To Hell in a Handbasket

Like most teachers I know I've been spending a portion of these summer days preparing for next fall. I read professional books, look back over some of my notes from this past year, and dream about changes for this next group coming in. I hope to be a better teacher. And well I should, given the state of education today. Just today I read...

If you read the newspaper, you know the American education system has gone past the point where it is simply failing to educate our young, and is now actively reducing their intelligence. Hardly a day goes by when you don't see an article like this:

WASHINGTON -- The National Association of People Who Worry About These Things (NAPWWATT) today reported that this year's graduating high-school seniors are even dumber than last year's, many of whom are still stumbling around the back of the auditorium trying to get their commencement gowns off. NAPWWATT reported that 66 percent of this year's seniors failed a nationwide scholastic test consisting of the question, "What does a duck say?"

This is pretty pathetic. When I was in high school, we were expected to know what a duck says. Oh, sure, I've forgotten a lot of this stuff, but at least I used to know it, which gives me the right to express smug contempt thinly disguised as grave concern for the young people of today.

This is Dave Barry sarcastically poking fun at our education system. The fact that this piece, Why Johnny is Dum, is making light of the fact that the media feels as though American students are getting less and less intelligent each year isn't such a surprise. What gets me is that this was written twenty-six years ago. If our kids were on the downward slide in 1985 imagine how dim-witted they must be by now.

I, of course, would have to disagree - at least with regards to the kids I've known over the past ten or fifteen years. Each spring I see what my students are capable of doing and know full-well that they are much more complex thinkers than I ever was in grade school. Though that's not really saying much. I was in grade school back in 1985.

But like all of us, teachers included, Dave Barry truly wants to see our kids become better learners and achieve more. Although, his motives for this may be a bit misplaced:

Like any responsible parent, I want my son to get the best possible education, because I am sick to death of having to read his Masters of the Universe comic books to him. All the male characters wear loincloths, all the females have breasts like grain silos, and all the dialogue sounds like this (from The Stench of Evil):

SKELETOR: Stinkor, with your powerful SMELL, I would like you to spread your FOUL ODOR where the air is clean, and bring MISERY to a place that is full of happiness!

STINKOR: YES! YES! I revel in all that is FOUL!

Our goal as a nation must be to develop, by next fall, an educational system that will teach my son how to read this drivel for himself, ideally on his first day.

A lofty goal, to be sure. Maybe I oughta get back to work.

The Bucket List

This afternoon, while eating lunch, I did something I rarely do - read the Parade magazine that comes in the Sunday paper. There's rarely anything in there that I'm all that interested in. Today, however, there was a photo of Jimmy Fallon, dressed like Elvis, driving a motorcycle with a large bear seated behind him. I was kind of curious.

After flipping through the pages to find the article I saw that it was all about his "bucket list" - the things he wants to experience or accomplish in his lifetime. I don't know if the term bucket list is a new one but I don't remember having heard it prior to a few years ago. It seemed, at the time, as though this phrase was being used everywhere. As is generally the case, because creating a bucket list became so popular I decided to avoid it at all costs. This is really a juvenile way to act but I doubt at this point there's much chance that I'll change.

So for whatever reason I sat there and read, while picking at leftover chili and some fruit, Jimmy Fallon's list of hopes and dreams. Well, I read a few (It'd be fun to do Wii bowling with the Queen of England), became bored, and let my eyes wander to other things. At the side of the page I saw that the author of the article had created a list of items he thought everyone should have on their bucket list. I was surprised to see that the first few I noticed were ones I had already completed. Feeling like a success I decided to read on. It actually wound up being pretty interesting. Here's the list (with a few reactions mixed in for good measure)...


1. Eat real barbecue, like at Shealy's Bar-B-Que in Batesburg-Leesville, SC, famous for its fried pulley bone-the part of the chicken around the wishbone. Or go to one of America's BBQ meccas, like Memphis, Austin, or Kansas City, and dine your way from joint to joint.

We've had BBQ in Memphis. I don't recall it being that memorable though. Perhaps we just didn't hit the right places. We spent most our time on Beale Street where the blues pours out  from nearly every door. Strangely enough, Memphis is where I learned how much I love tamales. Go figure.


2. Watch a lawnmower race. Find one by consulting the website of the United States Lawn Mower Racing Association (letsmow.com), the country's oldest and largest sanctioning body for lawn mower racing. Its motto: "We turn a weekend chore into a competitive sport."

Sadly, this really sounds like something I might enjoy. It reminds me a bit of the movie "The Straight Story" about an old man who rides his lawn mower across the country to make peace with his estranged brother. I thought this sounded like a really sweet idea for a movie but never saw it because Tricia feared it would be too depressing.


3. Visit a farm. Meeting the men and women who grow your food can be fascinating and fun. To locate a nearby farm, visit localharvest.org.

Coincidentally Tricia mentioned that she saw something in the paper last weekend about visiting local farms and thought we should to do this.


4. Participate in a tradition that's so odd, it has to be American, like the Mermaid Parade, held in New York City's Coney Island (June 18), or the sidewalk egg-frying competition in Oatman, Arizona (July 4).

Does the Polar Bear Plunge count? I've thought about doing that one. They have it each January here in Lake Carolina. Being that it's usually in the mid to upper 40's when everyone takes the leap I wonder how much street cred this actually gives you.


5. Stand at the base of a really tall tree, like one of Northern California's redwoods or giant sequoias. Gaze up at its branches. Be amazed.

Of all the items on the list this is the one I'd most like to do.


6. Own a pair of cowboy boots.

Of all the items on the list this is the one I'd least like to do.


7. Attend a religious service of a faith different from your own.

When I was much younger I attended Sunday church service with a neighborhood friend. I won't mention the faith but they didn't own a TV and never wore shorts no matter how hot it was outside. Their church had a full band on stage, or I guess they probably called it the pulpit, and the drummer was doing all he could do to snap his sticks on the drumheads. The men in the congregation slipped off their shoes and started wandering around the sanctuary mumbling until a number of them fell to the floor and started to convulse. The women dropped to their knees and placed their heads on the seats of the pews - alongside the children. Thinking they were taking cover I did the same. After what felt like an eternity we finally went home. Needless to say I never went back.


8. Invite someone new to Thanksgiving. Your guest could be a neighbor, a coworker, a foreign visitor - anyone who's not having a celebration of his own.

A couple of years ago we invited the Spanish teacher from my school to Thanksgiving dinner. He was from Columbia, had no family here, and had never celebrated Thanksgiving. At the time we also had an exchange student from Saudi Arabia. So counting Ty there were four different countries represented at our Thanksgiving table. That was pretty cool.


9. Read the constitution. Considering how much time we spend arguing about it, why not bone up on what it actually says?

This wouldn't be a bad idea given that I barely passed the Constitution test before graduating high school. Still, I think I'd rather watch paint dry. Or grass grow. Watch coal turn to diamonds. Any others?


10. Volunteer to be a poll worker on Election Day (Nov. 8 this year).

After the 2000 election where a number of eligible voters were reported to have been turned away (in an election that was excruciatingly close) I decided to become an election judge. There was a new job at the polls created to help anyone turned away. Feeling this was an opportunity to help the system work the way it should I volunteered for this post. For thirteen hours I sat at my own little table off to the side and took care of those who had stood in long lines only to be turned away. A good title for this job would have been "Guy who gets yelled at." It seems standing in a twenty minute line to be told you aren't allowed to vote really fires most people up. Some of them were simply in the wrong place. Others had moved and failed to update their information or register in a new precinct. My favorites, though, were the ones who hadn't voted for years (or decades) and thought all they had to do was show up on election day. A common excuse was "I though I was automatically registered to vote when I got my drivers' license!" While that would have made all the sense in the world it was definitely not the case. It's amazing how completely numb you can become to people griping and yelling at you. 

 
11. Enjoy a minor league baseball game. For teams and schedules, go to minorleaguebaseball.com.

We go to one or two college games each year. I think this is even better.


12. March in a parade. You don't have to pull a Ferris Bueller and commandeer a float - tagging along will do - but big smiles and waves are a must.

I hate parades. As Daniel Tosh jokes "All anyone ever does at a parade is rubberneck down the road wondering when this stupid thing is going to end so they can go home and wash the 'lame' off them. You want to make parades more interesting? I say they do one more lap but at ten times the speed. The midgets start flying off the floats because their stubby fingers can't hold on to the railings. Their tiny bodies whip out into the crowd and a little boy catches one and asks if he can keep it. 'I don't know why not,' his mom says. 'They're not real.' What? They're not. They can't even vote. Well, okay...they CAN vote but have no idea who they voted for. And that is the story of how George Bush became president!" Wow, that was  a long joke just to get to George Bush!


13. Take a kid to Disney World.

We took four the summer before last. I fear Disney may have paid to have this one placed on the list. Would you be surprised to find out that was true?


