Ramble On

It's Not What You Know

2008-12-07T21:11:00.005-05:00

One of the key lessons my Dad taught me as I was growing up was that the connections I made to other people over my life would be more important to me than the information I accumulated in my brain. Put simply, he said, "It's not what you know, it's who you know." Over the years, I've managed to develop ties to top scientists in multiple fields, comedians, multiple theatre companies, and an impressive collection of professors, professionals, managers and important government workers as my friends have moved up from entry-level jobs to positions of more authority. Oh, and I also know some ne'er-do-well reprobates. Oddly enough, few of these connections have been especially helpful in my current career in education.

Yet, it seems that the person who recently has been the source of the most useful connections has been the man who imparted that wisdom to me in the first place, Old NoHips McRugbyWounds, pictured here (back right) enjoying a hockey game with some of his friends. See, now that he's in charge of an entire university, he's seriously big. And not just because he gets to go to dinner and a hockey game with Wyatt Earp and Private Benjamin. No, Alabama's connections do not end at Hollywood. It was brought to my attention some time ago that Dad was also in contact with the family of a certain member of the New York Giants. Once they found out that I lived in the city, they instructed my Dad to inform them if I "ever wanted Giants tickets." Since it's a.) nearly impossible and b.) prohibitively expensive to obtain Giants tickets, I was interested. There was even the possibility of meeting some of the players after the game!

"Is there any game in particular you'd like to see?" asked Dad. My Pennsylvania heritage got the better of me and I opted for the matchup between the Giants and Eagles. So this afternoon, SecondLaw and I bundled up (reeeeeeeally bundled) and headed for the Meadowlands. I was actually amazed at the ease with which we were able to get from Queens to New Jersey. NJ Transit runs a continuous series of buses from the Port Authority bus terminal to Giants Stadium on game days. It's remarkably efficient. Our total time from arrival at the bus terminal to purchasing tickets to getting on a bus and departing was less than ten minutes.

Neither of us had ever been to the stadium before and we also had no idea where we were sitting. We picked up the tickets at Will Call and found our appropriate entrance. After the obligatory fondling from security we went to the top of the 300 level to find our seats. Even though we were high up, we had a clear view of the whole field and had no trouble discerning what was taking place during the game. We even confidently disagreed with calls made by referees standing 1/100th of our distance from the play.

The game itself was a great matchup. There was no score for some time as both teams battled the wind and cold and struggled to establish a running game. When the Eagles finally broke through, the Giants looked like they were dead in the water until blocking a last-second field goal at the end of the first half and running it all the way back for a touchdown.

Say, I just thought of something. Am I disseminating an account or description of this game without expressed written consent right now? Maybe I should just say that it was a...um...good game and we both had a...uh...good time. Oh, and I should add that the halftime show was a bunch of kids playing drums who were really entertaining and in the third quarter our (likely unknowing) patron suffered a knee injury and did not return to the game. Anyhow, the Giants lost in the end (I don't think that constitutes an account or description) and we left the game with SecondLaw being one of the only happy people in the stadium. We also left the game with little feeling in our extremities. Despite my long-johns, sweatshirt, vest, overcoat, hat, two pairs of gloves and scarf, I was cold. SecondLaw's five--yes, five!--layers of clothing were insufficient as well. Let that be a warning to any of you who should find yourselves headed for the upper deck of the Meadowlands any time soon. Even so, we had far too much fun to let chilly toes drag us down.

We returned home after a great afternoon to discover that the friend of my father who'd arranged all this had emailed me saying how very sorry he was that we hadn't gotten a chance to meet the players and that he promised to arrange it for "next time." Well, gee golly, I suppose that means we'll have to do this again! I always look forward to the chance to meet new people. Especially new famous people. Because after all, it's not what you know...

Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray...

2008-11-19T20:53:00.000-05:00

Once again, it’s been far too long since I’ve updated. So sue me. In any case, it suffices to say that my life in school and with SecondLaw at home has settled into a nice groove. The students at school are good enough that I haven’t had to bust out Mr. Angry Eyes more than once or twice and SecondLaw and I are now so domestic that we actually spent last Saturday night book shopping around Union Square. Seriously.

But finally, something happened today that was truly worthy of a blog entry. It all started just before noon, when the 10th grade was in Advisory period. Now, Advisory is a 50 minute block just before lunch on Wednesdays, when all my advisees sit in my room and we get a chance to chat about whatever’s happening in their lives, gossip about other students, discuss music and/or movies, and generally waste time getting to know each other.

Some of my advisees had been roaming around the halls, posting flyers for the candy cane fundraiser they organized to raise money for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. (I mean it: they thought it up, voted on the charity the money would go to, designed the flyers and organized the candy cane donation and distribution. Sometimes I get a little teary-eyed just thinking about it.) Anyway, a group of them came back into my room saying that there was a weird smell down the end of the corridor that smelled like smoke. Not cigarette smoke, mind you, but smoke smoke. Like a campfire. “It’s probably nothing,” I said. Then two security guards came running down to the spot where the students had said the smell originated. The students began leaning and tiptoeing towards the door to look down the hallway. Though I calmly bade them to return to their seats, I couldn’t help being just a little curious myself. Okay, and just a little worried too.

A couple minutes later, the word leaked out across the school. Everything’s fine, it’s just welders downstairs working on the stairwell. That’s what the funny smell is. The building’s fire system clicked on, announcing that there was a “smoke situation” in Stairwell A and that it was nothing to worry about. The students started to calm down and things got back to normal. Not two minutes later, the announcement came over the loudspeakers that we were to evacuate the building.

For all the fire drills that we’ve done over the years, you’d think the students would be good at exiting the building in a calm, quiet, timely manner. Then again, you’d be wrong. The noise as we evacuated was deafening. Teachers and administrators alike tried to maintain order, but it was largely in vain. Our principal finally managed to restore some semblance of calm by handing out suspensions like Halloween candy as the students exited the building.

I was among the last people out of the building, joining a group of teachers who were shepherding students down from the third floor and keeping them moving through the cafeteria and out the front stairs. When I emerged onto 22nd St., a crowd of people from the upper floors of our building had already joined our 400 students in effectively blocking the sidewalk from our front door all the way out to 6th Ave. Students of the Culinary Institute from the floors above us were milling about in their chef’s whites. Office workers were lighting up cigarettes and bemoaning the weather. Oh, that’s right. Did I mention that this whole affair took place on the coldest day of the year so far?

So began the waiting game, with our entire school standing in the freezing cold, many students without coats since they had been rushed out of the school without being able to go to their lockers. I lent my scarf to a student who was braving the 30-degree weather with little more than a button-down shirt. Students attempted to find warmth in Best Buy, but we had to get them out before hundreds of them start to inundate the consumer electronics store.

Twenty minutes of frigid hell and it was eventually decided to simply let the kids go out to lunch. Frankly, I was ready to go to a bar. Everyone dispersed to the various restaurants, bodegas and fast-food places within walking distance. By some miraculous chance, every last one of the little angels returned on time at 1:10 to go to the gym, so we had two full buses of kids nice and riled up just in time to let them run around like maniacs.

So in the end, the school didn’t burn down and there wasn’t even any damage to the building. We just stood outside for long enough to freeze our toes, ate lunch, and came back inside. What’s really weird is that in all my years of being a student in school, I didn’t see so much as a flaming garbage can. But it only took four years of teaching to get my first actual fire.

I Will Not Root for the Rays

2008-10-19T22:41:00.002-04:00

OK, I know it's been a long time since I managed to post something, but aside from the phenomenal collapse of the U.S. economy thanks to our absent (-minded) president, the Cubs thanks to an epic fail, and my social life thanks to the beginning of school, I haven't had much to report. But I can't let this go by without comment. You see, the Rays are going to the World Series after spending last year (and pretty much every year before that) as the laughing stock of the entirety of Major League Baseball, making even the Royals and Pirates look not so completely ridiculous. They've been held up as Exhibit A for the case against expansion teams, they've played games for fewer fans than most minor league teams, and they spent a long-suffering decade bearing the name of Satan himself. Now, no longer bedeviled by their mascot, they've achieved what every club hopes for at this point in the year: they're still playing.

My main problem with this is that their fans in no way deserve to see them in the World Series. I know I've just invoked the ire of the entire state of Florida, but I'm willing to take that risk. See, if you look at the attendance numbers from this year and compare them to last year, you'll see that the difference in season-long fan attendance in Tampa Bay was 391,760. Yes, in a year where they went from worst to first, they saw a magnificent 28% spike in attendance, rocketing them to 26th place in overall attendance and pushing their average attendance to just over 50% of their stadium's capacity. The Rays, who held the best record in the majors for much of the season, continued to play most of their home games in an empty stadium.

Meanwhile, the teams with the largest attendance numbers have largely come up empty this postseason. No New Yorker needs to be reminded of the astounding collapse of the Mets and the ineptitude of the Yankees this year. LA is dealing with two clubs who made earlier-than-expected exits. We Cubs fans are so numbed by a century of failure that to be swept in the first round of the playoffs barely registers as a disappointment. The Red Sox mounted one of the most amazing single-game comebacks in postseason history only to fall two runs short in the deciding Game 7. The only team remaining to oppose the Rays are the long-suffering Phillies, who hail from a city that's been waiting for a major sports championship since just after I was born. No, arena football in no way counts as major.

As a team, the Rays haven't even entered their teenage years. There are no adults who have grown up as Rays fans. Hell, there aren't even any children who've grown up Rays fans. No one can name the "great" Rays players of the past. This is a team without a history, without tradition, without even a decent mascot.

Don't get me wrong, the Rays have fielded quite a team this year and have had great success. But much of that success (43 wins, to be exact) came at the expense of an Eastern Division that seemed unable to put together any kind of game against them. They enter the World Series at a time when most of the country would be hard pressed to name two of their players. They proudly flaunt their ugly haircuts. They're young. They'll have their chances. They deserve to be disappointed.

So, much as it pains me to do so, I'll be cheering on the Phillies in this World Series. This is likely to make life with SecondLaw slightly unbearable, but I'll deal with it. At least the Phillies have a proud history that's been grounded in futility and championship drought. They've been waiting. They've earned their place in the Series.

As one grammatically-challenged fan asked, "Why can't us?"

Debate Over! Evolution Wins!

2008-08-10T12:49:00.002-04:00

Apparently, the Creationists have caved. It turns out that evolution is responsible for Noah's ability to pack animals onto the Ark. Wait, stay with me here. I swear, this makes some sort of twisted sense in the end. So, over at Kent Hovind's website, there's a wonderful little video that explains the pesky problem that sane people pose to the interesting folks who believe that every last literal word of the Bible is true: How did Noah fit two of every single species (that's 40,000 vertebrates, 4-6 million arthropods, not to mention completely inestimable numbers of bacteria and a whole lot of food for all those critters) on Earth into one boat? Here, they'll tell you:

OK, if you can't bear to listen to that for the full three and a half minutes (you're not alone), I'll just give you the general gist of what they're saying. Apparently, Noah didn't load two of every species, he loaded two of every kind of animal. I suppose that makes sense since Linnaeus didn't formulate the concept of a species till a few thousand years after Noah's mythical voyage. They go on to actually use evidence from Richard Dawkins to support the idea that "kinds" can change over time [sic] into separate species.

See, Creationists have always argued that small changes can occur --microevolution within a species population-- but that there's no way to make new species from old ones. Now, apparently they've moved the bar up to "kinds," which is sufficiently vague enough that it could encompass genera or families. I'm really not sure what this means for the effectiveness of their everything-came-into-being-within-144-hours idea, but apparently God just created a few nondescript "mammals," "insects," and other groups and everything else evolved from them. In other words, the reason Noah could fit every animal in the Ark is that there were fewer types of animals back then. In their own words, the Creationists say:

So rather than differentiating between twenty-seven different species of fox, perhaps Noah only took two foxes on board, which later produced the many species of fox we see today. Then again, perhaps he only took two of the dog-like kind aboard. There is certainly no reason to believe that the many varieties of dogs in the world (including the fox species, wolves, and coyotes) could not have come from just two of the dog kind.

Once again, please spread the word. Creationists now acknowledge that different species can evolve from a single species. In time, we may be able to convince them that the other artificial classifications which humans have imposed upon the natural world are just as mutable.

