no longer worry or think about what I'm doing when I'm with my son. Instead the time flies as I try to make him smile and learn.
I understand what my parents have been trying to tell me about parenting now.

Ramblings for the Evening (06/28/06)

Let's get right to it.
So without further ado: YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M CAPABLE OF!
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Religious Animosity:
This is quite funny to me:
(From Imdb.com)
Falwell: You "Got To Be a Homosexual" for Hollywood Success
The Moral Majority's Jerry Falwell, who has campaigned for stronger regulations on racy film and television content, has told a church audience in Lynchburg, VA that the entertainment industry is riddled with "moral perverts." The Associated Press quoted Fallwell as saying during a televised sermon at the Thomas Road Baptist Church, where he serves as senior pastor, "You know, you almost got to be a homosexual to be recognized in the entertainment industry anymore." He suggested that the industry has caused the world to go "sex crazy," then added: "Movie stars not married to each other, having babies and making headlines all over the world as though they were doing some great thing. Big deal! Just another moral pervert. And for them to become heroes for our kids."

So here's my thoughts on this:
1. I got three words for you, Mr. Falwell: The Catholic Church. The headlines part especially. You call them moral perverts. Isn't pride a sin, Mr. Falwell? Don't you push to have people recognize you for your achievements? That would make you a sinner. So shut it.
2. Irony: A televised sermon. That would make him a television star.
3. You HAVE to be a homosexual? Really? Hey, Mel Gibson...how do you feel about that? You've just been outed. Paul Newman...you're marriage is obviously a sham. Oh, and Meryl Streep...you better just fess up, because ole Sheriff Falwell is in town.

Here's the deal, Jerry. Do you mind if I call you Jerry? J-Dog it is then. Look, the world has MANY more problems than this. Homosexuality is not a problem...not like pedophilia, abuse, or even murder. Pick a different target...otherwise I will have to say that the priest doth protest too much. I'm just saying.
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The "No" Prize:
I used to (and I admit I occasionally still do) read comic books. I was a big fan of Batman, Green Lantern, and The Punisher. That's not the point right now.
Marvel Comics, one of the largest publishers along with DC, used to have what was called a "No Prize." Basically, if you found a mistake in a comic book and were able to explain it to the editors, then you got your name in the letters page and no prize (hence the name).
Well, Margaret gets the "No Prize" for being the only person to actually notice that I mentioned there was a big announcement coming and guessing it. All hail Princess Yoshi. Now I must practice my Mario Karting....
And finally:
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The Zen of Parenthood:
There is something very zen-like about being a parent. You learn how to calm your mind in order to concentrate on what your child needs.
As I start to write this, I realize that I will need more space to talk about this, but think about what makes you calm your mind in order to concentrate on what you need to do. What makes you "flow" as it were.
Namaste.

Most Pointless Class Ever!