14. Learn the second verse of our national anthem. One little-known fact about "The Star Spangled Banner": It's melody was based on "To Anacreon in Heaven," a popular British tune dedicated to a wine-loving Greek poet.

I don't know this verse but I do know the verses to Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Were you aware that song even had verses? (Katie Casey was baseball mad...Had the fever and had it bad...)


15. Ride the Ferris wheel at a country fair.

By country fair I assume they mean really rural. I've done the state fair and while I haven't been on the Ferris Wheel I did make myself sick trying to eat something called an elephant ear.


16. Seek out the best Fourth of July fireworks within 50 miles of your home.

We used to watch the fireworks in St. Louis and they were among the biggest and best in the country. They were set against the backdrop of the Arch.


17. Get a passport - there's a whole world out there to explore.

I have a passport but there's a glitch in the digital photo that makes it look as though I have a piece of spinach or something in my teeth. For fear of showing this to anyone I will not be leaving the country until it expires in another five years.


18. Send a letter to your US senator or representative. Maybe even be nice.

I haven't sent a letter but I have sent a number of e-mails. The fact that an assistant sends back a form reply or a quick "The senator is very concerned about this issue and thanks you for your input" I don't know that it did all that much. But it's still good to keep trying.


19. Mail a care package to a service member. Learn what to send and where to send it at anysoldier.com, an organization that helps Americans boost the spirits of military personnel.

This one is a really good idea so I won't make any snide remarks. We were lucky enough this past spring to receive regular letters to our classroom from a soldier stationed in Afghanistan. He was there providing medical care for both soldiers and Afghanees. His letters were beautiful and full of so much interesting information about the people and places he encountered.

20. Make your own Halloween costume.

A few years ago I helped Harper make a Lego costume out of a cardboard box, some cottage cheese containers, hot glue, and spray paint. It was by far the best costume any of the kids have ever had because it was simple, clever, and homemade. I've tried each year to convince them to make another but they'd rather be a Power Ranger or something along those commercial lines. Too bad.


21. Tailgate at a football game.

Uh, no.


22. Go on a road trip. Choose a classic route - the Pacific Coast Highway, the Great River Road, the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Great Lakes Circle tour, Maui's Hana Highway - and pack the car.

I've been on great road trips with friends and have driven along the Great River Road and Route 66. However, I've never taken any of these roads as part of a road trip. Sadly, like most Americans I stick to the interstates that get me there the quickest. Tricia and I drove the Road to Hana and it took us a few hours to navigate more than 45 one-lane bridges as we looked down at the ocean below. It was only fun after it was all over because we could say we did it. 


23. Explore America's ancient ruins. The US may be a mere 235 years old, but humans have lived here for millennia. One treasure left behind: the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde in Colorado, carved out by the Ancestral Puebloans between 600 and 1300. For one of the densest concentrations of Ancestral Puebloan ruins, head to Chaco Canyon, NM.

Since I've never been further west than Kansas City I imagine there's a whole lot left to see.


24. Sleep beneath the stars in one of more than 50 national parks. See a list at nps.gov/findapark.

This one would seem as though it'd be a given but I'm not sure I've slept in a national park. Plenty of state parks and national forests though.


25. Dip a toe (at least) into the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.

Done it. The Pacific was far better.


26. Write a gratitude letter to a teacher who's made a different in your life. Tell her (or him) of their impact on your life.

A great idea. I had already planned to do something similar to this over the summer.


27. Bake a real apple pie - from scratch. Get a great recipe at dashrecipes.com/applepie.

Maybe blueberry or cherry, but not apple.


28. Catch a concert by an American legend - James Taylor, Dolly Parton, and Jimmy Buffet are all playing dates this summer. Or get tickets for a future legend - Taylor Swift, Lady Gaga - or for any act where you're enough of a fan to sing along to the music.

How did "Amercian legend" and Jimmy Buffet wind up in the same sentence? In what world is Taylor Swift or Lady Gaga a "future legend"? What constitutes being a legend? I did see Ringo Starr and his troup of All-Stars but I guess he's not American so it doesn't count.


29. Appreciate fall's foliage. It doesn't matter where you live - when the leaves explode into color, take a walk outside.

Tricia and I backpacked through the Virginia mountains last fall and enjoyed seeing the changing colors. This is one worth repeating every year.


30. Admire the pyramids of Las Vegas, and ppull at least one slot machine arm - you might get lucky!

With limited time and finances I can't see how Las Vegas would ever make my list of places to go. In fact, I think I'd rather stay home.

31. See a bald eagle soar. This is easier than it sounds - after being brought back from the brink of extinction, our national bird can be found in every state except Hawaii. The biggest convocation is in Alaska, where the best viewing time is October through mid-December.

I was told I was watching a bald eagle soar overhead as we parked alongside the Great River Road near Grafton, Illinois. In all honesty, though, it could have been just about anything for all I knew. Maybe binoculars are a must have when birdwatching.


32. Plan a vacation - and use it to cross an item off your list. Twenty-eight percent of Americans surveyed in a  recent poll took no vacation time the previous year; 65 percent took less than two weeks. Research shows that days off can eases stress and increase creativity.

I love that this list ended at #32. This never happens. Everything in magazines seem to come in 5s or 10s. Kudos to the crew at Parade magazine for bucking the system, or else just running out of ideas.


So I think perhaps I can give in and create a few "must dos" of my own. However, in true Bucket List fashion I'll plan to put this off for now in hopes of getting around to it another day. Maybe tomorrow.

All the Latest News

I really enjoy the newspaper. As long as I can remember Tricia and I have had a subscription. Before we had kids we'd spend every Saturday and Sunday morning in bed reading the St. Louis Post Dispatch. Being the only paper in a relatively large city, the Post Dispatch was a beefy paper. The front page was regularly fourteen to sixteen pages long and there were a wide variety of sections from which to choose.

We now live in a smaller city and have found it somewhat difficult to adjust to a smaller paper. The State has three daily sections: Front page, Metro, and Sports. And that's on a good day. Monday's paper often combines Sports and Metro so that there are only two sections. Two very thin sections.

World news is largely omitted - seemingly to make as much space as possible for football articles. Though the college football season is only five months long it dominates the paper year-round. Today when I opened up the paper I wasn't surprised to see that there was a large picture of a Gamecock football on the front page that took up half of the top fold. My class and I studied this once and found that more days than not the top fold is dominated by college football headlines.

Yet I still love reading the paper. Each morning I eat a bowl of Mini-Wheats, drink a tall glass of orange juice, and browse the headlines for something of interest. Today there were a number of things that I thought were, for better or worse, interesting...


Crystal "Shy" Roberts climbed the roughly 10-foot pole at the Penthouse Club, gripping it's metallic surface with her thighs as it swayed a foot in both directions.
Early on a Friday night in April, Roberts played to mostly small groups of men seated in low-slung chairs around small cocktail tables at the Horry County club. Many of the men wore polo shirts and baseball caps and smoked cigars as dancers moved from lap to lap through the room.

This was from an article titled "Golfers Flock to Strip Clubs." I thought at first I was reading a Carl Hiaasen novel. I'm sure, though, Carl Hiassen would be greatly insulted to be credited with such artistic phrases as "gripping it's metallic surface with her thighs."

Though it starts quite steamy the article turns away from stripper poles and lap dances, talking instead about revenue, tourism, zoning, and the migration of North Carolina strippers. Much like a visit to a strip club, I can only imagine, I finished the article feeling dirty and unfulfilled.

*****

Page two of the front page was surprisingly about the recent Royal Wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton. I was careful to skip right past this one. I'm on a quest to be the one and only American with access to television who knows absolutely nothing about this wedding. It's a challenge, to be sure, but worth the effort.

*****

I found that modesty is not something our governor is afflicted with. When grading herself after her first 100 days, Nikki Haley responded "Effort, absolutely A+++. I sleep and breathe this every day. I want everything done yesterday. For accomplishments, I'd honestly give myself and A. We are so excited for what we've done in 100 days. We really, really are."

*****

The classifieds, as always, were a bit strange. There was an ad that read:

Dental Internship
for enthusiastic fast learner considering becoming a dentist. College degree required.

Don't you HAVE to have a degree to be a dentist? Wouldn't an internship be part of that previous degree? Wouldn't the earned degree demonstrate that you have already moved past "considering becoming a dentist"? Is the degree in something all together different - like English or Art History? Can these people learn to become dentists with no more than an internship? Maybe we should all look a little more carefully at those framed degrees in the dentist office.

There were a lot of dogs for sale. Some came with papers that demanded a $500 price tag, or more. Others were mutts. I felt bad for the ones named Pinky, Prissy (who they think is a Border Collie) and Tinkerbelle (who not so surprisingly is a Chihuahua who "likes to sit on your lap all day"). Who'd want a dog with stupid names like those? There was another dog named Zeus. Be honest, which would you rather have your neighbors hearing you call from the back door, Prissy or Zeus?