Why Copy Editors are Necessary

2008-08-04T14:29:00.004-04:00

I'll continue with my tale of space exploration momentarily, but I wanted to draw attention to this little tidbit. See, SecondLaw is currently trying to find a job here in the city after leaving a certain major Philadelphia newspaper where she was employed in the thankless, long-hour, never-get-a-weekend-off position of copy editor for many years. The trend in newspapers today is towards fewer editorial staff members, meaning that less people actually take a look at what is published before it's published. It's even worse online, where everyone wants to be the first to break a story, and speed trumps accuracy. Often, that means that what is published hasn't been checked enough and glaring errors can appear. Every now and then, they're just funny.

For instance, I saw this printed in the New York Times online today. Sad news to be sure. It seems Robert Novak has a tumor and will no longer be writing his regular screed for the Chicago Sun-Times and instead has an imminent appointment with death. But it seems the New York Times wasn't willing to let him go without a parting shot, which I caught hiding almost out of sight in the next to last sentence.

I for one wish him the best of luck with his new brain. Perhaps it will serve him better than his old one, which tends to forget things like who told him about Valerie Plame.

Spaced Out

2008-07-31T09:42:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I breathed my first New York air in two weeks. It's strange, but I missed the smell. I arrived in a plane, took a bus from Newark, then rode the N train from Port Authority. I'm finally back among people, with all the sounds and sights that such proximity implies. I read my book in between glances out the window on the bus. I finish the book just as we cross from Jersey into Manhattan. Trying to maneuver two wheeled bags through the Times Square area forces me back into my New York walk: head down and silently encouraging people to get out of my way or be run over. It's good to be home.

I left the City two weeks ago for Huntsville. However, this wasn't a standard go-down-and-see-the-folks vacation. Instead, I was utilizing my family's new location to fulfill a childhood dream and secure the educational futures of my students. That's right; I went to Space Camp.

My arrival at Space Camp was fairly uneventful. After a couple days of relaxing with the 'rents, I got dropped off and entered a college dorm on UAH's campus, where I was to be staying with just over two dozen other educators, all in Huntsville for Space Camp. A couple of them had already arrived, and I ended up going out with some of them for dinner. Once the introductions were through, it was clear that I was the youngest person around the table, I was the only one without kids, and the only unmarried one. Regardless, we all got along famously, and even though we were to be split up into two teams the following day, it seemed that there was going to be a lot of positive interaction between the teams even if we were supposed to be competing. For the record, Team Unity was infinitely superior to Team Destiny.

Day One of Space Camp for Educators started out with a breakfast and the splitting of our group into the aforementioned teams. Team Destiny went off and did their own thing while Team Unity and I got a quick tour of the US Space and Rocket Center followed by some team-building exercises. First, some name-remembering games. Fifteen minutes of that, and I had everyone's name down, except for the people who went after me. Now that we knew how to address each other, it was clearly time to get physically close to one another. We tied a human knot.

No, we didn't just tie a human knot, we made a knot that would make Gordius cringe. Linked hand-in-hand, we struggled to free ourselves, complimented each other's deodorant, and finally managed to get ourselves out 44 minutes later. Oh, and we did this while standing in the middle of a public museum, under a Saturn V rocket. After a few minutes of this, the tourists were taking more pictures of us than of the rocket.

We broke for lunch soon after untying ourselves and then went back to the museum for our group picture, for which we all had to don our flight suits. Then we went to our first lecture, which dealt with the various parts of the shuttle and how it all works, seeing as our missions that week were going to involve the shuttle heavily. So now I know the difference between the SSMEs and the SRBs, I know when Max-Q and MECO occur during ascent, and I know how the OMS are used in descent. I also know that if the ECLSS fails on our mission, we're all screwed.

We had a brief overview of what our missions would entail and what the various positions would be, then we got to put in our requests for where we wanted to be on the missions. We could be in the Space Station, in the Orbiter, or in Mission Control. I was most interested in being in Mission Control or the Orbiter. My top choice was CAPCOM, or Capsule Communications, the one person on the ground who talks to the crew of the Orbiter. I think I was really looking forward to being able to say, "Sorry, but we really don't know how to help you. Best of luck."

Our last activity that day was designing our team mission patch. This was a really interesting idea that ended up focusing our whole team on what we wanted to accomplish, what we valued, and how we saw ourselves getting through the week to come. It's the kind of thing I really want to try with my students in the fall.

One day into our collective adventure, I already knew that there were some really special teachers in our little band. As teams, and as a whole group, we all seemed to get along well, despite barely knowing each other. It's amazing what a little knot tying will do to bring a group of strangers together.

How to Plan the Perfect Birthday for Your Girlfriend

2008-07-15T12:51:00.005-04:00

Since JimmyLuke moved out to his own place (which he in no way shares with HungarianPhrasebook unless it be in an utterly platonic and separate-sleeping-arrangement way) and SecondLaw moved in with me (a decidedly less platonic arrangement), things have been kind of hectic around here, despite the fact that I'm not currently working. We're still trying to sort through our respective crap and decide whose possessions belong where in our collective space. My possessions do have a certain amount of inertia, already being strewn about the place haphazardly, but SecondLaw has managed to defy her nickname on numerous occasions and I frequently find my belongings in places other than where they'd normally be, i.e. on the floor. She may make me a clean person after all.

In honor of her valiant attempts to change me, her indomitable spirit in putting up with me, and the anniversary of her birth, I declared that I would do something special for her birthday, which was last week. Without further ado therefore, here is the step-by-step procedure I hinted at in the title.

1. Plan Something Incredible

You may feel a tad disappointed that this is step one, but it is. I can't tell you what would constitute "incredible" for your girlfriend, but I know what it was for mine. After weeks of moving, building Ikea furniture, and driving between Philly and NYC, she was pooped. So I booked us a luxury corner suite in the Waldorf-Astoria so that she could relax. Maybe your girlfriend is more of the week-in-Vegas type. Or perhaps she's more a backstage-passes-to-Radiohead girl. The clincher of all, of course, would be proposing to her on her birthday, but let's not jump the gun here. Whatever it is, it doesn't really change Step One. Just find something ridiculously expensive and unlikely and book it pronto.

2. Don't Tell Her What You're Planning

This is perhaps the most important step. She will pester you and bug you, but as long as you've successfully completed Step One, there's very little chance of her guessing as high as you've aimed. Just tell her you've planned something, give her the appropriate amount of time that must be blocked off in her schedule for such an event (one evening, two days, a week) and leave it at that. Since women are adamant about knowing what to wear for every given occasion, she will then start to ask you questions along those lines, hoping to glean the nature of the event by your answers. Then it is time for Step Three.

3. Give Her Misleading and Contradictory Information

I had the most fun with this. For weeks leading up to our stay, she'd pepper me with questions, trying to get any kind of information she could. I answered truthfully, but in the most confusing way possible.
"What will I need to wear?"
"Nice clothes."
"Evening gown nice?"
"Casual nice. But you may also want to bring gym clothes."
"What?"
"You know, just in case."

Then there was the precise nature of the whereabouts of the event.
"Will we be taking the subway?"
"We can probably take a cab."
"So it's in Manhattan?"
"Well, we can't really catch a train from Astoria, can we?"
"So we're taking a train?"
"Well, a cab to Newark would be really expensive?"
"Wait, we're not flying anywhere, are we?!?!"
"You're right, it'd probably be easier to fly out of LaGuardia."
"But...haven't you booked everything already?"
"Don't worry, everything's taken care of."
"Grrr...."

4. Tell None of Her Female Friends
You might think you can score points with her friends by letting them in on the secret plans for your girlfriend's birthday, but this will only end up ruining Step Two. She will ask them. They will tell her. It's just the way these things work.

5. Drop Ridiculous Hints In Casual Conversation
Make sure these are the kinds of things that can only be picked up on later. At one point we were discussing plans for her parents' upcoming trip to Virginia.
"Is $149 a night good for a three-star hotel?"
"Well, where is it?"
"Downtown, and they charged me more for an extra person in the room."
"Oh yeah, hotels do that all the time...Have you ever stayed in a five-star hotel?"
"I stayed in a four-star once, but never a five-star."
"Huh..."

You're free to think up your own: "Oh man, I loved In Rainbows and Radiohead's coming to town next week. Bob tried to get tickets but said they were totally sold out. I bet that concert's gonna kick ass..."

6. Tell Her What's Happening Right Before It Happens, As Off-Handedly As Possible
For me, it was while packing the night before.
"Hey, what do you think the best place to stay in New York would be?" I asked her.
"The Plaza"
"Alright, what do you think the second best place would be?"
"The Waldorf-Astoria"
"Well, that's where we're staying."
[stunned silence, gaping eventually morphing into smiling and hugs]

7. Drop Money Like It's Nothing
When booking the room, I didn't want to go for the tiny single room, even if it was at the Waldorf. I wanted something memorable, so I got a 36th-floor room overlooking Fifth Avenue, with separate bath and shower, crystal chandelier, two TVs, separate bedroom and sitting room, and luxury appointments everywhere. There is a dress code at the Waldorf, and when the time came I made sure to dress more like a young executive out for a regular evening rather than a schoolteacher splurging on his girlfriend. Free mineral water (still and sparkling) was brought to our room, along with an assortment of chocolates. We had the fluffiest towels and bathrobes ever created by the hand of man. The bed was so comfortable that SecondLaw literally couldn't sit on it for more than five minutes without falling asleep. It's the first time I've seen furniture-induced narcolepsy. Other than with NoHips, of course.

We did indeed partake of the fitness center at the hotel --which was the most luxurious gym in the world-- so the part about possibly needing gym clothes was actually true.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, it was off to the lobby for drinks at the Peacock Bar, where the scotch is old and plentiful, then down to the Bull & Bear, where I would have to recommend the 12oz filet, with one of their numerous, wizened bottles of red wine.

Now, I'd love to be able to say that we capped this amazing day off with a time of tender, sensual, ~~kinky~~ lovin', but you're forgetting the aforementioned characteristic of our room's bed.

8. At Some Point, Get Someone to Take Your Picture

This serves two purposes. First, it is a tangible reminder of that wonderful occasion made possible only by the brilliant planning and deft execution of the best boyfriend ever. Second, the wistful memory of that one glorious day is a handy insurance policy for any occasion in the coming year in which said boyfriend screws up in some way.

Father's Day

2008-06-15T12:05:00.000-04:00

With the family being as scattered around the globe as it is right now (BrynJoe in Sudan, ArtHistory in Baltimore, me in NYC, the 'rents in 'Bama), we don't get to see as much of each other as we used to. This means that the annual honor-thy-father-and-mother days are primarily marked with phone calls from offspring to parent, rather than the cheap ties or K-mart perfume that we would present to them in our much younger days. Come to think of it, this may be an improvement in their eyes.

This year, what with the internets and all, I feel compelled to write something in praise of fatherhood, specifically my own father, who has been a person of relative importance in my life and the reason for my distinctive grin. Everybody knows, as Ben Folds says, it sucks to grow up. But the sacrifices of my father certainly made it suck less for me.

First, a little background. My father and mother came to the United States with a pittance of cash, a chest of belongings, and a job lined up and ready to go. Dad was a lowly entry-level professor at the Materials Science department at Lehigh University. When I eventually arrived, Dad was already working his ass off on a regular basis for his department, something he would do fairly consistently for the next thirty years. This hard work meant two things. One, I didn't see a whole lot of Dad on a daily basis. Mom tells the story that I used to call Dan Rather "Daddy" when I saw him on TV. To be fair, they had similar hairdos at the time. Regardless, it remains a fact that my formative years were spent mostly with Mom, while Dad was out bringing bacon, nosing grindstones, and other such stuff. Now secondly, Dad's relentless work ethic meant that we got to travel. A lot. Yes, we're a family with relatives in Australia and Europe, but on top of that there was a never-ending supply of conferences, research appointments and sabbaticals that meant the whole family would tag along for a week in Seattle, a summer in New Mexico, and almost a year in Sweden. By the time I entered high school, I'd already been to Australia thrice, toured around Europe and Scandinavia, and driven across the country. The world was already a much larger place for me than for most of my peers.

So even though those years of working hard meant that Dad didn't see a lot of me and my brothers all the time, he made absolutely sure that the time we spent together was quality time. Even when he wasn't showing us around the planet, he saw to it that we had good experiences in our own neighborhood as well. He signed us up for Little League because, well, that's what they do in America, right? I was horrendous, but I was never pressured into doing it for longer than I wanted to. The same thing happened with the Cub Scouts, piano lessons, violin lessons, racquetball lessons, GBSL, Junior Golf, CYO basketball, cross-country, track, theatre, choir, band, orchestra, or any of the activities that I was always allowed to try, but never forced to stick with. Life was a buffet and I was free to try out whatever I wanted. The only exception was PeeWee football, which Mom vetoed when I was in grade school. Since I remain under 5'8" and less than 180 lbs to this day, that was a pretty good call there, Mom.