One week in, and I'm actually having fun.
Am I well-rested? No.
Am I smelling like roses? Heck no.
Am I in love with my little 8 pound Poozer (as I call him)? Most definitely.
Everytime I get up in order to change a diaper or help my wife feed him, all my negative feelings go away when I see his face.
And yes, I am changing diapers, dear reader. I promised my wife I would do every diaper for the first two weeks. It's the least I can do after what she went through in bringing Poozer to the world.
This post, however, is not about my son. No, it's about the class that I suffered through the week of my son's birth.
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So here's the deal: When you are going for tenure, you are required to take certain courses. In my district, it is now required that non-tenured teachers (such as myself) take a course on the "foundations" of teaching. Now, of course I don't begrudge my district for wanting its teachers to have a firm understanding of teaching as well as some tricks, but this "Foundations" class covers the first semester of what I did in graduate school. I'm getting ahead of myself, however.
Day One:
My wife had still not given birth at this point. We were going to have to go in on Monday night to induce (that would have been the nineteenth). Now, I was nervous that I was going to miss the birth of my son, so I called the co-ordinator of the class ahead of time to discuss this. After some pleasantries were exchanged, we got down to the point:
Me: "So, my son is to born on the 20th. He's going to be induced."
Her: "Congratulations."
Me: "Thank you. So, I may have to miss class so I can be there with my wife to welcome in my son. He's two weeks late...."
Her: "I...see."
Me: "So I need permission to miss class on Tuesday."
Her: "Oh no, I can't do that."
Me: "Ummm. I'm sorry? I don't think I understand."
Her response was long-winded, so I'm going to boil it down as well as explain to you why none of her answers worked for me.
Her: "Well, first of all, as you remember from the New Teacher Orientation...."
I never got the invite to the new teacher orientation. I was hired too late.
"We offer the class four times a year. You could have signed up for them anytime before this as I'm sure you know."
My school's co-ordinator spaced on telling me about this. Now she did have a rough year personally, but she forgot. I mentioned this and was told:
"Well...that's your fault for not looking into what you need to know, now isn't it?"
That's a very Minnesota way of answering. She continued on....
"There's also the fact that you need this class in order to work in the district. "
That's true. According to the e-mail I received shortly before the end of the year, the district warned me that failure to take this class would result in termination of my contract. Then she got to my utterly favorite part:
"Besides, you're not the one giving birth, your wife is. You don't need to be there."
At this point I can see the vein in my forehead. That's how angry I am talking to this woman. I can see my own forehead vein throbbing.
I get that my parents' generation and before didn't allow the husband to be there, but I was my wife's coach on this one. Hell, the stirrups in our delivery room were broken, so I had to actually hold my wife's legs up when she pushed (more on that another time). Back to the point. I didn't need to be there.
With no choice, I headed to class on Monday morning.
There were 26 of us. I was the only high school teacher. Everyone else was elementary or kindergarten. That did not bode well.
The two teachers (including the co-ordinator) were elementary teachers. They assured us that everything we did could be used in the elementary classroom.
"What about high school?" I asked.
"Ummm. Some of it can be," is the response.
Oh boy.
We spend the first two hours "getting to know each other." I can hear Maria singing in my head as I walk around the classroom asking people questions about their favorite politicians.
Getting to know you
Really, Paul Wellstone, huh?
Getting to know all about you
Well, Hillary Clinton is a classy lady
Etc. Etc. Etc.
Everything we did on the first day was covered in my classes at St. Thomas. I was so bored that I ended up telling my group during every group work how to make the posters so they reflected what the teachers were looking for in the assignment.
As one classmate would put it on the last day. "From the start it was obvious you were a Gifted/ Talented kid in a special ed class." Ouch.
At one point my phone rang. It was my wife. Her water had broken.
"My wife's water just broke. I need to go."
"You can leave in an hour," I'm told.
"An HOUR?!?!?"
"You need to finish the class first. Class is from 8 to 4, and you have to be here."
Again, the throbbing vein. I have this vision of my wife giving birth and saying, "Where's my husband?" My child wasn't even born yet, and I'm a deadbeat dad.
Class ends with an exercise about classroom management. One teacher mentions ringing a bell for attention. I envision my 9th graders giving the "WTF, Mate" look.
I go to the teacher.
"My child's birth is imminent. What do I need to do?"
"Are you saying you might not be here?"
"I love my job, but I love my wife and child more."
She thinks it over.
"Fill out these sheets and get them back to me before four o'clock tomorrow. Do that, and you get your credit."
I raced to the hospital where I spent the night. As my wife slept, I did my "homework" by monitor light.
Day Two:
My wife had not given birth yet. I asked the doctor how much time I had. Because I had enough, I raced over to St. Paul in time for the beginning of class.
I signed in, handed over my homework, and started to leave.
"Where are you going?" the teacher asked me.
"Back to my wife's side. I did all the homework, including the sheets for today. I'm done."
"How?" She asked me.
"I told you before, this is all stuff I've done in previous classes. You'll find my answers are correct. See you tomorrow."
And with that day two of class ended. My son was born that night. I headed in the next day.