Others didn't have names but were identified as being pure-bloods from breeds that I can only assume they made up. What exactly is a Golden Doodle or a Maltipoo?

Some guy had the nerve, in the $100 and Under section, to advertise...

Firewood free, you cut XXX-3499 from tree that fell in storm

Talk about nerve. This guy had a tree toppled by a storm and rather than clean it up, or even pay someone to come out and do it for him, he's advertising it as though he's doing everyone else a favor. If this works just imagine the possibilities. Both Tom Sawyer and Mark Twain would be proud.

*****

A bunch of women are getting married. I presume there's a groom but he's not in any of the pictures. Instead, there are a number of women in wedding dresses leaning against trees, standing in formal living rooms, or enjoying a day at the fountain. I can't help but wonder if other people look at these same pictures and sort them into two groups:" really pretty" and "good for you."

*****

You probably won't be surprised to know that more people died yesterday. Quite a few of them really. Some were young but most were old. Sometimes they try to trick you by running a photo of an old person from when they were younger. I'm not sure why they do this but it seems kind of depressing, even for the Obituary page. What really bothers me though is when they don't tell you how they died. When I die I want them to skip all the formulaic "was born...," "received a BS in Education from...," and "survived by..." nonsense and get right down to business. No details will be too sensitive. And if I have the gall to die peacefully in my sleep I hope someone takes the artistic license to spice it up a bit. Make it worth the readers' time.


I wish there was more but as I said earlier it's a thin paper and I don't care all that much about football.

Pretty Things

I'm attracted to things that come in pretty packages. That might make me shallow but it certainly doesn't make me abnormal. If it weren't in our nature to be attracted by bright colors and shiny finishes there'd be no need for male peacocks to strut around looking light Liberace at a Halloween party - minus the Halloween party. The animal kingdom is full of examples of some dope being lured in by a splash of red, a really long tail, or even an evocative dance.

This begins during childhood. My earliest memories of being mesmerized by beautiful things dates back to the candy isle. Thank God I wasn't a kid back in my parents' day. Back when the really cool candies were things like Candy Dots, Pez dispensers, and Circus Peanuts. I remember visiting one of my grandmother's friends as a child and being confused when she offered me Candy Corn, peppermint discs, and candied orange slices. Really, orange slices? This from the generation that brought us candy cigarettes.

When I was a kid we still had a few left-overs from the olden days - candy necklaces, Fun Dip, Big League Chew. Those were alright. But there were far more attractive alternatives. Usually these came shaped as everyday items. A garbage can full of small bits of gum. Worms made from a mysterious gummy substance. Spray bottles full of edible silly string. Aisles and aisles of treasure vying for my seventy-five cents. And to think, my dad used to get excited to find a rock hard piece of gum in the middle of his pack of baseball cards. Ridiculous.

Now that I'm older I try to be a bit more selective as a shopper. I see the transparent marketing ploys for what they are. Being wiser I avoid flash and novelty. Shiny rims on a car. Fancy labels on clothes. Shoes that do something more than protect feet from the elements. I toe the line of responsible consumerism.

That is, until I hit the beer aisle last Friday night.

I really only stopped by the grocery store to pick up some ice cream. But when I walked in and saw the shiny faux-wood floors adorning the liquor section I was drawn like a fly to filth. So many rows of colors. Rushing past the typical selections that are mildly interesting at best I made my way for the microbrews. Fun and wildy over-priced, they sport names like Doggy Style, Dogfish Head, and Horny Goat. The labels feature cartoonish characters and playful fonts. There's no telling what they might taste like but they look a whole hell of a lot more interesting than a six pack of Bud Light.


I opted for Wild Blue. Fitting the description of most every other microbrew, it was advertised as a blueberry lager. Hmm, I really like blueberry, I thought. I set it in my cart and made my way to the ice cream coolers.

When I got home my buddy Tim and I pulled out a bottle apiece and settled in with Tricia to watch a recorded episode of The Office together. I was the first to take a drink. It was god-awful. I thought I might have to spit it back out. Evidiently blueberry and beer were not meant to mix. Normally in a situation like this I would hide my distaste in hopes of letting Tim "enjoy" it as much as I had. However, I couldn't.

"Oh dude, it's terrible!" I cried. "Seriously, it tastes like blueberries that maybe should have been refrigerated but weren't and now they're all thick and gooey and rancid!"

To my amazement Tim took a drink anyway. He found it as disgusting as I did. We joked about just how bad it was for a few minutes and then he, unbelievably, took another drink.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm no quitter," he answered.

He forced down every swallow until his bottle was empty. Not wanting to be a quitter either I had no choice but to follow suit. Thirty minutes later I found out, after forcing down the last few swallows, that it was even worse warm.

"You can have the other four," Tim promised as he gathered up his things to leave. "Tomorrow I'm going to pick up some Hard Lemonade. At least that tastes good!"

So on Saturday Tim stopped by the liquor store to make good on his promise. However, he was taken in by the other colors offered by Mike's. There was the bright red of the Hard Strawberry Lemonade, the purplish tones of the Hard Black Cherry Lemonade, and the orange hues of the Hard Cranberry Lemonade. He opted for the green Hard Lime-Aid.

Excited, he grabbed two bottles last night and headed up to his room to watch basketball. He came back down an hour or two later toting the empty bottles.

"How was it?" I asked.

"Terrible," he mumbled. "I should have stuck with the normal one that I know I actually like. I don't even like lime!"

They say experience is our best teacher. For that to be so, the bar must have been set awfully low.

**************************************

A few notes of interest...

When searching for an image of Wild Blue beer I found that 377 reviewers had given it an average rating of D-. That seems about par with my own assessment. If I had an internet-equipped cell phone I think I might do some research there in the supermarket to avoid such mistakes.

Wild Blue wound up being an A-B product.

It was a lot of fun researching old candies. There were a bunch of them I had forgotten about. Like the wax bottles filled with candy syrup. I remember those barely having any taste but looking really neat (a word I would have used to describe them back then).

Candy cigarettes and candy "chew." Those two novelties warrant an entire essay all their own. I wonder now why no one thought to model those wax bottles to look like small six packs of popular beer brands.

A Blow Pop is a type of sucker. I really wanted to find a picture of what I thought was called a "Blow Ring." I searched that term. I just want to say that if I were to run for president and the feds searched my computer to see what I've been Googling I could be in some trouble. It seems they're called Ring Pops. NOT Blow Rings. Those two terms get you very different search results.

Playing Doctor

For the past few days I've been holed up in the conference room at school while my student intern completes her two weeks of "intensive teaching." This means she is responsible for planning, teaching, recess duty, and all the other responsibilities that fall in her lap when left in charge of twenty-two nine and ten year-olds. I'm sure she's exhausted at the end of the day. There's a lot to do. And a lot to keep track of - assignments, preparations, notes home, picture money, lesson plans, missing work, promises made, promises forgotten. When she first came to our classroom her only responsibility was to hang out with the kids and get to know them. She would often ask me about a story she had heard from the kids and I'd be embarrassed that I hadn't yet heard it yet. I was busy keeping up with all those responsibilities.

Now that the shoe is on the other foot I spend my days sitting in front of my laptop typing away on the academic paper I need to complete to wrap up my graduate work. I'm also writing a narrative progress report for each of the kids at school. Writing, writing, writing. Generally I really enjoy it but after six to seven hours a day of it I find myself far more exhausted than had I been teaching. It's just too much sitting and not enough doing.

Today I was working really hard to finish up a particularly lengthy section of my progress reports when I had to get up, leave the room, and walk around for a bit to retain my sanity. I didn't make it far. Not more than a step out the door I was greeted by two mischievous smiles at the front desk - one belonging to the secretary and the other our principal.

"Mr. Hass, just who we wanted to see!" they said, almost in unison.

"Oh?"

Not that I'm not a likable guy but it's been my experience that anytime someone says "You're just the guy I wanted to see" it's because they want something. And usually it's not something you're going to want to do.

"We need you to be a dad," Dr. Mueller said.

"Uh, okay," I responded. I peered around the corner afraid that I was going to find Harper, Muluken, Ty, or Ainsley sitting in the small office area. They were nowhere to be found. "Where?" I asked.

"In the health room," the secretary answered.

There were a number of possibilities likely awaiting me in the health room. Fever, upset stomach, nosebleed, splinter, scraped knee.  These are the kinds of problems that find their way to the health room each and every day. The kinds of problems you expect.

"We have a kindergartner who says his penis hurts," Dr. Mueller said, breaking into an even bigger smile.

This I wasn't expecting.

"What do you want me to do about it?" I asked.