Being the eldest son, I got the first crack at everything, and my goal was always to try and beat Dad. Beating your younger brothers at kickball, or soccer, or a foot race, or chess match, or just beating them in general is kind of predictable: you're older, you're bigger (at least, that used to be the case), and it's just not much of a matchup. But if you can beat Dad? Well! You're king of the family if that ever happens. So of course, Dad never let me win. Ever. I mean, at anything. You know, like walking from church to the car when I'm five years old.

"Hey Dad! Race you to the car?"

"Sure thing, son. Readysetgo!"

Thirtysomething man, the former 200m sprint champion and winger for Cambridge, tears off towards the parking lot, leaving his family in the dust. Toddler putters along after him.

Add to that the innumerable times that he's destroyed me in chess, cards, board games, golf, or anything else and you may get an idea of where my competitive spirit comes from. In all those times, when I never got to win, he's let me know (once he'd beaten me) what I could do to be better. And when I did finally beat him --I still remember the first run that we did together when I actually got home before him-- it was the culmination of years of practice and advice from him. It was worth something.

When I was young, my Dad was basically the font of all knowledge. I was convinced fairly early on that my teachers weren't exactly well-informed about the ways of the world. My 3rd grade teacher couldn't even identify the rock that I brought in from my backyard. Dad, however, seemed to have an unlimited supply of explanations about how things worked, which was good because I also had an inexhaustible supply of questions. To his credit, he always gave me an answer to the questions I asked and never brushed me off or laughed at their simplicity. I never felt stupid for asking.

As I got older and it got to be time for me to choose what I wanted to do with my life, I was supported in every possible way. Whatever college I wanted to visit ("It's no good applying to schools you haven't seen," he said), he went with me, flying across the country to see Berkeley and Stanford, driving 10 hours to see U. Chicago and Northwestern. I was never given a maximum radius from home or even a maximum price tag. Quite simply, I was told, "You'll go to the best college you can get into." Oh, and if I couldn't get into one that was better than Lehigh, I'd be at Lehigh. I believe this threat was the reason that all three of my Dad's children ended up at top-tier schools.

In the years since I've been out of college, things haven't always gone well for Dad. The years of running and playing rugby (with reprobates such as those pictured at left) took their toll on his hips, and eventually they both had to be replaced (the hips, not the reprobates). It was hard to watch the man I always wanted to outrun being confined to a hospital bed, unable to walk. But being the stubborn bastard that he is, he was up and walking days before his doctors suggested it would be prudent. He now no longer has the distinctive hobble that marked his gait for so many years, but he's also not getting back onto a rugby pitch any time soon.

Worse than the loss of his hips was the loss of his best friend, George (the middle reprobate). Because of their friendship, I've known George's kids since we were infants. George was an uncle in ways that my far-flung blood relations could never be. He is still sorely missed at family gatherings of all kinds.

On top of all of this, my father's time at Lehigh had become more of a chore than a labor of love. After six years as an vice provost (increasing the research budget by 80% during that time) and eight as department chair, he was being forced back into the same position he'd held fifteen years prior: professor. It was hard on him; after 30 years of ladder-climbing, he was being knocked back down again. It was hard on me too! I was watching this man who'd seemed nearly invincible to me years ago struggle with the effects of aging, losing a dear friend, and being marginalized in his job.

Then something amazing happened. With Lehigh apparently willing to discard someone who was eminently gifted at acquiring large sums of research money, other institutions took notice. Suddenly Dad was in demand. That's how, 18 months ago, my brothers and I found out that my parents would be leaving the home they'd had since before any of us were born to go to Alabama. What the hell? Well, it turns out there's a little research university down there that has its origins in the U.S. Space Program and really needed someone good to be its President. And Dad was the man for the job.

Cue the silly academic robes, please. Yes, now my parents are Alabaman. Or, at least, as Alabaman as two Europeans who spent most of their lives in Pennsylvania can be. This is the job that Dad's been working towards for longer than I've been alive. It's quite literally the culmination of his life's work. He's running a whole university, and is recognized and rewarded for the hard work it's taken to get to where he is and the hard work that he's still doing now that he's there. I find it a shame that the place where he spent 30 years of his life didn't see the opportunity they were throwing away, but I'm glad that someone else recognized a great leader when they saw one. So Lehigh's loss is UAHuntsville's gain.

The party that was thrown when my Dad was inaugurated was huge. Fully one third of his former grad students flew down for the event. His sisters flew over from Britain. Bethlehem emptied. One guest related the following story. As he was checking into his flight at the ticket counter in ABE, the woman behind the counter asked, "And where are you going today?" to which he replied, "Huntsville, Alabama." Then she exclaimed, "Why is everybody going to Huntsville? What the hell's going on in Huntsville today?"

My Dad's going on in Huntsville. In the year that he's been down there, he's already established himself as someone who people will follow. I think the English accent helps, but the sheer force of his personality helps too. He can still walk into a room full of important people and end up being the most talked-about guy there. I was honored to sit at his inauguration ceremony and watch person after person (including the commander of Redstone Arsenal!) come up to the podium and say great things about my Dad.

So here's to you, President Dad. You've made it! You raised three (relatively) grown-up boys, you've risen to the top of your field, you've got the big house, the fancy car (when it works), and the expensive scotch. So though we can't be with you on your day, know that somewhere, in the wilds of Sudan, Baltimore and Queens, we're raising a glass to you.

What'd you just call me?

2008-06-04T16:21:00.001-04:00

Classic.

It's Finally Over*

2008-06-04T13:30:00.002-04:00

So it seems that, six months and untold headaches later, we finally have a Democratic nominee for the Presidency. Barring some sort of Clintonian endgame move involving the discreet removal of certain super-delegates or an attempt to count the votes of Burkina Faso, Barack Obama will take on John McCain this fall (and every day until then) to try and become our next President. I'm struck by a few questions in light of this historic occasion.

1. Didn't we see this coming, like, weeks ago?

I maintain that I saw this coming years ago, when I told ClovisByline that as a nation we'd elect a black man long before we'd elect a woman. After all, I said, we gave them the vote first. After a long campaign that often veered into the question of whether our country is more racist or sexist, it has become clear that we are more sexist. Women are officially the most marginalized majority in our great nation. Apparently. That aside, there have been pundits declaring Hillary's campaign dead since North Carolina (May 6), ailing since Pennsylvania (April 22), and embattled since she lost 10 primaries in a row back in February. So...

2. When was the appropriate time for her to back down?

Would admitting defeat be admitting weakness? Or was she right to stay the course in the face of rapidly mounting opposition, till even some of her former supporters came out and said it was no longer a winnable war and till all but her most ardent sycophants had declared her continued efforts to be an intractable fight that was diverting resources from battles that needed to be fought against more important opponents? Sorry, for a second there I got mixed up between Clinton and Bush.

3. Is the joint ticket a dream or a nightmare?

This a little cart-before-horse, since she hasn't even suspended her campaign to become president, despite the fact that there's NO FEASIBLE WAY she can win...but should Obama consider her for the vice-presidency? That's kinda sorta like a position she's already held. And it'd certainly be a way to heal the divisions within the Democratic Party. Still, her unfavorable ratings haven't been the best and having a campaign that's been all about changing the politics of Washington while slapping an old Washington name on the ticket seems a little contradictory.

4. Can Obama win?

I'm glad he's the nominee. I think it's a feat that's been a long time coming in America and it speaks volumes for how far we've come as a society in the last forty years. But I also fear for how far some people have not come, and how many people will still look at him and see a black man, rather than the Democratic nominee for President. I'm fairly certain the Clinton liberals who loudly proclaimed that they would never vote for Obama will reconsider when the other option is a man who will not flinch at filling the Supreme Court with people who can overturn Roe v. Wade and who favors limiting the availability of contraception and destroying effective sex education, not to mention McCain's unwavering support for throwing money and bodies in the general direction of Iraq. My real concern is the middle-American worker who's steadfastly refused to vote Democratic despite the tremendous economic advantages the Democratic Party's stated policies would afford him: healthcare, higher minimum wage, more workers' rights, protections from corporate greed, etc. His reason for voting Republican is tied to his religion (don't like gays, don't like killing fetuses, didn't evolve from no monkeys, etc.), which proves that people will vote their faith ahead of their checkbook every time. He will not be swayed into the Democratic fold by a man who's had to distance himself from an inflammatory pastor.

So I'm not sure whether to be happy that the candidate I've backed has won the nomination or be disappointed that even with the clarity of this victory there's still no sign of real closure for the primary campaign. Without a concession speech from Clinton and with two months to go before the convention...

*Actual campaign may not be finally over.

Teaching to the Test

2008-06-02T18:28:00.002-04:00

It's that time of year again. I have precisely nine instructional days remaining before the end of the school year. I've officially entered Regents Review Time. Hell, who am I kidding? I've been in Regents Review Time since the last week in April. That's one of the numerous reasons you haven't been getting weekly updates from me over the past month/year/whatever. I managed to finish my yearly curriculum just before the kiddies went away for their Spring Break, which involved me spending a marvelous week in Philly with SecondLaw. Upon their return, I gave the kids the first of nine packets, each containing about 100 questions, organized by subject, covering every conceivable subject that we've talked about since September.

Well, almost. I admit, I didn't really cover the folding and faulting of crust, since there will maybe be one question (if any) about that on the test. I also taught a large, extended unit on biological evolution, though it certainly won't appear on the test, mainly because I feel that citizens of the world should have at least a cursory understanding of the lynchpin of modern biology, even if our country's President does not. With those two relatively minor exceptions, I've covered the scope and sequence of Earth Science as dictated by the State of New York, plus a sprinkling of cool topics that keep the kids interested --volcanoes, black holes, the heat death of the universe-- but are conspicuously absent from the test.

So six weeks later, the kids have completed all their review packets, I've killed 14 trees with all the paper I've printed, and it's time to see how the kids fare on a real Regents exam. So last Friday I ended the week on a high note by giving them a damn big test. The results are in, and my Thesis of Human Stupidity remains unshaken. Granted, the test was multiple choice, so I still have to account for random guessing, but nevertheless I can't ignore some of the answers that my students chose.

Which instrument is used to measure wind speed?

D. Thermometer (chosen by 2 students)

How many hours occurred between sunrise and solar noon on September 23rd?

C. 12 hours (chosen by 49 students)

D. 24 hours (chosen by 3 students)

What is the inferred age of our Solar System, in millions of years?

A. 544 (chosen by 12 students)

D. 10,000 (chosen by 24 students)

For that last one, please keep in mind that they can use a chart which describes the major events in Earth's history, along with a timescale that tells when everything happened, back to and including the formation of the Earth 4,600 million years ago. Between that and the number of students who think sunrise happens at midnight (or noon on the day before), not to mention the students who have a seriously skewed view of the uses of a rectal thermometer, let's just say I'm not exactly sure that many of them are prepared to pass a Regents exam.

I think the basic problem is that the Earth Science Regents, unlike many other exams, doesn't actually require them to memorize and regurgitate a bunch of facts. You know, like: who was Robespierre, what were the consequences of the Teapot Dome scandal, how many degrees are there in a triangle? Instead, the E.S. Regents hands the kids a 16-page packet containing the aforementioned chart, among other useful references, and expects them to solve questions by correctly reading the chart, analyzing the question, and synthesizing an answer using the tools available to them and their residual knowledge of things we talked about in class.

This does not work well. Most of these students are very concrete thinkers. They view the world in tiny, independent pieces of information. Frankly, the short attention span of our sound-bite/YouTube/Tivo culture isn't helping them to develop a deep understanding or appreciation of anything anytime soon. Making new connections between different ideas and using old information to make sense of newly-acquired data are foreign concepts to them. They don't organize ideas into hierarchical structures and sort it by applicability or relevance; they can't pick out the important information in a graph, map, or figure, and they get discouraged when asked to read more than seven consecutive words about any one subject.

Sometimes I feel like throwing a copy of the Journal of Sedimentology at them to see their reaction to the "Palaeoenvironments, palaeogeography, and physiography of a large, shallow, muddy ramp: Late Cenomanian-Turonian Kaskapau Formation, Western Canada foreland basin" or some other such article. Other times I feel like locking them in a windowless room with nothing but the classics of Western literature and a year's supply of food and water to see if they actually start reading or use the larger books as blunt instruments of death to kill their rivals and steal their food. I mostly think it'd be the latter option. With that in mind, I recommend Tolstoy and Dickens for sheer weight, and Ayn Rand for the added insult of being beaten to death by the most overrated books of the twentieth century. Sorry, but she's preachy as hell, her sex scenes are accurately recreated by mixed martial arts competitors, and there are no shortage of smug people who believe themselves to be really really special precious little snowflakes after reading her books and have forgotten the dictum of the Thesis of Human Stupidity which specifically states that people are stupid.