Day Three:
"You look tired," my desk partner says.
"I didn't really sleep much. New baby and all."
"So we heard," he replies.
This class doesn't go much better. My new desk partner is deaf in one ear, has worn the same clothes three straight days, and his cellphone (with a Ricky Martin ringtone) is constantly going off as he is trying to buy a house.
Let's put it this way: I was a new dad who smelled of new baby, and yet, I smelled better than him.
Day Three was dedicated to scaffolding. Not the architecture kind, mind you, but the education kind (works in the same way, more or less).
I spent two years on scaffolding. My lesson plans use the technique. It's old news to me.
Yet there we are, for almost eight hours mind you, looking for ways to show the whole class how to use the technique.
I mentioned before that everyone else was teaching elementary or kindergarten. This is where the problems started. We had to have sample lesson plans. Mine was based on one I actually taught on Romeo & Juliet. The rest of the class couldn't get into it because, "it's too advanced."
It was a typical high school level lesson. No harder than any other.
During our working lunch (I should mention we never took a lunch break. We had to work over lunch, which...well...you get the idea.), I sat alone. Not by choice, mind you. It's just that the rest of class either worked at the same school or worked at the same level. The only guy who talked to me was an elementary teacher who thought his son was going to be in my class next year. He would grill me over the entire four days about IB, texts, and more.
Day three ended with a visit from the president of the school district's teacher's union. Nice lady, but she was a snob. Whether she meant to or not, she bashed high school teachers as being, "a little too unwavering...unlike middle school and elementary teachers who are a little more flexible."
Perhaps it was the fatigue. Maybe it was the anger of being in a class that was teaching me NOTHING, but I said something. It wouldn't be the last time.
"Flexible, huh? Is that why we have to re-teach the kids HOW to be in a classroom. You know, the whole raise your hand, work for your grade, and pay attention thing?"
"You must be a high school teacher," she says.
"Yup."
"I didn't mean to offend you," I'm told.
"Inadvertant or not, think through what you say to us. We are your voting public."
I would not get a response to that one.
I returned to the hospital to be with my wife with more homework. I would later discover that I was the ONLY person made to hand in homework.
Day Four:
The last day. I took pictures of my son to class with me as a way to make me a little happy. The work was forgetable this day. I didn't do anything except present for my group, because I needed SOMETHING to do. What can I say, I'm a showman.
At lunch I was given an impromptu baby shower by a few of my classmates. The leader, it turned out, was the guy whose son was to be in my class (Hey, the kid gets an automatic B+ now). It was very nice, but many of the students walked off, and a few later told me that they thought it was rude that I interrupted class to have a shower (It wasn't my idea...but who cares? Some people just lack humor, dagnabit).
The final hour was atrocious. I can think of no better way to decribe it. The president of the union returned to talk to us...again. This time it was about elections and getting us to sign up. As she sat there talking to us about what was happening in the district and Washington D.C. and such, it dawned on me that the entire class was just a ploy to get us to sign up to work for the union. They needed people to go door to door on voting day, they needed people to make phone calls, and they needed people to mail letters. Our final survey even gave us "the chance to help by signing up for a job."
I was pissed. I was tired, and I was pissed.
On my survey I wrote out some comments (this was what got me in trouble at St. Thomas).
What I didn't know was that the president of the union (and I am intentionally not capitalizing, folks) would read them.
"Would you tell me who wrote this please? I'll read it aloud. 'If I had one suggestion it would be to not take up class time with political aspirations. That is for outside the class. We complain about how we have such little time to teach in class, so why practice what we are angry about all the time?' Who wrote this?"
I had no qualms. That was only one of several things I wrote.
"I did. I mean it as well."
"Explain yourself," she said to me.
"I am told I have to be here, or I lose my job. My child is born, but I can't spend time with him, because I have to be here to learn what I already know. Then rather than let us go early, you take an hour to talk to us about politics and almost require us to sign up for some sort of work. You want to win a politcal battle. Grassroots doesn't work anymore. Go for television.
In all honesty ma'am. I feel you have wasted our time with this and have not fostered a good relationship with your constituency but have, in fact, perhaps turned some against you."
She was silent. Everyone was. I heard a pin drop in Edina...and I was sitting in St. Paul.
"Well," she stammers," does anyone have anything positive to say."
The room remains silent.
After finishing up, I start to leave and am stopped by the president. After exchanging words, she gets to the point.
"Would you like to work for the union?" She asks.
"No. I have a new child. I'm busy. Thanks though."
"I don't mean sending out fliers and such. I mean actually working for us."
"Oh God no," I reply. "I'm happy as I am right now. Get back to me in a few years...like ten.
And I left.
30 hours of completly wasted time. I felt guilty everytime I left my wife in the hospital with my son. "Sorry honey. I have to go sit on my ass for eight hours and learn nothing. Have fun with diapers, feedings, and such."
Did I survive? Sure.
Am I happy? Not even close.
But...now I get a nice vacation until August...then I have another classs. Sigh.
Namaste.