"You're a man," she assured me, as though ownership of the equipment somehow meant I understood it's workings.

I walked into the health room and this really small boy looked up at me with the saddest brown eyes.

"Hey, what seems to be the problem?" I was really hoping the situation had maybe somehow improved on its own.

"My penis hurts," he explained.  

Dang!

Where do you even begin? At home I generally respond to most ailments and injuries with the tried-and-true "Should I go out and get my saw?" Somehow this didn't seem appropriate given the delicate nature of the area.

"Well, is it a burning hurt, a sharp pain hurt, an itching hurt, or a squeezing hurt?" I asked. I'm not even sure these all real kinds of hurt. Even if they are I imagine there are many others as well. But I really wanted to sound as though I might know what the typical course of action might be for a painful penis. For that to be true I assumed I'd first have to be able to diagnose the problem.

"It hurts real bad when I sit down," he explained. The grimace on his face and the death grip on the area surrounding his penis caused me to believe he was probably telling the truth. I looked around the room and thought out our options as to how best to solve this sensitive problem.

"Alright," I said. "Let's have a look at it. Follow me into the bathroom."

Don't these just sound like the last words I might ever make as a teacher?

"What did he say to you?" the detective might ask.

"He told me he wanted to look at it and to follow him into the bathroom!" Cue the music and I'm feeling like my story might wind up an episode ripped from the headlines by Law and Order.

So the world's tiniest kindergartner and I made our way into the health room bathroom. Keeping the door open and positioning myself so that anyone could easily see me I told him to pull down his pants and show me what was hurting. Demonstrating the complete naivety of a five year old he pulled back his pants a bit, rolled back his skin, and showed me the problem area. Peering down my nose like an old lady, while keeping a tremendously safe distance, I looked it over. There it was. A tiny pink area of skin that had somehow been worn raw.

"Yep, there it is," I said.

Now, this isn't the type of area where a band-aid or a wet rag is going to cut the mustard. What do you really do for a small cut on a five year-old's penis?

"I'll tell what we're going to do," I told him. "I'm going to go get some medicine and we'll make it all better."

If he believed me he showed no signs. His look of pure gloom hadn't changed since I first asked him what was bothering him. I walked back to the office and asked someone to help me find some Neosporin. We use that stuff on just about everything at home. I really don't even know what it supposed to be used for. But it goes on smooth and doesn't burn so it seems like the perfect placebo for most any cut, scrape, or burn. The secretary dug it out of a drawer for me and helped me locate the longest Q-tip ever made. I marched back into the bathroom, asked him to show it to me again, and telescopically applied the cream.

"Don't worry," I assured him. "This won't burn a bit."

"IT BURNS!!!!" he yelled.

My credibility had been compromised. I quickly abandoned any hopes of applying the rest of the ointment and told him to pull his pants back up.

"Well that should make it better," I explained. "It'll probably take a few minutes though. I wouldn't expect it to start working until you get back to class."

This was the first smart thing I had probably said since meeting him. Should his problem not be resolved I would be buried once again behind my laptop in the conference room. Let some other unknowing male take a stab at it.

"When you get home be sure to tell your mom or dad that it's hurting, okay?" I said.

I wish now that I had followed this with "And if they ask what we did at school to help be sure to tell them I helped. My name is Mr. O'Keefe!"

Belly Achin'

We were out to dinner a few nights ago at Wild Wings Cafe. We are pretty knowledgeable when it comes to when and where there are "Kids Eat Free" or other special discounts. Our entire family of six can eat for less than $17 at Firehouse Subs on a Wednesday night. Moe's costs us about $25 on a Tuesday night and McCallister's will run about the same on either Sunday or Wednesday.

Our routine is to eat out one night each week. Tricia and I don't eat fast food which means that, by default, neither do the kids. I haven't eaten at a McDonalds in more than nine years and wouldn't even know what Hardee's, Burger King, or Rush's has on the menu beyond the usual burger and fries.

Tricia and I used to eat a whole lot of fast food. Taco Bell was our favorite. However, after finding out about ten years ago that Tricia's cholesterol was high, and then later finding out that she was pregnant with Harper, we decided that we better clean up our act. After all this time it's really easy to avoid foods that are greasy and fatty. Our systems are so unaccostomed to them that if we were to stop by and have a burger from, say, Steak 'n Shake our stomachs would scream in protest the rest of the evening and maybe even the next morning.

The kids don't eat this type of food either. A few of them don't mind because: (1) They don't know what they're missing, and (2) They aren't big meat eaters. A couple of the others, though, do miss it - or at least long for it. This divide seems to be framed by gender which may or may not be a coincidence, I don't know. When their grandparents come in town twice each year they'll usually wind up going to a fast food place while Tricia and I are out running an errand, going for a hike, or seeing a movie. They are also allowed to pick the restaurant each year for their birthday dinner. Ty has talked the past few months about going to McDonalds but fears that "dad won't eat anything there." I made the mistake of telling him this. I promised that I would be happy to take him to McDonalds if that's where he really wanted to go but that I'd probably wait to eat when I got back home. I felt bad about this afterward but I'm still not so certain it was all that wrong.

Because we wind up eating at the same small collection of restaurants over and again we sometimes make a conscious effort to find somewhere new or, at least, less frequented. This is where the decision to go to Wild Wings came from. We eat here maybe two or three times each year. It's not great but it's not bad either. The kids love all the TV screens plastered to every wall. There's no sound and all the programming is sports but they don't seem to mind. Generally Ainsley will sit and color on her placemat while the other three allow their eyes to dance indecisively from screen to screen.

When the waiter came over to take our orders the kids took turns telling her what they wanted. Ty tends to choose anything with the words "nuggets" or "dogs" attached to it. Ainsley and Harper seek out the word "chicken." And Muluken often begins by asking if he can order off the adult menu. He has the appetite of a Samoan. Sometimes we let him but often we don't. We have a very well defined budget for eating out and are careful to stay within it's confines.

However, the waitress explained that Tuesdays are dubbed "Two for Tuesdays" which means that if you order six chicken wings you get twelve, order eight you get sixteen, and so on. I asked Muluken if he wanted to split an order of sixteen with me. He began licking his lips and excitedly agreed. Chicken wings, for me, are like donuts. I hardly ever eat them. But each time I do I wind up with a belly ache and a sense of stupidity for doing this to myself. The problem is that after a few months I somehow allow myself to forget all this.

So Muluken and I looked over the menu at all the sauce options. There were all kinds of crazy choices I didn't even recognize or understand - Red Dragon, The General, Colorado Coppers. All-in-all there were thirty-four different sauces to choose from. Not a big fan of too many choices, I keyed in on the top eight or so at the top. They had simplistic, if not boring, names that I could comprehend - Virgin, Medium, Hot, Cherynobl. These were obviously in reference to each sauce's degree of heat. Liking spicy foods to a reasonable degree, I decided I would try the Hot.

I looked over at Muluken and saw that his index finger was sliding down the menu past Hot and Cherynobl to China Syndrome. "Very peppery, very hot, and very good" it read. He then pointed to Habenero Hots: "Something special for the insane." The last one, with a dark - almost black - picture of a pepper next to it, was Braveheart: "So hot you can lose your head over it."

These last three sauces were, according to the pictures of the peppers, the hottest they offered on the menu.

"What are you thinking about getting?" I asked Muluken.

"Habenero Hots," he answered.

"Buddy, those are going to be REALLY hot," I cautioned. "It says they're for the insane."

"I'm not insane!" he replied.

"But maybe if you order those you will be," I said.

He was not to be undeterred. When the waitress made her way over to him he ordered his wings.

"Oh, those are really hot!" she said with a slight look of disapproval.

"I know," he said and she looked down at me as though waiting to see if I'd override his choice.

I did not.

Once the wings came he ate all eight as he eats everything - fast and efficientlt. There was nothing left but a small stack of bare bones piled on his plate. We kept watching for signs of discomfort but he really hadn't even taken many drinks from his water. He reached across the table and accepted two of my mom's wings, with a more forgiving Medium sauce, and devoured those as well.

And then it hit him.

He started by constantly licking his lips as though he were trying to cool them. Then he started in on his water. Small trickles of tears began emerging at the corners of his eyes and he clutched his stomach. After about a minute or two he was beyond tearing up and full-out crying.

"What's wrong Muluken?" we all asked.

"MY STOMACH," he responded. "I DON'T FEEL VERY GOOD!"

'Was it too hot?" I asked.

"No," he argued. "It wasn't too hot." He doubled over and rested his forehead on the table. "I feel like I'm going to throw up!"

This was about the last thing Ainsley wanted to hear. She too began to tear up and hid her face in her arms. As we made our way out the door Muluken let out a very audible burp.

"I feel a little better now," he assured us.

Three burps later and he was soon in the back of the van with Harper laughing and playing again. And swearing off hot wings.