Wow. That turned into a little rant there. Anyway, the point is that I'm not so sure that my students (and many Objectivists) have the capacity for complex symbolic thought that the E.S. Regents requires. I guess I'll find out soon enough. They're scheduled to take their exam on June 20th. I have between then and now to prepare them as best I can. When will then be now? Soon.

This Rant Is My Rant

2008-05-27T18:31:00.001-04:00

I haven't updated in forever. Sue me.

In lieu of writing about my life during the past month or so, I thought I'd just let loose with a few thoughts that have been buzzing around in my head recently. This strange conglomeration of ideas has largely been due to the odd assortment of books I've been reading, the trips --to Huntsville, Binghamton and Bethlehem-- that I've recently undertaken, the quickly (yet never quickly enough) approaching end to the school year, the Long, Flat, Seemingly Endless Bataan Death March to the White House, and the annual perfect sports storm of baseball season getting underway while the hockey and basketball seasons thunder (or limp) to a close. Yes, at first glance these things have absolutely nothing to do with one another, but to my mind they are intimately connected. Now either my brain has been completely fried by dealing with teenagers or I've stumbled upon a major portion of my personal philosophy that I haven't had the words to express until now.

See, I'm having a problem with land. It first dawned on me when I gazed out of the windows of a tour bus full of 10th graders to spy a familiar sign of home. Yes, when coming down the PA Turnpike Northeast Extension, I saw the large red ALPO water tower looming in front of me and knew we'd soon be in the Lehigh Valley. We were driving from the University of Binghamton to Lehigh University, showing the 10th graders what this whole "college" thing was about, and I was struck by the odd familiarity of this ridiculous dog food-sponsored water tower that was rather inconveniently making me homesick. Who gets choked up looking at a bright red ALPO water tower? Jeez. We turned onto Rt. 22 and all the familiar landmarks started whizzing by at 55 mph. There's the dealership where Mom and Dad bought our first minivan. There's the Lehigh Valley Mall. Hey, it's bigger now! What the hell? There's the Friendly's on Airport Road where everyone used to go for ice cream, especially if we'd already been to Perkins four times that week. There's the hospital where my brother spent New Year's with an enormous Popeye-esque growth on his elbow. There's the two-hundred-year-old church where I sat with my parents and listened to Christmas carols after we'd all given up on Catholicism. There's the Steel Mill, that once employed the whole town and is now being turned into luxury loft condos and casinos. There's Lehigh, where I won the Turkey Trot race without being an official runner, where I took my first college courses, where my father made a name for himself and a life for all of us, where his friends and my friends spent so many of their waking hours. All of it. All of this. There's my home.

As this is swirling through my head, I get broadsided by an unforeseen thought: what makes all of this so special? As my Mom wisely said when preparing to leave the house that she'd shared with my Dad for three decades, "When all our stuff's gone, it's just four walls." I found myself extending that pronouncement to my entire hometown. When I'm not there, when my family's not there, when the majority of my friends and the people I care about have left...what is this place? What makes it special? The more I thought about it, the more I came to the disturbing conclusion that there was nothing special about it. The thought couldn't be stopped, and I kept expanding my criteria. Is Pennsylvania something to get excited about? Does the East Coast really have something unique going on? How particularly grand is our country? I then found myself noting that there are really no allegiances past the size of a nation. No one gets really worked up over their particular continent or hemisphere being better than another. That said, the Southern Hemisphere is clearly inferior. Still, at every level below that, it's fair to say that people get really worked up.

Nations seem to be the most obvious and egregious example of land loyalty. War is clearly the logical extension a fervent belief in the superiority of one's own land and the inferiority of someone else's. Those who haven't been in combat would do well to witness a crowd of people watching a World Cup soccer match to get some idea of the passions involved. In all seriousness, how many millions (billions?) have died based on the belief that one man's rightful conquest is another man's rightful homeland? Israelis and Palestinians routinely kill each other over the least oil-rich portion of (literally) godforsaken desert in the entire Middle East. What makes this land so special? And don't say religion, because anyone willing to kill someone else and blame it on God clearly hasn't been reading his Bible/Torah/Koran/etc. closely enough. Whether for pride, power, or lebensraum, the map of Europe has been redrawn once every few decades or so to fight over the same patches of ground. What makes this land so special? Millions of men marching, riding on horseback, driving tanks, trying to kill millions of other men marching, riding or driving in the opposite direction. And for thousands of years, it just keeps happening. As Blackadder famously said, World War I "would've been a damn sight simpler if we'd just stayed in England and shot fifty thousand of our men a week." That probably applies to most other wars as well, with varying weekly figures.

The World Cup analogy was a good one because the next level down seems to have a lot to do with sports teams. Perhaps, because we can't actually declare war on Detroit no matter how much we may be tempted to, we just send our sports teams at them and hope that their inevitable defeat on the field/ice/court will convince them of their inherent inferiority and get them to gentrify their downtown already and start producing a better lineup of automobiles or something. Anyone who's ever been in a bar where Arsenal and Chelsea supporters are both watching a match will know just how close sports is to warfare. I also know from personal experience that Blackhawks-Redwings games, Eagles-Cowboys games and Sox-Yanks games can teeter ever so near to devolving into all-out brawls among the fans in the seats or in bars. In any of these cases, and hundreds more like them, disparaging words uttered about your team, though they may be hateful, unoriginal and crass (Yankees suck) can cause you to feel a personal pain as though you yourself have been slighted. Even if the comments carry some sort of logical sense to them (face it, Boston's got a better pitching staff, all your guys are old and overpaid, and you're in last place), you're still likely to rise to the defense of your team. It's as though you're a member of a tribe and you will gladly do battle to defend that tribe's honor. Indeed, I can report that I've noticed that as a fan of the NL Central-leading Cubs, wearing the regalia of your team and noticing someone else in similar garb evokes a sudden sense of community. Especially with the Cubs history of failure, futility and fuckups, there's a very knowing nod when one man in a Cubs hat nods to another man in a Cubs jersey on a street anywhere in the world. But really, are they all that special?

Now I think of my affinity with the town in which I currently reside, New York City. New Yorkers are famously proud of their town, and they damn well should be because it's the best goddamned town in the whole freakin' world, alright? Sheesh. I live here three years and look what happens. I also have a special love for my past places of residence: Bethlehem, Evanston/Chicago, and Columbus. But are they inherently better than other towns? My parents have recently taken up residence in Huntsville, Alabama and report it to be neither full of rednecks nor utterly inhospitable to Yanks (or Brits for that matter). It's quite possible --or so I've been led to believe-- that there may be one or more other towns in this country that would make a suitable home. I'm pretty sure that most everyone is convinced that they know of the greatest town in the county/state/nation and I'm also pretty sure that we're not all correct. Though some towns may be objectively bad (Detroit) I'm sure we can't say definitively that there's a "best town" out there, though I'm sure many lay claim to that very title.

My students have an even more insular idea of land loyalty. While I've heard them argue incessantly over whether the Dominican Republic is superior to Puerto Rico --I calmly inform them that both are inferior to the United States, so what does it matter?-- they more frequently take up sides on the basis of their neighborhoods. Most of them are from the same three areas: Harlem, Washington Heights, and the South Bronx. Keep in mind that all of these areas exist within the same 5 square miles north of Central Park. Nevertheless, they will fervently argue about the pros and cons of each of their neighborhoods. How could you date a guy from the Heights? Yo, Bronx is wack. And so on. It even comes down to individual streets on occasion. I've actually overheard conversations regarding the relative merits of 168th St. versus 125th St. In case you're wondering, 125th St. is vastly superior. Apparently.

How much can you really tell about someone just by knowing where they're from? Well, nothing, frankly. Yet it's one of the first questions we ask someone upon meeting them, especially if they talk funny. We try to establish some sort of rapport through geography, as if someone whose parents resided in the same region as your parents when you were each delivered from your respective mothers' wombs would naturally understand where you were coming from in a more philosophical sense as well. But how can this be? Why should someone from my home town have more of a chance of thinking or feeling the same way I do about anything? Is there really an unspoken bond between people who've eaten at the same diners or shopped at the same malls?

The majority of the people in my hometown were not really intelligent, interesting human beings. I know. I observed them in the diners and malls. This is not a slight on my origins; I tend to believe that the majority of all humans are not especially intelligent or interesting as a rule. Thus, as I've wandered through life from Bethlehem to Chicago to Columbus and thence to New York, I've fostered numerous acquaintances, several friendships, and precious few real, fulfilling relationships. Some of them outlast the town in which they were first incubated, many of them do not. Others are rekindled by a chance encounter, while some get by with a simple "How're ya doin'?" every now and then.

I come to the relatively depressing conclusion that most people I meet (and likely will meet) in my life will be, at best, the kind of people who, once introduced at a party, fade to the background and are maybe good for 10 minutes of sterile conversation before the end of the evening. Yet I prefer to dwell on the positive. That is, I can think of the few dozen people in the world who've meant something to me in my life so far and know that they originated in places as far away as Australia and as near as next door. These are the people with whom I can have real conversation. We may not agree on the specifics, but we can talk about life as people who have lived it with similar goals in mind. Were I to spend a portion of my life in Indonesia, I would find people of that calibre there as well. Or China. Or Burkina Faso. Or Venezuela. I do not believe, and cannot accept, that there is a land in this world that can lay claim to having a greater percentage of decent human beings than any other. I instead believe that the relative ratio of worthwhile people to worthless ones remains fairly constant worldwide. Hint: there are many more worthless ones. But what a challenge this presents! There are wonderful, interesting people the world over who are just out there waiting to be found. Wherever life takes us, whatever town, country, or hemisphere we find ourselves occupying, we have the opportunity to develop meaningful relationships with the people we find there. We may even connect with them in ways that surpass our childhood playmates or college classmates. The only way to find out is to go there and see. Some of the greatest friends of your life may be ones you haven't yet discovered.

So perhaps I'm a little unpatriotic here. I don't feel that the United States is the greatest country in the world, at least not in terms of the quality of humanity it produces. I'm also not so proud of my home state, town, or current place of residence to feel that I'm more likely to find better people in those places than elsewhere. I can, however, be proud of humanity in general. That slim minority of people who meant something to me at one time, or who continue to be meaningful to me today, or with whom I've yet to connect, will ultimately be the test of just how much of a positive impact I've had in this world. In a strictly Newtonian sense, I hope that I would have at least as much of a positive effect on them as they've had on me. Rather than excluding whole cities, states, or countries from my search for commonality, there's a joy to be had in finding an unexpected connection with someone whose geography couldn't be more different from your own.

Things to do

2008-04-07T20:54:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow is my last day of school for a while. See, one thing I neglected to mention in my last post is that I'm heading down to Alabama on Wednesday morning --ridiculously early Wednesday morning-- for my father's official inauguration as the President of the University of Alabama at Huntsville. This is a Good Thing for many reasons. One, the fam is getting together in force: BrynJoe's in from Africa, Art-History is heading down from Baltimore, and a whole crew of aunts and cousins will be traipsing in from across the Pond. Two, pursuant to point one, there will be much rejoicing/drinking to commemorate the occasion. Since it's a classy affair, the drink is likely to be of a high quality. Since it's my family, the drink is likely to be of a high quantity. Three, SecondLaw is coming down from Philly to meet the whole fam. It's not that she hasn't met them before, it's just that this is her first time meeting them in the context of being my girlfriend. Fourth, and most importantly, I won't be seeing my students for four days straight right before the college trip, which is just the sort of break I need from the little buggers.

However, this upcoming break does mean that I need to get all my grades done before leaving work tomorrow. There's a high probability that I won't leave work until 6:30 PM or later. I've still got quizzes and notebook grades to enter in to my spreadsheet, and I haven't even begun writing my evaluations. For some reason, the more work I have to do, the more I feel like procrastinating. I even took an online test to see how much of a procrastinator I am...while procrastinating. Remarkably, I only scored in the 50th percentile. There must be some crazy-ass procrastinators out there. I think that the more I have to do, the less I want to do it. Or maybe it's because I've been looking at papers since I got home at 6 and I can feel my eyes slowly glazing over. Either way, I got the sudden urge to type stuff.

OK, actually working now, I swear.