Fatherhood Begins

I'm finally up for some air.
I can't write too much now as the baby is still waking up here and there needing to fed, changed, etc.
In a few days I plan to write out the whole labor story (it's a doozy).
I can also tell you that this summer will see stories about the pregnancy as well as discussing the class I just attended for the last week (and was almost forced to miss the birth, no less.)
So, until I have a little more time to write, I'll just have to leave you with my favorite picture of my son. It's from a few minutes after his birth.
Namaste.

Two New Links

So, I've added two new links over there on the right, and I've removed one.
First of all, there's "The Gone Rick Motel," which has some fun caption contests.
The other is a smashing new writer recommend by ole Admin Worm. I trust Worm's judgement. So, I've added "William Smythe" to the class.
Enjoy.
Nothing new to report.
Namaste.

Happy (other sort of made-up) Holiday!

Today is Father's Day.
This is another sort of made up holiday not unlike Mother's Day.
Originally the holiday was created to be celebrated on March 19, but it slowly has made its way to the third sunday of June, and it was officially given that day by Lyndon Johnson. It was not, however, recognized until 1972 when Nixon was in office.
Once again, not unlike Mother's Day, the holiday has been taken over by places such as Home Depot and Sears who offer "dad-oriented gifts." What does that mean? It means that back on Mother's Day I was supposed to by my mother jewelry, and now I'm supposed to buy my father a grill...or power tools...or a big screen TV.
The goal here, is that I'm supposed to spend money to show my father how much I love him. I don't really do that.
Unlike Mother's Day, there's really no guilt involved with this holiday. Now maybe it's just me, but the commercials and ads made it sound like not buying my mom a gift would lead to suffering in Hell, but for Dad...well...a hug and maybe a card is enough. Otherwise just give him a gift card. That'll make him happy.
My father couldn't care less. I did get him a gift, but not because of the holiday. No I did it because he's losing weight like crazy and needs the clothes (apparently a triple bypass and pills will motivate a diet better than anything). I bought him two shirts. No big deal.
His real Father's Day gift is this entry. I know he'll never read it. I know he knows about this blog, but I also know he's extremely busy. I will tell you, dear reader, some stories about my father.
Let me start with the present. Though he is 70 and his kids are all grown up, he still keeps his fathering nature.
My niece is two years old. At her last birthday party, he set up a train set for her and played with her for over an hour. This is a 70 year old man.
He loves his granddaughter. He won't truly admit it if you confront him, but it's just like how he is with my mother's cat. Lucy (the cat) will come into his room and lie on his desk. He doesn't move her, just works around her. If you catch him, however, he gets faux-upset and removes the cat quietly, saying, "Uh...darn white rat...."
I've mentioned before that my father is a Holocaust survivor. He grew up in a very tough situation, but, even though he's had issues showing his emotions, he has always worked hard to be there for us. When I was eight years old, my father was teaching at a university in Cologne, Germany. He was away, but I had time off from school and went out to be with him for two weeks. It was incredible. As busy as he was, my father made time to take me to the zoo as well as Lego Land. He also reassured me as we attempted to drive through the then-present Checkpoint Charlie (I had visions of being arrested or taken away). The highlight of that trip, however, came when my father had a car accident.
Unlike here in America, the cones in Germany are hard and have a concrete base to keep them in place. While swerving to avoid another driver who wasn't paying attention, my father's car struck a cone and lost a tire. He kept the car in control, but had to change the rim.