We'll have to make a deal - I'll keep him away from the wings and he can keep me away from the donuts.

Week In Review - Too Much to Write About!

I came back from our Christmas trip to St. Louis with more blog ideas than I possibly had time to write about. My buddy Tim gave me a small notebook on our last day of school before Winter Break that read "Fill these pages with important words and thoughts." He might be disappointed because, instead, I filled it with superficial observations and smart ass comments from our Christmas trip.

The first came just a few hours into our drive as we passed into Georgia. One of the very first billboards I saw read:

Make your ONE call to...
1-800-CALL -KEN
Ken Nugent Legal Services

Really? I know that colonial Georgia was basically a roaming prison, serving as a spot for England to send its less desirables, but I would hope that after these hundreds of years things would have changed. I've been to both Alabama and Louisiana and I know for a fact that a good deal of those "less desirables'" descendants are now living throughout the south. So why would Georgia allow Ken Nugent to welcome travelers with such a sign? Are there THAT many people getting arrested? Is there really that much money to be had from these people?

The second blog idea came on our second day with Tricia's parents. I made my first visit to church in five years. I really do not like church. As a child I went as often as three times a week - Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening. There was also church league bowling, softball, and volleyball. And youth group, play practices, and countless lunches and dinners. It wasn't the amount of time spent at church that turned me off, though. I just grew to question the likelihood of all those stories and the reasonableness of all those beliefs.

Tricia's parents church is quite different from the smallish Baptist church I grew up attending. It seats more than a thousand people. has two big screen TVs mounted behind the pulpit, and hosts religious and social events most, if not every, night of the week. The service lasted a little over an hour but the sermon itself was ten to fifteen minutes tops. The sermon was all about "breaking down the walls that we build around ourselves." The walls were a metaphor for our need for a sense of comfort, safety, etc. There were very few mentions of God or Jesus so it went well enough. The other fifty minutes were spent singing songs and listening to announcements. My mom asked how it went. "It went okay. Maybe I'll go back in another five or six years," I said. But probably not.

The third blog idea came when Tricia and I went out for a date night. We went to one of our favorite restaurants in St. Louis - an Indian place in the Central West End called Rasoi. Afterward we headed over to the Chase to see True Grit. As always, parking in the Central West End was nearly impossible. We finally found a spot but had only fifty cents for the meter. As Tricia will attest, I always seem to think that we don't need to feed the meter. "You don't have to pay after 5:00" I might argue. Or, "It's free on Sundays." Or worse, "No one even checks these meters!" I'm generally very much a rule follower. Like Ainsley I think people should follow the rules no matter what. I'll sit through a two minute red light at 3am with no cars anywhere in sight because that's what I'm supposed to do. I often stand on the curb and wait for what seems like forever for the walk signal even though there's no traffic. But for some reason when it comes to paying the meter I find every reason not to adhere to my legal obligations.

As we pulled into our parking spot and Tricia found that we only had two quarters she asked what I thought we should do. The movie didn't start for another hour (we were planning to walk over to the library to browse before heading down the block to the theater) and the movie was an hour and half at the very least.

"It's after six," I said. "You don't have to pay the meter after six."

"You always say that," she pointed out. "You NEVER think we have to pay the meter!"

"But I'm always right!"

Tricia sighed and looked up the street.

"Look," she said. "There's the meter reader!"

She was right. Two cars in front of us was a meter reader writing a ticket. After placing it under a windshield wiper he made his way up to the next car.

"We definitely have to get some change or find a parking garage now," she argued.

"No we don't," I said. "Look, he just checked all the cars on this block. It's 6:07 now. What are the chances he gets back to our block tonight? Euclid is a l-o-n-g street with a lot of meters. If anything we're more safe than ever."

It was dark but I can only imagine Tricia rolled her eyes. I really am hard to live with at times.

"Okay," she said. "But if we get a ticket you have to pay for it out of your own money."


"Ha, as if such a thing exists," I laughed.


We climbed out of the car and, ignoring the meter, pulled our jackets up around our ears and huddled together to head up the street. We instantly saw that the meter reader's car was parked just four spaces in front of our van. More debate ensued but we forged ahead. Once we got into the library I went to the information desk to ask how late you had to pay the meters. The librarian told me that they stop checking them at 7:00. Whether this meant you still have to pay them I wasn't sure but I headed back over to Tricia to gloat none-the-less.


"Well, go out and put our fifty cents," she told me. " At least we'll be paid until a quarter 'til or so."


I knew when to play nice and headed toward the front door. On the way I debated whether I should actually head out into the cold for what was certain to be a wasted effort (and wasted money) or if I should just hang out in the vestibule area for a few minutes and then head back in. Half an hour later, as we were heading out for the theater, Tricia, knowing me all too well, asked whether I had actually paid the meter or just pretended to. True to form I refused to say.


My fourth blog idea came a few nights later when attending "Christmas Eve" with Tricia's extended family. Due to busy schedules this party is never really on Christmas Eve but it's close enough. We haven't been able to attend this party the past few years so this was the first time we had seen these families in quite a while. Even when we lived in St. Louis we saw most of them only once a year, at this very party. They were like sometimes relatives.


I'm not much good at small talk and at no other time is this more evident than at this party. Tricia tried to coach me on the way.


"Talk to my Uncle Dennis about the food dehydrator you got from your kids at school," she suggested. "He used to have one too and talked about it all the time."


She's worse at small talk than I am and I wasn't too sure why she felt a need to offer help given that the one person at that party that I was usually pretty good at talking to was her Uncle Dennis. We generally talked about vacation plans and running. It was perhaps the only two things we really had in common but we could talk endlessly about both topics.


As we walked into the party the room fell silent and all those strange faces turned to stare at us making our entrance. Only five seconds in and it was already awkward. This would prove to the be the high water mark for the night as things only went downhill from there. I started by seeking out Dennis. I figured I should start strong and move on to the others from there. Unfortunately our conversation didn't go as planned. Someone else I didn't know too well was part of the conversation too and I didn't feel comfortable talking about running for fear of leaving him out. I wanted to talk about vacations but they were just finishing up a conversation on this topic as I made my way over. I was baffled. What to do?


"So," I said. "I got a dehydrator from my kids at school for Christmas!"


"A what?" he said.


"A dehydrator," I repeated.


"What's that?" the other guy asked.


"You mean a dehumidifier?" Dennis asked.


I stammered.


"It dries your food out," I explained. "You know, it takes all the water out."


"Why would you want to do that?" the other guy asked. It wasn't the type of question that made you feel as though he really wanted to learn more about the subject but, rather, that he wondered what in the hell was wrong with you. As if you making this all up.


"It's to help preserve the food for hiking and backpacking," I explained. "You dehydrate it, pack it up, and then rehydrate it on the trail."


"Oh," they both said, simultaneously. They both looked around uncomfortably and walked away.


I stood there for a moment playing with the food on my snack plate. Tricia and her parents were talking with someone else across the room. I was tempted to join them and take comfort in numbers. Around this time Tricia's cousin Michael walked by to freshen up the snack table. He and I have had just a handful of conversations over the past fourteen or fifteen years. We have little in common and he's not all that talkative anyway. Still, I felt I needed to try. I had to prove to myself that I was capable of this simple social skill.

"Hey Mike," I said.  

Doh, I thought. He goes by Michael you idiot!
 
I saw that there was a book on his television titled The Elf on the Shelf. I knew of this book from school and had a funny antecdote concerning a conversation I had with my kids about it. I shared it with him and he said nothing. He didn't even offer up a chuckle. It was a good antecdote too. But still he didn't smirk.


"Yeah, well...I oughta be finding Tricia I guess," I said.


"Alright," he answered and turned away to return to the kitchen.


I was 0 for 2. My ability to make small talk didn't much improve from there. I later found myself in conversation with another teacher but we had an entire discussion where I don't think either of us really understood what the other was trying to say. Later I talked with a lady who took great interest in everything I had to say. She's known for this. In fact, she takes so much interest in what you have to say that you almost feel uncomfortable. She leans in real close, has a perpetual smile, and never breaks eye contact. Ever.

She really liked that the kids had spent time backpacking last summer.


"Now they will know how to fend for themselves and find food if they're ever lost in the woods," she commented.


She was serious. I didn't break it to her that backpacking was more about high tech cook pots and fuel canisters than berry gathering or squirrel hunting. She wanted to know about the bears, too. I may have disappointed her when letting on that we hadn't seen any bears but we had seen a  lot of snails.

"Tons of them!" I assured her.


The only highlight of my ability to make small talk was when I later told of our encounter with the parking meter for Tricia's sister and brother-in-law. They laughed and laughed. I suddenly felt like a bad poker player. The one who stays in to the bitter end of every hand and only to lose nine times out of ten. Why, then, does he stay in so often? Because he remembers that ONE TIME when he pulled the perfect card and won. Tricia's sister and brother-in-law are my perfect cards. They keep me wanting to try again.