Breakdown

2008-04-03T19:30:00.002-04:00

You'd think, with the recent happenings at my school, that things could only get better, right? Ha. You fool. The students (and faculty, quite frankly) are teetering on the edge at this point. Myself included. Laundry list time:

1. Third quarter ends tomorrow. Grades due Tuesday. Two labs and a quiz left to grade.

2. Students at each others' throats. Fight yesterday. Girl fight. (Not like that. Pervert.) Ex girlfriend of guy punches current girlfriend of guy and guy attempts to step in and punch ex-girlfriend. Guy kinda chunky and unattractive. Why such a Don Juan? Hung like bear? Best not to ask.

3. 9th grade team continuously changing class schedule for no apparent reason. We asked them politely not to do this months ago. Messes with all of us. People peeved.

4. P-T Conferences next week. No patience for dipshit advisees. Murder not an option.

5. PM School every Monday. Kills momentum of the rest of the week. Failing children attempting to make up credits while listening to iPods. Murder STILL not an option.

6. Apartment getting messy despite recently-done laundry. No time to clean. In fact, should be grading now. What the hell?

7. No seniors showing up for after-school Regents help. Guess who's held responsible when they fail? Considering the possibilities of unexplained disappearances/forged suicide notes.

8. College trip in two weeks. Eighty 10th graders with 5 teachers on an overnight trip upstate. Pretty sure that's illegal. Rural, heavily-wooded areas. Murder, hiding bodies, feigning ignorance totally an option.

There's more, but I'm going to start on lab #1 and see how far I can get this evening. Wish me luck/sanity!

The Worst Thing

2008-03-31T16:47:00.003-04:00

I've been debating over whether I should post this, but it's the kind of problem that remains ignored for too long anyway in my profession, so I feel that more words on the subject are required. An incident has happened at my school. The particulars of this incident are still being sorted out, and I will not name the parties involved. But whenever anyone has asked me how school has been over the past week, I've had only one response and it's a question: What's the worst thing a teacher can do? The answer that people have given has always been the same, no matter who I've asked. No one talks about beatings or belittlement or any of the other far more common teacher sins. There's only one worst thing a teacher can do: have sex with a student. And that, in short, is the accusation that is currently creating a storm of distrust, concern, and complete bafflement at my school.

A male teacher has been accused of sleeping with a female 11th grade student at my school. You won't find this in the national headlines, so don't bother checking. See, if you want to find national news stories about teachers sleeping with students, it has to be a female teacher with a male student. Those stories are all over the news, brimming with a sick, smug satisfaction that borders on tacit approval of such behavior. It's almost seen as a socially acceptable thing for a young male student to get it on with an older woman. Van Halen was apparently ahead of the curve regarding this cultural bias.

There's no similar sentiment regarding the opposite situation. A male teacher who goes after one of his female student is almost universally regarded as a creepy old guy preying on innocent children. I'm not sure why we seem, as a society, to be less likely to view female sexual predators in a different light than their male counterparts, but at the same time I'm concerned about the lack of concern for the opposite charge. I don't think the dearth of reporting of male teacher/female student relations indicates a lack of reportable cases; I think it indicates the fact that such situations are too common to be considered newsworthy. Examples of female teachers behaving badly are still uncommon (and, apparently, titillating) enough to sell some serious newspapers. But I cringe when I consider how many incidents are being quietly swept under the rug in order to keep up appearances at schools all over the country. One doesn't have to look far back into history to find other instances of child abuse on a sweeping scale being covered by bureaucracy, deception, and a cynical shell game.

In this particular instance, I don't know if the accusations against this teacher are true. I've obviously known him for all the years that I've been teaching in my school; he's a man with whom I've shared drinks, meals, laughs and many conversations. I have many fond memories of this man. But every last one of them has been stained by this new information. It's like my radar's been broken. If this did actually happen, how did I not know? How did I miss the signs? Were there any signs to see? The worst part of all of this is that I don't find myself dismissing the allegations out of hand, as I'm sure I would were they brought up against most teachers in my school, or anywhere else for that matter. He never was a teacher to play by the rules, and always seemed to err on the side of being too friendly with the students. I can't say for certain that this isn't another line that he would cross.

One thing I always tell my students is that, though I'm friendly with them, I can never be their friend. Friends cover for you. Friends will lie for you and keep secrets. I can't do that. I have people I need to tell, if my students tell me certain secrets. I have professional obligations that demand that I keep a professional distance, no matter how much I want to help my students sort out their messed up lives. It's clear that the accused teacher at my school has not lived by the same boundaries. He got too close, he was more of a friend than an authority figure, and now it's impossible to separate fact from fiction in what has become a classic case of he-said-she-said.

I'm appalled that a situation ever arose where such an accusation could even be plausible. I'm sorry that I can't completely dismiss the possibility that it could have happened. Most of all, I'm sorry for my friend. The damnable thing is that I like this guy. I'm angry that he made decisions which caused these allegations to have some weight. I'm disgusted by the possibility that they might be true. I can't help thinking that I should have been able to see this coming. I'm hoping against hope that everything will turn out to be a big misunderstanding.

...and we're back!

2008-03-18T21:30:00.002-04:00

OK, it's been more than a month. This is entirely unacceptable. You'd think I'd been hit by a damn car or something. No, my body is still in (relative) working condition. The reasons for this period of silence are manifold. First, my job has required me to be somewhat more attentive to my duties in the last few weeks. I've gotten a SMARTBoard, which has been an interesting adjustment and will ultimately improve my lessons. For now though, it's a little more trouble than my standard chalk'n'talk method of teaching, so I'm a little off balance. Second, Midwinter Break required me to be skiing in Portland with MasaaiValley and FireStarter. This also involved rock climbing, frisbee golf, the greatest bookstore in the world, a pound of meat, and no serious injuries. More about that later. Third, I've found myself rather unexpectedly in a relationship again.

Now, I know what you're thinking: wasn't it only a few short months ago that this man dejectedly attested to his single status and declared that he would seek after no further female companionship for the foreseeable future? Yeah, I was there. I remember that too. I think it's a kind of Zen principle that causes you to find the thing for which you are not seeking. Or something like that. I'm a little hazy on my Eastern religions. Whatever the case, I had never really considered the possibility that SecondLaw and I would end up dating each other, but I'm exceedingly glad that it happened. Advantage to starting serious relationship with someone you've known for nearly 20 years: no need to spend time getting to know each other. Disadvantage: already knows all your stories and jokes, must come up with new ones quickly.

Anyway, that's why I've been absent recently. I promise I'll have a more interesting post in the near future.

Quantumas

2008-02-10T11:16:00.000-05:00

Teach spoke the truest words of the evening. "You can't explain this night to anyone. They'll always look at you like you're retarded. The whole thing sounds really strange. And pretty gay."

The High Holy Days snuck up on me this year. The Tri-Birthday (now Sex-Birthday) had been a blast, but now it was time for the drunkening of Quantumas, where Quantum dies from scurvy and his friends gather to tell stories and give gifts in celebration of the man's life. Dressed completely in black, I arrived at Teach's place to find Uber, T, and Kodez already digging in to the libations and snack foods as provided by brother Teach, our host for the early part of the evening. Soon Quantum appeared, wearing what appeared at first to be curtains but on further inspection turned out to be not one but two Hawaiian shirts. He also had a ridiculous sparkly hat, the type that is really only appropriate on New Year's, and then only marginally so.

We realized we had only an hour and a half before we had to leave for our dinner reservation in Harlem, so we set to drinking with a more hurried pace than is likely advisable. Before heading out, we made time for the Quantumas traditions, such as T getting screwed and the presentation of the gifts. T was actually mugged while walking to the first Quantumas two years ago, thus beginning the tradition of him getting screwed on Quantumas, but this year he gleefully announced that his girlfriend had been the only one to screw him that day. To help Quantum in the afterlife and beyond, we always give him gifts that are actually of questionable value in this life. Gifts this year included "Liver Aid," the usefulness of which should be fairly obvious, the traditional raw broccoli (this time doused with beer and used to anoint the faithful Catholic-style), an absentee ballot application for Massachusetts, Portabello mushrooms, and a flashing tiara with "Bitch" written across the front in prominent red lettering. It was noted that this gift made the whole gathering more of a bachelorette party and also more gay. Last year, I had given Quantum a rock "that he may smite his enemies in the afterlife." This year, I gave him the mightiest weapon of all, my grading pen, which has already shattered the egos of countless teenagers and can be used to smite enemies or fill out absentee ballot applications.

Close to 8:30, we headed out to the bus. Yes, we had elected to take the M60 bus across the Triborough on a Saturday night while quite drunk. The whole crew totaled, I believe, nine people at this point, so we made quite a scene as drunken black-clad wanderers loudly roaming the streets of Astoria. When we arrived at the bus stop, there was some commotion at 31st St. A stretch Hummer limo had a flat tire right in the middle of the intersection under the N train, causing havoc with the traffic there. A tow truck was just clearing the accident, its own tires pretty well flattened by the weight of the behemoth it was carrying. A policeman had blocked the intersection to allow the truck to clear it but people were getting impatient. It was at this point that Uber decided that he would help out.

We all know Uber's track record when it comes to helping people out. Now I am of the opinion that, when one is drunk and with a loud group of people who are also drunk, one should not voluntarily approach an officer of the law. Uber clearly does not think likewise. He bounded over to the accident scene, where two tires remained in the middle of the road, and offered to help in their removal. The policeman declined. Undaunted, Uber bounded back to us at the bus stop to report that the situation was "being taken care of" and that his help was not needed after all. We acknowledged this fact with varying degrees of interest.

As had been predicted, we took over the M60 bus. Some sitting, some standing, we were a force to be reckoned with. Hubris for some reason (probably hubris, come to think of it) started explaining the idea of Quantumas to a random kid on the bus, who looked at him like he was retarded. The bus cleared out substantially by the time we got off. We had a vague idea that this restaurant was near the end of the line for the bus, but it took a random wireless signal and my iPod to confirm the location. We wandered off down 125th St.

Dinosaur BBQ is an interesting place indeed. It's actually under the Riverside Dr. overpass, about as far on the west side of Harlem as you can get. I realized that I knew the neighborhood from cycling up the West Side Highway and down Broadway. I had passed this restaurant many times and not even realized it. There were tables set up outside and people were actually seated there, despite the February temperatures. Inside was packed. We had a reservation for almost 20 and our party was more like 11, but we still got our table in a timely fashion. The decision was made to get a shitload of meat for the entire table (except the small but vocal vegetarian section) and just dig in. At one point, I had a large amount of hot sauce poured onto a place in front of me that I seem to recall I was supposed to eat, but that didn't end up happening. The food at this place was fantastic. Everything stuck to the insides of your ribs and caused arterial stress at first sight. It's the kind of meal that everyone should have once in a while but no one should attempt to consume twice on consecutive days. It was the perfect meal for our purposes.

Dinner done, we headed downtown on the 1 train, losing some of our party to the night and arriving at Irish Rogue and (quickly thereafter) Bull Moose. Hubris offered up a round of shots for the surviving team members. I myself headed for home soon afterwards, fielding a phone call from SecondLaw along the way. Compared to Quantumases past, this one had fewer felonies, more food, less drooling, and more varied modes of transportation. The amount of broccoli remained constant.

Impending Age

2008-01-30T22:43:00.000-05:00

On Friday, I'll be twenty-eight years old and well on my way to completing my third decade of life. Those of you, my dear readers, who are my elders will undoubtedly mutter that I'm being overly dramatic about all of this. For all you youngin's out there, you can just roll your eyes and ignore this. Come to think of it, I don't know who I'm writing this for. Maybe it's me.

See, the first decade is the one I can hardly remember. Scattered memories of Australia, Fiji, Sweden, England, Holland, Norway, and even BrynJoe falling out of the top bunk in New Zealand when I was 3 are about all that really stand out. In short, whenever my family went away from Bethlehem. The normal days, the ones spent growing up on Montgomery Street, all seem to bleed together into a cheesy flashback montage of kickball games, climbing trees, riding bikes, and dutifully going to school. There were memorable events among those days as well: falling off my bike in first grade, my first piano lesson, summers at the lake, playgroup. I remember the Challenger explosion and the fall of the Berlin Wall as events that I was told at the time were very important, but I didn't really understand why. I remember wanting badly to stay home from school when I returned from the months in Sweden with an English accent firmly in place and had to deal with ignorant fourth graders.