The next day, he was using a friend's car when a large truck slammed him into a guardrail. (my father has REALLY bad luck when it comes to driving. You have to understand: he didn't get his license to drive until I was born. At that point he was 42.) The police wanted to take him in to give a statement and to talk about what had happened the night before as well. I was left alone. Before he went, my father said to me, "If I'm not back by four, call your mother. The number is on the table by the phone."
While my father answered questions, I watched movies and read books. Soon the clock struck four. My father was nowhere to be seen. I waited two minutes, then I called my mother. As I started to explain to her what had happened, my father walks in with two cops following him. I could see his expression was not happy.
"You called your mother?" He asked.
"You said to wait until 4. It's 4:05."
I knew my father was angry. There was a vein in his forehead throbbing, but he never raised his voice. He wanted to very much so, and he was known for it, but he remained calm. Not because of the cops and not because of the fact that my mother was on the phone. He remained docile, because he didn't want to yell in front of me. He was trying to be a good role model. To this day it is very rare that my father will yell in front of me. Part of it may be that I can yell as loud as he can, but most of the time it is because he is trying to remain that role model.
When I was in college, I had some rough times (as I have mentioned before). The same can be said with high school as well. My father did his best to help. He visited me a few times in St. Louis, and we did what we normally do together: We went to the movies.
The fact that I am a cinephile can be traced to my father. Both Sister #1 and I love films. I remember almost every film I have seen with my father. From the good (The Hunt for Red October, Pulp Fiction), to the bad (Sudden Death), to the annoying (The Long Kiss Goodnight), I have seen many films with that man sitting beside me. Back to the point however.
I used to get a package once every two weeks while I was in college. It contained all of my mail that was still being sent to him and a letter from him.
The letters were nice. How often do people use the written word? I don't mean emails, I mean pen to paper. It's rare that anyone does that anymore.
If it isn't evident by this point, my father is a hero of mine. He has overcome extreme adversity, managed to hold down several jobs at once, and raise three kids with my mother.
My father has taught me when to fight and when you don't.
He taught me that Hitchcock is a master of using color.
He taught me that sometimes you have to lose in order to win.
He taught me that you never, ever, hit a woman.
He taught me that brains is more important than brawn.
My father taught me that all of our experiences are what make us who we are. Never deny who you are for others.
He taught me that when my children are born I need to take some time away from work and just bask in them.
He taught me that secret conferences are great.
He taught me you have to be a magician in order to be a parent.
He taught me that you can be a parent and love your kids, but you should never forget the mother of your children.
I love my father very much, because he has taught me that you can remain a man but still have emotions.
My father has prepared me as well as he can to be a dad. I stand now on the precipice of fatherhood. Even as I finish writing this, my wife has started the labor process (relax, she's right next to me and ok with me writing).
That would be the one thing I have not truly been talking about: I am about to be a father myself (props to Margaret for being the only person to actually guess it).
That's why I'm so grateful to my father. As I am about to become a father, I can look to how my father raised me to see how I should raise my own son.
So, to you my dad, Happy Father's Day. I'm grateful for everything you've ever taught me. I look forward to you, me, and my son going to the movies together.
If you're a father reading this, then I hope you have a great (other sort of made-up) holiday as well.
Namaste.