So there it is. More stories than I could ever write about.

A Tough Crowd

A number of weeks ago our school faculty got together to listen to a small collection of inquiry project presentations from our early childhood student interns. Each of the four student-teachers took a turn sharing with us what they had worked on during the past semester- building community, conflict resolution, etc - and how it turned out for them. Afterward, they invited questions and comments from the teachers.

I mostly sat and listened. That is, until one of our fourth grade teachers decided to share a quote that he felt had some connection to the project being shared. It evidently was a humorous quote. Or at least it was intended to be because when he finished, and everyone in the room sat silently, he exclaimed, "That was funny!"

"Oh, is that how your finishing your jokes now?" I asked, "by telling us 'That was funny?'"

He laughed.

"Is this something you find you need to say after a lot of your jokes? Because if it is you might want to stop telling them," I said, further rubbing it in.

Jokes are like that, though. Sometimes people find them funny. Sometimes they don't. And sometimes they're just flat out put off by them.

I once had a meteorology professor that started our first day of class with the following two jokes:

"How does Kurt Cobain collect his thoughts?"
"...with a mop."

"Did you see the flight plan Bob Richards turned in for his last flight?"
(he drew a line gradually lifting up from the ground then then nosediving straight back down)

Both jokes were about people who had recently died. Kurt Cobain committed suicide by shooting himself in the head and local meteorologist Bob Richards, also committing suicide, drove his plane into the ground to escape the growing rumors about his supposed affair.

Neither man was necessarily a model citizen but I didn't like the fact that this teacher was making fun of thier deaths; none-the-less, on our very first day of class together. Perhaps there are some types of jokes you reserve for friends, or at least close acquaintances. I would think jokes about death would fall into this category.

My dad used to tell all kinds of really bad jokes. He enjoyed them whether they made you laugh or not. And he didn't shy away from making fun of the fact that people had died. One of his favorites was "Do you want to see my impersonation of John Wayne?" He would then fold his arms across his chest and close his eyes as though he were lying in a casket. He had a similar impersonation of Elvis, but with a snarled lip.

Neither impersonation was all that funny but I doubt anyone was ever offended. Sometimes people didn't even get it. They'd stare at him and wonder what in the hell he was doing. "So go ahead," they'd suggest.

Some of my own jokes are like this. I definitely inherited my sense of humor from my dad because most of my jokes aren't funny either but I still enjoy telling them. Every once in a while, though, I'll tell a joke and be disappointed no one else found it as humorous as I did - if for no other reason than to share a laugh.

This happened a few nights ago. Tricia, the kids, and I were at a holiday party saying our goodbyes before heading out the door. I stopped by to wish our friends, Tim and Heidi, a happy holiday when Heidi leaned in and quietly mentioned that she had something to give me before I left.

"Head back to the bathroom," she said. "I also have something I want to talk to you about."

The bathroom? I was  pretty sure I must have heard that wrong. Still, I walked back toward the bedroom where all the coats and bags were being kept. Once I entered the bedroom, with Heidi right behind me, I looked back over my shoulder and she looked as though she was waiting for me to continue. So, taking a chance of thoroughly embarrassing myself, I hung a right and walked into the bathroom. And sure enough, she followed me in!

So there we were standing together in someone else's bathroom. It was pretty big with a nice green marble tub and all. But still, if you wanted to sit down it'd have to be on the toilet because it was the only seat.

As if things weren't weird enough Tim showed up. He just walked right in too. Like he was expecting to see us there. If they weren't both so nice I would have suspected that maybe I was about to get beat up or something. "You lure him into the bathroom," Tim might suggest, "and I'll be right behind you to jump him!"

But he didn't. Instead Heidi handed me a gift bag and, unsure whether she wanted me to open it then or wait, I pulled out the Christmas card and commented on the great picture of their boys in Hawaii. Heidi then proceeded to talk about the book she's writing for Heinemann (a big-time publisher of texts for teachers and educators) and some of the issues she's having with how it will be written.

She suggested that she, Tim, and I think on these issues over the break and get back together to discuss it after the holidays. These are the types of discussions and I love and, without doubt, the fact that she would even think to include me in this task is tremendously flattering. Yet I still couldn't get over the fact that we were hanging out in the bathroom together. And that they seemed so at ease as though they had had many important talks in other people's bathrooms.

As we wrapped up the conversation and made tentative plans to meet again in a few weeks I suggested "That sounds great. But next time let's meet in YOUR bathroom."

Two blank faces stared right back at me. Evidently they hadn't spent the past five minutes thinking about that bathroom. Evidently they didn't find this to be even remotely funny - a fact I couldn't stop talking about on the drive home.

"Seriously," I pleaded to Tricia. "I was making light of the fact we were standing around exchanging gifts and having a professional conversation in the very same room that our principal uses to flush her system - and yet nothing."

And then it hit me. I forgot to tell them.

"That was funny."

Roadside Museums

A few years ago I came up with a theory that when pulling off the interstate to fuel up you can generally tell a lot about the area you are in by the stuff they sell inside the gas station. These gas stations serve as small cultural museums of their local communities while making a few bucks on the side pedaling fuel, tobacco, and booze. This did not come to me randomly but, rather, while making a pit stop in the middle of nowhere. Also known as Tennessee.

Entering the station, I grabbed a Snicker bar and  made my way to the back to find a small bottle of milk. However, the milk was nearly impossible to find. All but one of the coolers were being used to house what equated to a small warehouse of beer. But not just any brand of beer. While there may have been a few spare six-packs of Corona or Ice House there were cases upon cases upon cases of Busch, Budweiser, and Old Milwaukee.

On my way back to the front I stopped by the magazine rack. Now some gas stations, feeling these publications are ethically or morally wrong,  refuse to sell pornographic magazines. Others place them behind the counter to protect the innocence of young children. This one, however,  put them all - and there were many - right next to the multiple car and truck magazines and just above the single copy of Newsweek. I want to believe that Newsweek was such a hot item that they had trouble keeping them in stock. I want to believe it, but I don't.

After making my way past the assortment of fishing hats - my favorite sporting two large Styrofoam breasts protruding from the front - I finally reached the counter. Standing in line, I noticed that just beside me, one shelf above the Little Debbie snack cakes, was a box of beer bongs. On my other side was a large washtub full of iced down cans of beer. I can't say for certain that the two were meant to be impulse buys or even to be bought in tandem but, in all honesty, what's the use of one without the other?

I choose to stop just short of saying that the people of small town Tennessee are ignorant, macho alcoholics who, while in a drunken stupor, beat their wives. I choose to believe that all these tell tale signs could be wrong. In fact, they have to be wrong because just the other day I decided to take a closer to look at our own gas station. The one we always use to fill up our cars. The one with the faded sign out front that reads:

POPS
  POPS
    POPS

On the entry door was a handwritten sign, barely legible, that read "We WILL prosecute anyone caught stealing ANYTHING from this station!" It wasn't written as though they were hoping people wouldn't start stealing from them but rather as though people regularly did. I suddenly felt a need to keep my hands out of my pockets.

The three people in front of me in line were all buying scratch off lottery tickets and cigarettes. Nothing else. Just lottery tickets and cigarettes. For what may have been the first time in my four years as a customer of this station I turned around, against my better judgment, to look around the store and see what they sold.

And that's when it hit me.

Either my theory is all wrong or my neighbors are a bunch of lazy black-lunged convicts puffing themselves toward certain deaths but on too much of a sugar high from their Moon Pie addictions to even notice. Being that I hate being wrong I'm left with just one option. I'm now taking the longer route to everywhere. The one with the yuppie Circle K that sells designer coffees and has faux-wood floors.

I feel like a better person already.

Super Shopper

I don't really care much for shopping. I don't like crowded stores, carts with a bum wheel, or long lines at the checkout. I also don't like the time it takes to make an informed choice. Trying on clothes is the worst. I'd just as soon grab something off the shelf or hanger and take my chances when I get home as find a fitting room. Maybe it's all those mirrors. I've managed to go thirty-six years without knowing what I look like from behind and I see no reason to take a peek now. Pretty much if a pair of pants don't fall off my hips while I'm walking then they'll do.Perhaps this is why nothing ever seems to fit me right.

I also hate having too many choices. Last weekend Tricia sent me to Target with a list of things to get. Most were easy things - granola bars, cereal, face wash, Expo markers. I was doing fine until I hit the shampoo aisle. I knew that we use Pantene which narrowed down my choices. But not by all that much. There were formulas made specifically for fine hair, curly hair, medium-thick hair, and hair that had been artificially colored. Sensing certain defeat, my shoulders slumped and my eyes glazed over. I noticed that the top shelf contained another choice: classic care. I assumed this was the formula for men who didn't know enough or care enough to match a shampoo to their particular hair type. As much as I wanted to believe that this was the right choice it was blue and I knew our bottle wasn't blue. But what color was it?