The second decade was so short in retrospect. Mr. Zieger's class in middle school opened me up to the possibilities that my talents could afford me in the future. I learned to run. I found theatre. I had my first crush. I fell in love. I drove. I got into accidents. I got out of trouble. I got back in again. I learned to hide things from my parents (Buick. Bus channel. BPD.). Then somewhere near the tail end of my second decade, at a particularly low point, I had the wonderful realization that they're the smartest people I know.

In the third decade, I've earned two Bachelor's degrees and two Master's. I've had two long-term, serious girlfriends and a handful of relationships of varying length and seriousness. I've moved four times. I've lived with six different roommates and lived for two years on my own. I've continued adding countries to my list. I've saved money. I've lost money. I founded a Shakespearean troupe. I got paid to be an actor. I went on field research excursions. I edited a technical paper written by one of my idols. I discovered that I was born to be a teacher. I became a New Yorker.

It's something about the marking of another year's passing that gets me thinking about the twenty-eight years that I've been here. I look for the patterns -- look for the sense of it all. The truth is, there's no overarching pattern here. But I love my life right now. I'm living where I want to live and getting paid to do exactly what I want to do. I have made hundreds, if not thousands, of friends in my life and watched as some of them were left behind and some of them remained. The magic of the internet has brought some of the lost ones roaring back from the past, smashing the memories of my first two decades into my feel for the present. Somehow I always find myself surrounded by people I love and trust.

Last year, as the new year started and I found myself facing another birthday, I began to make plans and set goals. I have no intentions of doing that again. It's not that I lack ambition -- far from it. But I think this has been the year that I've learned to take life as it comes. I can't control what choices life will throw at me in this, my twenty-ninth year. I know that I have the ability to overcome obstacles without trying to choose which obstacles I will face. I have enough confidence in myself that I don't feel like I have to set in stone the challenges I will attempt this year.

So, at the risk of sounding Texan, I have only one thing to say to the potential struggles of the coming year: bring 'em on.

Gonads and Strife

2008-01-28T22:07:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I had to reference the world's greatest dancing squirrel flash cartoon for a minute there.

Gonads would of course refer to the Sex-Birthday, which took place last Saturday and actually had more to do with the fact that six people were having their birthdays at roughly the same time than with any kind of intercourse or coitus that one could imagine. The Sex-Birthday involved a private room at Stout, many friends of old, and the Quixotic quest to imbibe $1200 worth of liquor in a single evening. Considering that the family outing to Rogue just a few short weeks ago had teetered on the brink of $800 with significantly fewer guests, our work was relatively simple. We also had the participation of varsity-level drunkards like Hubris, BrownSox, Teach, Arsenal, Uber, and Quantum.

The party didn't even begin until 10 PM, which gives you, gentle reader, some idea of the kind of havoc we were all prepared to wreak that night. As per usual, we managed to be at once gentlemanly, drunk, and mildly out of it in a single sitting. Fortunately (unfortunately?) no one managed to make a complete ass of themselves for the entirety of the evening. We were orderly drunkards: quietly downing our liquor, loudly proclaiming our excellence, clumsily hitting on women.

It was after 3 AM by the time I decided to retreat to Queens. Hubris volunteered to journey with me and partake of The Guy on the way home, for old times' sake. I paid for the cab, he paid for The Guy. Now, I haven't eaten a pita from The Guy in many months, but even the depth of my complete drunkenness was not enough to hide the superiority of said pita from my thoroughly saturated taste buds. That pita may have delayed my crawling into bed by another half hour, but damn if it wasn't worth it.

The next morning, I begged to differ. I had to wake up early and get to working. Grades were due the following day and I had two labs and a quiz to enter into my grade book before tabulating final averages and writing evaluative comments. This was the strife. Well, some of it anyway.

Most of the strife erupted today, when the frazzled staff of MVA returned after too short of a time off to exchange student evaluations, meet with parents, and simmer in a slow burn of frustrating tediousness that would eventually prove too much for some. I didn't have my evaluations completed by the time I walked into the school, which was a tactical error on my part. It was 10:30 by the time I finished them and distributed them to the proper advisors. I caught an appropriate amount of flack for my lateness. Our team met up at 1:30 to discuss the unspoken strife that was contributing to a general malaise among the tenth grade teachers. Basically, we weren't happy with each other, and the stress and strain of the end-of-semester schedule was grating on us pretty badly. Our conversation mercifully cleared the air, but it was short-lived. An hour later, parents started showing up and we had to hole up in our respective classrooms, bombarded with parents who talked a big game while doing nothing, or who enabled their children to the point of academic disaster, or who expected us to be able to move heaven and earth to smooth the path of their precious little snowflake.

I didn't get home until 8 PM. I found JimmyLuke and HungarianPhrasebook in the house, which had been vacant except for me and my grade book for the last four days or so. I helped myself to some dinner and booze. Tomorrow, I get to attend a Professional Development seminar that's supposed to last all day and tell me all about the Earth Science Regents Performance Standards. I may need to bring a flask.

The Brother Week

2008-01-19T15:18:00.000-05:00

I've been absent recently from the worlds of blogging and general everyday living. Since roughly last Wednesday, I've inhabited only the world of drinking and partying. Somehow the world of teaching has been unaffected. Time constraints being what they are, I'm afraid I'll have to skip the wondrous story of SecondLaw's cocktail party, which involved my meeting Powell the new boy and CaptainMarvel, who holds a job that many people I know would kill for. Also glossed over will be the tale of New Years in Brooklyn, starring JimmyLuke, HungarianPhrasebook, BigGayJoe, the Wii, most of the OCME, sink-booting prior to ball-dropping, and inexplicable offers of backdoor lovin'. Actually, it's probably best that I've skipped that story.

See, last Wednesday, my brother showed up. He'd been out on the West Coast, meeting friends and partying with people who he hadn't seen since he disappeared into Africa a year and a half ago. He arrived here far from partied out. Our first night was fairly uneventful, mostly just me watching TV, both of us having some beers and BrynJoe illegally copying my DVDs to his laptop. I can safely say this now that he's back at his home in a non-extradition country. Find him if you can, major motion picture studios.

The next night, BrynJoe was meeting some friends and invited me to join him. I met him and Toonces at a bar in midtown, from which we proceeded directly to Toonces' place, where BrynJoe was organizing a party for the following night. A few things about Toonces should be mentioned. She knows my brother from college, and is one of the select few people who posted regularly on the music blog that my brother and his college friends set up a couple years ago. Incidentally, Irish McJew found said blog a year ago and thought they were musically well-informed. Anyway, now Toonces is a lawyer in the city, and also a damn good DJ, who's met and become good friends with a couple DJs whose names I recognized. I even have the albums of some of them.

Toonces did a little spinning, we got the grand tour of the apartment, BrynJoe got a key so he could set up while the rest of us were at work, and then the three of us headed down to the village to meet up with some friends of Toonces. Upon arrival, it was clear that BrynJoe knew none of these other friends. So the three of us spent the night chatting and drinking in close proximity to, but not exactly in the same company as, the rest of the party.

The party on Friday at Toonces' place wasn't the first stop for me after work. Our school was welcoming our newest teacher, Fromafar, an exchange-teacher from South Africa who was replacing our chemistry teacher for a year. We had a welcoming party for him at a little Mexican place in the Village that started around 4:30. This was an interesting party, since Fromafar doesn't drink. Thankfully, the rest of the teachers drank for him. Our guest of honor left by 7 PM, and a hardy group of drinkers hoofed it to No Idea and continued the evening. The party at Toonces' wasn't even getting going till 9, but I was already quite wasted. I showed up after nearly 5 hours of drinking and was in a significantly altered state. All three brothers were in attendance. People who I hadn't seen in a decade were at this party. I'm not sure I've seen them yet.

As if things couldn't get any more drunk and disorderly, the three of us rallied for the big party at the Rogue the following night. I was the first to arrive, not wanting any guests to be wandering around midtown with no party to attend. I felt as though a train had removed my frontal lobe and replaced it, in a deft surgery, with an anvil. BrynJoe arrived soon afterwards and was shortly in serious danger of falling asleep in the booth where we were seated. Art-History sauntered into the bar in high spirits. He'd been drinking since 10 AM. Ahh, to be young again.

The Diez brothers arrived and lifted the spirits of those of us who had been feeling too hung over to utilize symbolic thought. In a short amount of time, I found myself surrounded by friends of old who I'd known since I was a toddler, friends from high school, friends from college, and current coworkers. Most marvelous of all, each of these groups seemed to be getting along and talking with one another. The same could not exactly be said of the groups of friends that each of my brothers had brought. BrynJoe pointed out later that it was easy to scan the bar and pick out who was who's friend. My friends were the chatty intellectual types. BrynJoe's friends were the slacker, hard-drinking types. Art-History's friends were the collar-popping preppy types.

It was 12:30 by the time I felt I should get things in order for my departure. I'd had a tab open at the bar from the beginning. I was dreading the moment of truth, but it couldn't be avoided for much longer. The damage totaled close to $800. Frankly, it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. Plus, by this point people were drunk enough to gladly hand over large sums of money when I flashed a bill in their face. I soon had an enormous wad of bills to compensate me.

The next morning, if it can be called such, was blissfully uneventful. Three straight nights of partying is something I'd have been proud of even during my most boisterous days in college. Now I just wanted to sit in quiet, darkened rooms for hours on end. It was not to be for long. BrynJoe showed up in the evening with SignificantTraveler, who had just arrived in the city. They were staying with me for one night, before adjourning to far-swankier accommodations in the Hotel Giraffe the following day. We had pizza, we had beers, BrynJoe continued to illegally copy DVDs.

Monday was the first normal day in ages. SignificantTraveler and BrynJoe were in their hotel. I was working a normal school day.

Tuesday I met up with BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler to have drinks and hang out. I met them at their hotel and we proceeded from there to a nearby restaurant where one of BrynJoe's friends from college was working. The place turned out to be practically stuffed with Hotelies who knew my brother. We enjoyed fine booze and complimentary food for hours. We were sure to leave a nice tip.

Wednesday night, BrynJoe wanted something low-key. It was his last night in the country, they were flying out the following evening. The three of us went to Big Daddy's for dinner, when BrynJoe's phone rang. It was V-Kav, perhaps his oldest and best friend, who was inbound on a bus. Low-key just got thrown out the window. We finished dinner, picked up a six-pack, and headed back to the hotel to await the arrival of V-Kav. An hour later, six-pack decimated, we headed to the Rogue, where we had instructed V-Kav to meet us. He was the only one of BrynJoe's friends to make the trip out from Bethlehem to meet him. BrynJoe hadn't stopped by Bethlehem at all on his sojourn in this country, but only one of his friends had managed to make it 70 miles down I-78 to NYC during the week in which he was here. That friend was V-Kav. The four of us had a few beers at Rogue, but BrynJoe wanted something special. I knew of a karaoke place. We hopped a cab.

We sang the night away. I think BrynJoe got the send-off he deserved. Brother, girlfriend, and best friend having a great time and enjoying ourselves for hours. It was 3 AM when I arrived back at my apartment. V-Kav crashed on the couch.

The next morning, the hardest thing in the world was getting out of bed. JimmyLuke looked surprised to see me. "I thought you were on the couch," he said. The dim light in the living room evidently didn't illuminate the identity of our couch-sleeper. It's not every morning that we have a half-clothed V-Kav passed out on the couch. I went to work and gave the worst lesson of my life. I sucked. Apparently, I need more than three hours of sleep to be a functional teacher. Who'd have guessed?

BrynJoe, SignificantTraveler, and V-Kav showed up at my school as I was helping some students complete some labs after school. I gave them the grand tour, they met some teachers, some curious students, and my principal; we parted ways at the front door. By now, BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler are back in Nairobi, where I can only assume that they're managing to avoid the ethnic strife that seems to be continuing in that country. V-Kav is back in Bethlehem, where he continues to try and find a job. Art-History is back in Baltimore, making more money than I ever will. And I'm here. I'd have to say, the time that all of us spent together over the last few days were perhaps my favorite days yet in this city. I don't know when we'll all get a chance to cut loose around the city like that again, but I hope it's soon.

(Home) Sweet Home (Alabama)

2007-12-30T11:20:00.000-05:00

The trip from LaGuardia to Huntsville required two stops and one plane change. We were an hour late even leaving New York. In Raleigh-Durham, I didn’t even leave the plane. In Charlotte, I had to wait for more about two hours for my next flight, so I found my way to the bar and checked my flight status using my iPod and the abundant wireless signal. I was going to be an hour late into Huntsville. Thankfully, Art-History was there to greet me upon my arrival, accompanied by Ma and NoHips, with a beer for the ride home. We had only an hour before BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler arrived, so that was just enough time to have a drink at the homestead before heading back to the airport. Yes, it was going to be that kind of week.

Art-History and I prepared a bottle of champagne for the ride back to the airport. Once we had gathered all three brothers together for the first time in eighteen months, we hit the road and promptly popped the champagne cork out of the sunroof. NoHips was happy to drive sans bubbly, but the rest of us managed a glass each before we got home. Ma was waiting on the front porch when we drove up.

The remaining time that evening progressed much like the following seven days. To paraphrase Spike Milligan, we all drank. We drank again. Then, several more agains, then a series of agains followed by one long permanent again.

The next several days would see the whole family leaving the house as little as possible. Mostly, we only left to restock our food and drink supplies. We didn’t have much cause to venture into the (relative) cold of the outside world when the primary purpose of our stay was to chat with each other, catch up on the time we’d spent apart, and lubricate our conversations with a copious amount of liquor.

That’s not to say we didn’t have other activities. We also ate like kings. Christmas Eve dinner was a fantastic lamb shank which, in addition to being delicious, caused us to say “shank” many times, as it is a most amusing word. Christmas morning was the usual smoked salmon and champagne, though SignificantTraveler was reticent to try the salmon due to its fishiness. She bravely downed a morsel, completing her family initiation, and opted for more champagne. Christmas dinner was Cornish hens as per our family tradition. It was agreed that the hens this year were of a superior quality.

The day after Christmas was a little gathering of twenty or so people, mostly associated with UAH, who were filling in as my parents’ new best friends. Most of them turned out to be very nice people, and some of them I had even met during my previous visits to Huntsville. As the evening drew to a close, BrynJoe and I revived the tradition of Christmas carols followed by boisterous singing of songs that have nothing to do with Christmas. Despite NoHips’ worries that it would not be a “singing crowd,” the guests were happy to belt out everything from “Silent Night” to “Hey Jude.” Our encore piece, “Sweet Home Alabama,” was strangely well received.

The neighbors, a couple who share their names with my Father and Oma respectively, insisted that we all come to their house the following evening for dinner. Art-History was unfortunately not going to be in attendance, since he was leaving that morning for a rendezvous with his better half. The rest of us agreed readily.

That evening was attended mostly by people from the neighborhood, all of whom were people that we’d met before. This meant that there was less need to spend time getting to know people and more time to get really good and drunk together. Our host was eager to have me play his Napoleonic-era piano and I was happy to oblige. This was a beautiful instrument. Even the fantastic amount of wine I had consumed to this point could not dull the thrill of resting my fingers on ivory keys that predated the Andrew Jackson presidency. The piano was manufactured with “English action,” rather than the modern “French action” to the keys, so the ability to play multiple keystrokes in quick succession was diminished, but the nearly 200-year old soundboard had lost none of its potency. I felt like I should be playing Bach and Beethoven on such an instrument, but one can’t really sing along to the Sonata Pathétique. I took requests instead. I played Andrew Lloyd Webber.

As this party was winding down, one of the guests declared that he had the less-than-desirable fortune of having to entertain future inlaws the following evening and that we should all crash said gathering since these particular inlaws had the habit of being “pretentious bullshitters.” BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler, both consummate bullshitters in their own right (and thus masterfully well-suited for each other!), were leaving the following morning for Graceland, so there was no chance of their attending, but Ma, NoHips and I assented.

So it was that yesterday, as the sole remaining brother in the state of Alabama, I found myself at someone else’s engagement party, charming the bejesus out of the God-fearing folk of the Bible Belt. I still haven’t gotten tired of the astonished look that appears on people’s faces as I sequentially inform them of my profession. “High school science teacher” earns a smile of appreciation. “…at a public school” earns a raised brow of impressed admiration. “…in New York City” causes the listener’s face to dissolve into an astonished expression of shock, pity, respectful awe, and a confused reassessment of my physical and mental toughness that is normally only given to the infantrymen of Iraq or the aid workers of Darfur.

After gleefully knocking the collective socks off of anyone I could corner into conversation, we retired home where I was faced with the unhappy task of cheering for the Giants as they snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Cheering for the Giants over the Patriots is sort of like hoping that Stalin beats Hitler. You’re not exactly sure you want them to win, but figure it’d be better than if the other guy did. You can stop gloating now, BrownSox.

So I’m currently sitting at what I’m pretty sure is the only damn electric outlet in all of Charlotte’s airport, waiting for my flight back to LaGuardia, which has been delayed by exactly 70 minutes that remain opaque to all but the shifty Useless Airways employees. I’ve had time to write all this and I still won’t board for another hour. Oh, and due to a nonsensical North Carolina law, the airport bars won’t be serving alcohol until noon. The good news is that I haven’t got the shakes or anything, so apparently a week of nonstop boozing isn’t enough to turn me into more of a raging alcoholic than I already am. After this week, New Year’s Eve is going to be tame.

A Little Perspective

2007-12-19T22:27:00.000-05:00

Today was good. I felt re-energized after meeting up with my long lost brother. I was giving a quiz in class, so the workload was minimal. I took my advisory out to lunch as my little holiday gift to them. All I had to do was get through gym chaperoning and I could take my brother's laptop to the shop and go home for some relaxation before school tomorrow. This should have been my clue that all was far too good to be true.

It was the kind of announcement you hope will never happen when you're in the presence of your students. "We had to call 911 for Alonzo, he's having trouble breathing." I could tell from her face that Ms. K was serious. The one-hundred and twenty-plus 10th graders were distributed all around Chelsea Piers Fieldhouse, engaging in all manner of gym activities. I had been watching some students playing soccer and critiquing their lack of a passing game when Ms. K found me. She didn't kid around about things like this. I followed her to the benches near the batting cages, where Alonzo was not doing so well.

He's not the best student. Hell, he's close to failing in more than one class, including mine. He's quite proud of his pseudo-badass status. But I saw real fear in his eyes as he struggled to maintain consciousness, breathing only shallowly and lacking either the will or ability to keep his head up. Ms. K, our English teacher, had called 911. She and Aurelius, the Social Studies teacher, were helping to calm him down. I took charge of crowd control, shooing the rest of the students and talking with the school administration on the phone while my colleagues tried to keep our ailing student responsive. Soon I found myself holding Alonzo up, physically supporting his weight and then maneuvering him into a supine position when the EMTs arrived, checking out his vitals and administering oxygen.

We herded the students out of the room. The EMTs lifted Alonzo onto a gurney. Ms. K started pushing students towards the buses. I grabbed Alonzo's belongings and followed the gurney to the waiting ambulance. Aurelius followed me, relaying information to the school via cellphone and dealing with the stubborn stream of students who were trying to follow her to the ambulance. The two of us managed to finally send the last of the students to the buses, but only after much posturing and pouting. Aurelius noted that many of our more attention-seeking students were eager to have everyone notice just how concerned they were. Neither of us had time for that kind of bullshit.

In the ambulance, Alonzo didn't look so hot. He was in and out of consciousness, and was confused and disoriented when he was awake. We waited outside while the EMTs were trying to stabilize him and figure out where to take him once they did. St. Vincent's was closest. We made ready to leave. I hopped into the passenger seat of the ambulance, Aurelius set to walking after us.

I remarked that it was my first ride in an ambulance, front or back. "It's better to be in the front," quipped the driver. Traffic graciously moved aside as we made our way to the hospital. Alonzo was rushed out on the gurney while I haphazardly gathered his belongings and mine from the back of the ambulance. By the time I had scooped up everything, the EMTs had moved him inside.

I burst in through the doors carrying coats, shoes, backpacks and bags.

"The kid on the gurney?"

"Back and to the right."

I spotted the entourage and followed them back into the depths of the ER. Patients were strewn about on beds. Doctors and nurses strode around, armed with clipboards and stethoscopes. The whole group of us wheeled into an area labeled "Pediatrics," which seemed ridiculously small. A waiting room with six chairs was off to the side. Space for three beds lined the far wall while medical equipment and a reception desk took up most of the rest of the room. It was the kind of place were no one could really move without running in to someone else.

Alonzo was immediately hooked up to some monitors and approached by numerous people who asked him the same questions: "Are you on any medications?" "Do you have a history of asthma or respiratory illness?" "What did you eat today?" He was finally more responsive than he had been either at the Fieldhouse or in the ambulance, but he was still fairly non compos mentis. Aides and nurses had to lean in to make sense of his replies. They soon turned to me for more information.

"You're the teacher, right? You saw what happened?"

"Well, I didn't see it exactly...I know he complained of shortness of breath. He didn't collapse, we were able to get him to a bench and sit him down."

"Does he have asthma?"

"No, we're required to know if our students need an inhaler or other regular medication. As far as I know he's never had this happen before."

Thankfully, Aurelius showed up before I made a total ass of myself. The two of us made sure that we gave the doctors every piece of information we had, but we were really clueless about Alonzo's medical history. For that we needed his mother, who was en route from the Bronx. It was almost 5 PM before she made it to the hospital. It had been more than two and a half hours of frantic phone calls, uncertainty and trauma. But at least by the time his mother was at his side, Alonzo looked more like himself. He could sit up, stand, and move around, albeit gingerly. We left him and his mother to deal with the battery of tests which awaited them.

Aurelius correctly assumed that I would go for a drink after this ordeal. Of course, it was raining as we exited the hospital. We walked to Union Square while I called the administration one last time to tell them that all had been handed over to the parent and that our patient was doing fine. We found a place, sat down, and had a couple drinks before going our separate ways. All in a day's work, I suppose.

So Alonzo looks like he'll be turning his homework in late for years to come, and I'm thankful to be able to sit here and breathe, in and out, in the effortless way that I've been doing for the vast majority of my days on this Earth. I can't imagine what it must be like to suddenly find your lungs to be failing you. I don't know what caused this to happen to him, and it doesn't really matter in the end. It's so easy to forget how frail we are. It's so easy to miss our weakness and our vulnerability in our never-ending quest to maintain our pseudo-badassery.

I trust that when I sleep I will breathe till tomorrow. But tomorrow I'll have a little more perspective on the importance of each breath.

Serendipity

2007-12-19T09:42:00.000-05:00

The phone rang just after 9. I didn't recognize the number, but for some reason I picked up.

"Hello?"

"Do you have a couch and a good late-night pizza place?"

It took a moment for that statement to settle in my brain.

"Uhh...late-night pizza?"

"It's your brother, man. I'm in Newark."

Barring Marcel Marceau, I think he's officially the last person I was expecting to hear on the other end of that phone. After all, he's in Africa. Maybe that's why my brain didn't register whose voice it was at first. It turns out that my brother from the Dark Continent had missed his flight to Michigan out of Newark because his flight in from a tiny Middle Eastern nation had arrived too late. He and his girlfriend were stranded in the Big Apple until their flight out in the morning. Naturally, they called me.

After giving them directions and the specific instructions which they should pass on to their cabbie, I decided that we needed more beers in the fridge for this auspicious event. That, and I figured a beer or three was probably high on the list of things that these wayward travelers would require, since the beer selection in Sudan probably leaves something to be desired. I ordered a pepperoni pizza from the best New York-style pizzeria in Astoria, thinking that greasy American food is probably also something in short supply in Sub-Saharan Africa. JimmyLuke set about making the place a little more presentable.

About an hour later, there was a knock on the door, which was either our guests our our pizza. It turned out to be our guests followed immediately by our pizza. That is what I would call perfect timing. BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler dove into the food and drinks with the ravenous abandon of people who hadn't tasted Western food in months --which is exactly what they were, so it was kind of fitting. Between mouthfuls, BrynJoe kept talking about how his various milestones of culinary arts (teaching his cooks how to make tortillas, attempting to make french fries out of African potatoes) never quite measured up to their American counterparts. This pizza was clearly more satisfying.

Their flight was at 6:30 AM, so they had to leave around 4:30 to have a chance of making it. We were up till 1 drinking and chatting. Stories were told, lives were caught up, and interesting news was shared. And throughout, our guests were marveling at all the things they'd missed most. SignificantTraveler was happy just to be able to surf through hundreds of cable channels. BrynJoe gleefully fiddled with the touchscreen interface on my iPod. They both marveled at the page-load speed of our high-speed wireless internet. The comforts of Western civilization were out in force.

I was sorry to have to go to bed and say goodbye. It was an evening of firsts. BrynJoe became the first family member to see the new apartment. I became the first family member to meet SignificantTraveler (you'll love her, Mom). And my brother and I talked face to face for the first time in 18 months. The World Room was truly Worldly that night, lodging two globetrotting expatriates who were in town only briefly between flights. I lent them some coats (they have little need for fleece in Sudan but it's cold as balls in New York), left some extra towels out, and said goodnight.