After studying my choices I finally decided that we had the red bottle for curly hair. I reached to grab it when I noticed yet another choice. There were multiple red bottles for curly hair. One was labeled "Curls to Straight" and the other was "Dry to Moisturized."

"You've got to be ****ing kidding me!" I mumbled under my breath. "Why isn't there one that just says 'Dirty to Clean?'"

By this time I had spent what felt like ten minutes staring at the same bottles over and over again with little hope of making any sense of it all. In the end I decided to randomly guess. I don't know which one I chose but Tricia hasn't said anything. Maybe she didn't even notice. Or care.

Or maybe I got lucky and picked the right one. That would be nice.

Virginia is for Drunken Murderers

A few years ago Tricia and I spent an afternoon in Hot Springs, North Carolina. We enjoyed a light lunch, picked up some trail snacks, and headed out to hike a mile or two on the Appalachian Trail. It was our first trip on the trail and we really didn't know anything about it other than that it was pretty long. All of our previous hiking had been on a variety of tame trails in heavily visited state parks.

As we approached the trail we stopped to check the map and message board. There at the center - in very large letters - was a warning: BEWARE: BEARS HAVE BEEN REPORTED IN THIS AREA. The sign went on to suggest that anyone hiking carry "bear mace" and plan to slowly retreat from any evidence of bear activity on the trail. This startled us a bit.

"Are we going to die?" Tricia half-joked.

"I hope not," I answered.

The first stretch of trail was nicely graded. There were many switchbacks but because of all the thick foliage it was impossible to see what was awaiting us around each corner. All we could think about was bears. We were certain we were only moments away from a certain mauling. I tried to make as much noise as I could to announce our presence.

After only about twenty minutes or so we decided to stop and head back down. The trail was still climbing steadily with no indication that we were anywhere near the top. We weren't necessarily in the best climbing shape, hadn't brought any water with us, and felt the time was ripe to call it quits with all of our limbs still intact.We walked back to the car, safe and sound.

In the following weeks I developed quite a fascination for the Appalachian Trail. I read a book or two and started reading the on-line journals of hikers walking the entire 2,100 path in a single season. I quickly learned that many hikers walk on the trail for weeks, or even months, at a time and never see a single bear. Not only do they not see any bears but they actually feel disappointed by it. The ones that do encounter bears do not run or cry or even drop and play dead. Instead, they stand in awe watching them gathering berries, scratching at a tree, or rumbling through the forest. Sometimes, if they feel unsafe, hikers will bang their trekking poles together to scare the bears off or they'll slowly retreat back down the trail and wait a few minutes before returning.

So it seems our perceived danger was a bit exaggerated. Our deaths were not imminent. We were just ignorant to the reality of the wildlife and environment around us. This isn't so uncommon. It happens all the time.

In fact, it happened just this past weekend. Tricia and I were back on the Appalachian Trail, this time in Virginia. We drove up to Damascus on Saturday morning, hoisted our backpacks onto our backs, and headed north on the trail for a short two-day trip to see the fall colors. After a full afternoon of hiking, and with the temperatures quickly dropping, we searched for any campsite we could find. We passed on a few larger sites because they were located too close to road crossings. There's nothing that kills the feeling of being away from it all like the constant hum of cars and trucks motoring a few hundred yards from your tent.

So we turned back up the mountain in search of a site we had remembered seeing a half-hour earlier. When we finally found it the sun was just beginning to drop below the trees to the west. We pulled out the tent and found that the only level spot to pitch it, where we wouldn't be sleeping on large tree roots or rocks, was just a few feet off the trail. Even worse, there was another trail intersecting the AT another few feet away. But with darkness falling over the mountain and the cold temperatures setting in we knew we didn't have time to seek out a new spot. We couldn't even remember having seen any other spots for miles anyway.

So as we began to unpack our things and set everything up I heard a voice come out of nowhere.

"Hey."

Startled, I looked around but saw no one. However, I knew someone was there. Somewhere.

"Hey," I responded. Trying to mask my surprise and sound both casual and friendly. Just as I got the words out I saw movement just through the trees to my right. It was a hunter, dressed in full camo, toting a rifle over his left shoulder. Tricia looked at me, concerned.

"Are we going to be alright here?" she whispered.

I looked down the trail to see if he had passed.

"Yeah, we're fine," I assured her. "It's just a hunter making his way back down to his car."

She didn't look too convinced. It wasn't so much the hunter, I imagined, as it was the gun that made her uneasy. After hanging our food bag over a distant tree limb and getting our sleeping gear set up we climbed into the tent. I pulled out a deck of cards and we played a game of Rummy, working hard to keep our cards from constantly sliding down our sleeping pads and resting under our bags.

About fifteen minutes later we heard more footsteps approaching. This time, however, they sounded very heavy and unsteady, as though someone were in a semi-controlled fall coming down the mountain. A loud belch soon followed and the footsteps stopped. Just outside our tent. Tricia's eyes grew enormous. I looked out the small window on our rainfly and saw two more hunters standing outside the tent, about twenty feet away. I couldn't see one of them too well because he was hidden behind some bushes but the other was standing in a small clearing and staring at our tent. He began to talk to the other one in a drunken slur. The fact that he was clearly intoxicated and carrying a rifle did not make me feel too comfortable.

"Yehau thinkst thees is thu waaaay orrr du yehau thinkst weee otta go ovr thur?" he asked.

His partner gave some type of reply but I couldn't make it out.

I looked back at Tricia who was sitting very still. "It's just more hunters," I said casually.

"I don't like this," she whispered. "I've seen Deliverance."

After a few long seconds the two hunters continued on their way down the mountain, presumably on their way back to their car.

"I read an article about two girls who were raped on the trail twenty years ago," Tricia told me, as soon as the two hunters were clearly gone.

"Where did you read that," I asked.

"In one of those Trail magazines they had at the cabin last summer."

"That was twenty years ago," I said. "A lot of women hike the trail alone and are fine."

"Are you sure we're okay here?" she asked again.

"Yeah, we're fine," I answered. "They're gone. Besides, this is Virginia. Virginia is for lovers. I know because all the signs say so!"

"Hmm," she said, sounding unconvinced. "But what if they come back?"

"It's going to be completely dark really soon. Who wants to climb all the way back up a pitch black mountain in the cold of night?" I asked, seeming to believe that it would be the hunters' laziness that would be our saving grace.

We went back to our game and tried not to think about the hunters. As it turned out, those were the last we would see. We woke up in the morning alive - which sure beats waking up dead.

We were never in danger at all. We just let our imaginations get away from us a bit. I have this really great poster at school that lists ways to build global community. One of the lines reads: Don't confuse your comfort for your safety. How often do we do this? There have been many times in my life when I've found myself in an uncomfortable environment and, wrongly, felt felt that my safety was in jeopardy. Much of this is learned. Friends, family, books, newspapers, magazines, discussion boards, television, and movies share sensationalized stories that, if even accurate, are far from indicative of the norm. People do fall and die in the shower. Others are mugged or even killed by strangers knocking at their door. But these are not common occurrences. We should still feel safe. We should live life.

We have a friend that is fearful of the unknown. He hasn't seen all that much of America but watches a lot of television. Evidently much of his programming is about gangs and random murders. Any trip Tricia and I have ever planned has prompted dire warnings from him.

"Why on Earth would you go to Memphis?" he asks. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is there? All I can say is you better not talk to strangers!"

"Miami's terrible," he warns. "Do NOT roll down your windows - especially if someone walks up to your car door!"

"Don't even bother going to Detroit," he suggests. "It has the highest murder rate in the country. You'll die."

It's become a joke between us but, still, it's all rooted in truth. Not truth concerning the lack of safety in these places but the true fear Tim has of places unknown. I once took a trip with him and another friend when we were in college. One night we decided to sleep in the car at a rest stop. Tim insisted on sleeping with his head all covered up despite the fact that it was eighty degrees outside.

"Why do you have your head covered up," I asked.

"So if someone breaks into the car and kills the two of you I won't see him do it," he explained. "If I don't see him kill you two then there's no reason for him to kill me."

You really can't argue with logic like that. Thankfully no one killed us that night. Yet again, I survived.

As Tricia and I hiked back into Damascus on Sunday the thought of the hunters had gone from scary to kind of funny.

"Hey Tricia," I said. "I've got the title for my blog this week."

"What?" she asked.

"Instead of 'Virginia is for Lovers'" I told her, "I'll call it 'Virginia is for Drunken Murders.'"

"Funny," she chuckled. Perhaps she was just humoring me but I'm okay with that. I'll take laughs anywhere I can get them. I should laugh every chance I get.

I'm lucky to be alive.

The Butt of the Joke or The Butt Who Made the Joke

I enjoy a good joke. Never mind if it's at someone's expense.

Even mine.

I've been the butt of many jokes throughout my lifetime. They generally tend to center around a few specific topics:

1. I do not like to visit the doctor, take medicine, admit when I'm hurt, or admit when I'm sick.

2. I'm not very attentive. I only listen to stories that are either being told by me or about me.

3. I do not dress too nicely. The few clothes I have are stained or have small holes. I limit my wardrobe to three or four colors and most of my clothes look exactly the same.

4. I am not very macho.

5. I find humor in the troubles of others.

6. I talk far too loudly when making "private" comments about others.

7. I don't read e-mails.

Now, I'm not admitting that all, or even any, of these things are accurate. However, because they are referenced so often I'm sure there's at least a thread of truth to each. So when I hear someone say "Nice to see you got all dressed up today" or they impersonate me by looking up with a blank expression and saying "Huh?," I'm really not offended. It's funny.

Not too long ago my friend Tim was telling a story about attending a special banquet that our school district was holding in honor of our superintendent. He came back the next Monday talking about seeing people he hadn't spoken to in years. In the span of just a minute or two at the banquet he asked a few old acquaintances how they had been doing. One explained that his mother had recently died. The other told him that his sister had died just that morning. Tim looked really serious when telling this story, as though this had maybe affected him in some deep or meaningful way. Other people lowered their brow and tried to look empathetic for the unknown mourners. Not me. Striking a blow for #5 on the list above, all I could think to say at that moment was "Wow, I hope you stopped asking people how they were doing!"

I remember an old episode of The Simpsons where Homer has been sentenced to a driver training course because of some type of traffic violation. To scare him straight they show a film of tragic accidents and mangled bodies. After a few minutes of near uncontrollable laughter he responds "That's funny, because it's not me!"

I'm definitely beyond that level of insensitivity but I do notice that my favorite comedians are the ones that relentlessly make fun of others. No matter their color, sexual preference, religious affiliation, gender, athletic ability, intelligence, or any other descriptor that divides people into categories. I laugh every time Daniel Tosh jokes "We need to bring our troops home. They can have the war here. They deserve to get a good night sleep in their own beds, wake up and eat a big breakfast, and drive to war. We can have it in Nebraska. We don't even need that terrible state anyway. It's no wonder that state is full of storm chasers. Twenty minutes in Omaha and I'm praying for something to pick me up and carry me away. And yes, I tell that joke in Nebraska. But no one ever says anything because they're too busy sitting there stuffing their faces with fried mayonnaise balls."

I imagine the people of Nebraska are probably really nice. They may or may not eat fried mayonnaise. However, I'll allow myself to believe they do if it means a good laugh. Is that wrong?

Where is the line?

On Friday I told a friend at school that I hated his shirt. However, I tried to break it to him gently, "That's one ugly shirt!" I told another, when seeing a picture of him from years ago, that "you look a lot like a young Elton John." Neither comment was true but I doubt I'll ever say "That's a really cute shirt" or "Wow, you're a handsome guy!"

Before writing this I asked Tricia, "Have I ever made a joke that you found to be really insensitive and made you mad?" I didn't have to allow much think time.

"YES."

Although, when asked to present an example of one such joke she was unable to produce a single one.

"I can't think of one right now," she explained. "But there's been plenty. I remember getting mad."

So maybe there are lines that should not be crossed. Perhaps I, and others, should be more careful to spare the feelings of others - even at the expense of a well played one-liner.

Last Thursday I had dinner with some teacher friends. I went on and on about a guy I met recently who tells the types of jokes that are not only unfunny but uncomfortable. He talks almost without pause and rarely ever says anything that is remotely on-topic. He makes references that no one ever understands. He even made a presentation wearing a tank top. A tank top!

I, of course, had a little fun with all this. A little fun that I shared with my friends on Thursday night. A little fun that was supposed to elicit laughter.

"He has Asperger's," someone quickly explained. "He's autistic."

Talk about a joke that's not only not funny but uncomfortable. If there were a hole to crawl into I would have dove right into it. I drove home feeling terrible - sure that I could never again make a joke at anyone's expense. Basically, I felt I needed to stop being a jerk. Stop being a bully.

A few days have passed and I'm not so sure anymore. It may sound mean but I don't think it's necessary to stop teasing and making fun of each other. There's a lot of seriousness to life and jokes are much needed. Heck, even at funerals. But there is such thing as going too far. And that's what I had done - even if I didn't know or intend to.

I'm not sure what the exact moral is to this story but I imagine there's one somewhere. I'll continue to fumble around until I find it. But until then, careful what you say or do.

If it's the least bit awkward or incorrect I can almost guarantee it will not go unnoticed.

The List - Part 2

 A few weeks ago I shared our obsession with tuning in for just about any show that is based on a subjective rank ordering of music. Or movies. Or...

The whole idea is really pretty dumb other than that it creates a fun opportunity to get angry with society in large for their misguided and unfortunate opinions and tastes. Here is how the top 20 played out...


20. Marvin Gaye
19. U2
A band whose guitarist has the silliest name ever - The Edge. Do people really even call him that? "Uh, The Edge, I was wondering if you might pass the potatoes?" I once passed on a chance to see the Black Crowes, who are a very cool band despite not making this list, in a very small theater so that I could see U2 at Busch Stadium in downtown St. Louis during the Zoo TV tour. There were thousands of people, terrible acoustics, monstrously large TV screens on stage, and a "spontaneous" call to Washington DC so that Bono (another goofy name) could speak his mind to some random White House operator. Hoaky? Yes. Great concert? Definitely. And I was fortunate enough to catch the Black Crowes about five years later.

18. Pink Floyd
17. Queen
One of my all-time favorite bands. But I'd really like to know where "Bohemian Rhapsody" came from. I mean, how do you even start writing something like that? "So fellas, I was thinking maybe an operatic piece for this one!"

16. Madonna
15. The Beach Boys
14. Nirvana
I was shocked they were this high given they only had three or four albums. A few days later I went back and listened to "Nevermind" and was reminded that there's not a single song worth skipping. That's pretty impressive.

13. The Who
12. David Bowie
11. Bob Marley
10. Stevie Wonder
9. James Brown
I was really hoping they'd show that scene from "Rocky 4" and sure enough they did. However, they somehow failed to show the mug shot. That's a shame. I have a feeling James Brown just might be A BIT of a jerk.

8. Elvis Presley
7. Prince
I once had a music professor say that Prince was every bit as important in music history as Mozart. And this was coming from the mouth of someone who loved classical music and directed the university's operas. Am I missing something?


6. Jimi Hendrix
Another artist I think I like yet never really want to listen to. Outside of "Little Wing" and "The Wind Cries Mary" there aren't any other songs that would keep me from hitting skip.

5. Bob Dylan
4. The Rolling Stones
3. Led Zeppelin
2. Michael Jackson
1. The Beatles

How is it The Beatles were only together for ten years? They must have written about a bazillion songs each year!

So when the show was over I started playing around with the idea of my own subjective rankings. Here are a few I came up with...

Top Five Artists Left Off the Original List

5. The Byrds
4. Roy Orbison
3. Red Hot Chili Peppers
2.Woody Guthrie
1. Eric Clapton

How do you leave Eric Clapton off that list? Sure, Cream made it in somewhere but he's been inducted into the R&R Hall of Fame THREE times. That's crazy!

Top Five Favorite Movies

5. Wonder Boys
4. Bottle Rocket
3. Lone Star
2. Little Miss Sunshine
1. The Big Lebowski

"The Dude abides."



Bottom Five Movies

5. Simon Birch
4. Anything starring Pauly Shore
3. The Cutting Edge
2. With Honors
1. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues



Top Five Favorite Books (for adults)

5. On The Road
4. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
3. Malcolm X
2. A Prayer for Owen Meany
1. To Kill a Mockingbird

It's no coincidence that two of my least favorite movies just happen to show up on my favorite book list.



Top Five Favorite Books (chapter books written for kids but still great for adults)

5. Love That Dog
4. Entire Harry Potter Series
3. Missing May
2. Ruby Holler
1. Charlotte's Web



Top Five Favorite Books (picture books written for kids but still great for adults)

5. Mr. George Baker
4. Letting Swift River Go
3. Roxaboxen
2. The Relatives Came
1. All the Places to Love




Top Ten Beatles Songs

10. When I'm Sixty Four
9. Norwegian Wood
8. I'm Only Sleeping
7. Come Together
6. In My Life
5. Strawberry Fields Forever
4. A Day in the Life
3. Something
2. Let It Be
1. Hey Jude

I tried to do a top 5 but couldn't make a number of the necessary cuts so I broadened it to the top 10.