I think I only got about five hours of sleep (still two more than they got), but it didn't matter to me this morning. I don't think I've ever been so glad for a family member to miss a connecting flight. One man's inconvenience is another man's entertainment, but I think it's safe to assume a good time was had by all. I would have met up with both of them on Saturday anyway when we all arrive in Alabama, but still I feel buoyed by this unexpected party.

Between this and my excellent weekend trip (a story deserving of a post of its own), this week has already proven to be infinitely more enjoyable than the last.

Insult to Injury

2007-12-11T22:26:00.000-05:00

Tests finally graded. Urge to kill...fading. Time to relax with a little music.

...Only to find that my damn MIDI cable has ceased to function so that my digital piano has become as useless as a thing with keys that emits no audible sounds. Even my attempts to unwind are causing me stress.

Why can't it be vacation yet?

Quiet Ineptitude

2007-12-09T21:26:00.000-05:00

It's been a couple weeks since I've posted anything. Well, there's a reason for my recent silence. Lately I'm finding myself distinctly unable to perform certain required tasks. I've fallen well behind in my grading. Roughly three week's worth of laundry went unwashed for far too long. Papers for grad school that should have been written long ago are as yet undone. Strangely, I'm not bothered about these things. At least, I'm not as bothered as I should be. An odd calm has accompanied this recent dearth of work, as if I had neither the will nor ability to complete these functions.

Quite likely, my mood stems from my downwardly-spiraling personal life, which has resulted most directly in the termination of my relationship with PianoGirl. We attempted to reconcile two weeks ago, after about three weeks of very little talking and absolutely no personal contact. Nothing was even said about the disagreement that had caused our rift in the first place, our divergent opinions of her family. Instead, we avoided the confrontation entirely. A ruse like that doesn't hold up for long.

Now looking back, the whole situation seemed doomed to failure. Arguments take on a new shade. Minor annoyances flare to huge confrontations. So many seemingly insignificant past events can seem like omens when viewed with the prescience of retrospect. It's not like I haven't been here before. Hell, it's not like I haven't been here many times before. Not that that makes it any easier.

What did I learn this time? What do I now have that's new --that's another clue to what the hell is going on in my head? 1stClarinet and I were mostly friends, though we certainly thought we were more sophisticated than we were. SlavicGroupie proved to me that a mutual fascination with physical intimacy was no basis for a relationship. MaasaiValley and I were never equally matched, though we tried to dance around the issue as much as possible. And ClovisByline showed me that being in love isn't enough if you aren't willing to change your life for your love. I'm still waiting for the grand revelation that this latest escapade will show. Maybe it's part of my self-destructive pursuit of women who need me more than I need them. Maybe it's another point on my seesawing graph between friendship and lust that plots out my past relationships. Maybe it's something altogether different.

I can't think about this any more. It's late, and there are tests I haven't graded. Along with everything else I listed at the beginning of this post. Oh hell.

Bricks and Stones

2007-11-25T21:53:00.000-05:00

The plane landed in Huntsville with the usual "The local time is..." speech. Unexpectedly, the drone of the normal landing announcement ended in "...and if this is home, welcome home." The Southern hospitality was a nice touch. It also got me to thinking. I suppose this is home now. That particular thought hadn't really occurred to me, even though I spent my last visit to Huntsville helping my parents move three decades of beloved nicknacks into their expansive house.

Home was not my destination immediately. The 'rents picked me up from the airport and we proceeded directly to dinner. I had dressed appropriately, flying in my Thanksgiving best. The house at which we were attending dinner was owned by a guy (Lancelot) who knew some new friends of my parents. None of us had actually met Lancelot yet, but we were sure hoping that the only people we did know would be there by the time we arrived. I took over navigating duties, as was tradition, and noticed that the printed directions depicted our destination as a castle. How droll, I thought, the man's house is a castle.

Then we pulled up to a portcullis, peeking from below a gatehouse that indeed stood in front of a castle, with a high rampart running around its roof, a three-story tower with a flag on top, and two enormous wooden doors at the front of the keep. It turns out that Lancelot had spent the last twenty years or so building his castle, himself, utilizing his (evidently) extensive knowledge of architectural design, carpentry, stone-working, electrical wiring and plumbing.

We arrived to find that we were the very first guests to arrive, so we knew absolutely no one. NoHips and I were quick to crack some beers. I quickly found myself chatting with various and sundry people whose names I have quite forgotten, but there was PaulBunyan the forester, Sevvie who I'd met in August, Switalench who was happy to talk about nerdly science things, Napoli the professor who was just slightly my senior, TheTwoSara(h)s who seemed related to some people at the party in ways I've also quite forgotten, and a handful of other people for whom I can not now invent clever nicknames.

The dinner was fantastic (and the first in a while where Ma didn't have to prepare anything) and the wine was flowing freely all evening. There was an interesting mix of people my parents' age and people closer to my age. Everyone seemed to be getting along swimmingly. As the evening wound down, we found the night was still young. Those of us of a similar age to the night all exchanged phone numbers, vowing to meet up later when we managed to make it back to Huntsville.

The 'rents decided to invite a group over to the house, so we piled back into the car and headed for home. The house was much as I remembered it, minus roughly 500 boxes. There were also more carpets. It didn't take long for the party wagon to arrive and we continued to have a blast in the old homestead. I was on the piano, cranking out the regular hits while NoHips lead the guests in rousing renditions of "Piano Man" and the like.

By the time we said goodnight to everyone, it was already well past parental bed time. I was even nodding off, since I was still on pesky Eastern time. We all slept like logs that night.

The following day, we sat around as much as humanly possible. Some drinks were had some football was watched, some food was consumed, some conversation was conversated. But most of our effort was put into not exerting much effort.

Saturday, we tried to be a little more productive. The 'rents got into the Christmas card list and started printing address labels. I took their copy of OS X 10.5 and installed it on my laptop. It was then that my problems started. All was going fine until the system rebooted after the install. Nothing. Not a thing. Blank, unresponsive screen. Hmm. Manual reboot. Ugly disgusting screen imploring me to restart my machine in five languages. Scary code running down the left side proclaiming kernel exceptions and other dire issues. Re-reboot. Blue screen. With functional cursor. Crap.

The good news: she seems to boot in Transfer Mode and from a CD, so the machine is not completely monkey-fucked. If all else fails (seriously, what else can fail?) I can always salvage the files from the machine and put them onto a new one. I'd rather not do that, though. DF seems to indicate that this problem might stem from unauthorized system mods that the previous owner of this machine *ahem* may have installed. The command-key reboot one comes to mind. I need to get it to a Genius soon or else this machine has just become a very expensive brick.

Flying today sans laptop was strange. Thankfully, I had Bukowski and the Touch (mental note: possible excellent band name) to keep me occupied. That and about 130 tests that I started grading. Actually, thanks to the grading I managed to strike up a nice conversation with my exit row seatmate on the way to LaGuardia, who happened to be a first-year teacher on her way back from her family in Florida to her sixth graders in the Bronx. We traded war stories.

Tomorrow, bright and early, it's back to the front lines. My shore leave seems to be shorter and shorter these days, but it's just twenty instructional days until I'm back in 'Bama again. Before that even happens, I'll be having a surprise visitor from out of town. And maybe he can explain what he did to this computer.

Crazy Busy Work Week #178

2007-11-17T17:16:00.000-05:00

It's hard to believe, but I've been doing precious little but working and sleeping since the last time I posted. My week imploded on Tuesday. After a day of meetings and classes, I was working on getting my evaluations finished before I left for night school. I had just gotten my last comments written, mail merged the whole stack of them and printed 126 individualized report cards from the printer in the library around 4:30 PM. I was out the door on my way to class about a half hour later, arriving at Pace just after 5:30.

It was as I sat into my seat in class that I had the sinking feeling that I was forgetting something. Our prof was sitting in the seats with the rest of the class. There were presentations to give today. I was one of them. I had absolutely and completely forgotten about it. I was supposed to give a lesson that showed my techniques for differentiating instruction and I didn’t have a damn thing prepared. No handouts, no notes, no tangible objects to utilize in the course of a lesson. I was screwed.

My mind was racing as the first student presented his lesson. He was using “Lord of the Flies” and talking about savagery versus civilization. I was frantically scouring the deep recesses of my brain for a way to use the things I had on me to develop a coherent, differentiated lesson. Though I was mentally attempting to pull such a thing completely out of my ass in the five minutes before I was supposed to present, it couldn’t look like I had just done so. I had no props, so a lesson on rocks or anything else requiring a visual aid was out of the question. I did a quick inventory: I had my wits, the room’s dry erase board, my laptop, a stack of ungraded quizzes, two pens, a trench coat and an umbrella at my disposal. From this mostly useless assortment of items, I was supposed to fashion a lesson on Earth Science.

When my turn came, I grabbed my umbrella and headed to the dry erase board. It was time for my old standby: observation and inference. It’s one of the easiest lessons I’ve got in my repertoire, and perhaps the best one for discussion and group work with low-skilled students. I hung the umbrella from the top of the board and wrote, “What is this, and how do you know?” next to it. From there I was able to lead a discussion that wandered around the issues of how we know what we know about anything and led me to the salient points of my freshly improvised lesson.

Afterwards, my prof complimented my lesson, saying that there was little for a student to have to write or read, which made it accessible to all ability levels. This lack of reading material correlated highly with my lack of handouts or supplies of any kind. The class ended and I joined Bayside and Leonardo in a celebratory pint, since we have but three class sessions remaining.

Wednesday was the first time we were attempting to take the 10th grade to gym. Yes, it’s mid-November and they’ve just had their first gym class. If I were a parent of an MVA student, I’d certainly be calling the Board of Ed to complain. Ahem. In any case, we managed to squeeze 130 bodies into three buses and made our way down to Chelsea Piers, which actually have the perfect facilities for our kids and have a competent staff that can provide actual athletic instruction. What a concept.

Lest I began thinking that the day wasn’t going to be all that bad, one of our students twisted her ankle and I had to stay behind and make sure that her parents were called, emergency room visits were officially declined and that she was able to hobble out the door.

Thursday had me in school from 7:45 AM to 8:30 PM. Five classes to teach and ten Parent-Teacher conferences to host didn’t leave me feeling particularly happy. The only redeeming factor of the whole day was that every single one of my appointments showed up, so though I was busy for virtually the whole time, at least I don’t have to go track down any parents next week.

Friday was a half-day, so I showed Mythbusters in class rather than get two sections a day ahead of the rest of the grade. Then it was an afternoon full of more conferences, which thankfully ended by 4 PM. After work, virtually the whole staff was ready to leap out of the doors, and most of us headed to get a drink or five. Tex arrived at the bar when she left her respective place of business, and we headed for our dinner reservations at an Indian place nearby. We closed out the evening with a bottle of sake at a Japanese bar/restaurant that we chanced upon as we were walking around the neighborhood.

With a week such as this, I spent most of today doing as little as humanly possible. I watched football, I played my piano for the first time in weeks, I ordered takeout, I played video games. No school work, no chores, no nothing. And in a few hours, I’m going to go drinking with the theatre boys. We need to give BourbonSamurai a good send-off, because apparently he’s going to be appearing in “Tamburlaine” in DC for the next six weeks or so. Tomorrow, I have quizzes to grade, a test to write, a paper to review, laundry to do and crazy batshit football to play. But for tonight, there is only the drinking.

Working Without Work

2007-11-12T13:24:00.000-05:00

Yeah, it's been that kind of weekend. Though I do not go to work today, I'm working today. As I have been all weekend. You see, Parent-Teacher Conferences are this week, and that means that my grades are due on Tuesday. So the weekend has been spent slogging through the piles of ungraded quizzes and labs that seem to build up with uncanny regularity about this time every quarter. Today I’m mostly just compiling the whole quarter’s worth of work into a numerical grade for every student and then coming up with a comment that sums up their academic performance while giving them each some advice on how to raise their grade. For some of them, it’s tempting to simply write SHOW UP TO CLASS!! in as large a font as humanly possible. I’ve managed to restrain myself so far.

The weekend has not been entirely work-filled. For instance, I’m currently taking a break from grading so I can blog. So there. Saturday, I headed into Midtown in the evening to meet up with my parents, who were in town for the weekend so Dad (affectionately known in my family as Old NoHips McRugbyWounds) could attend a conference on higher education. They were staying at the Hilton, which for $200 a night will give you a room slightly larger than my bedroom in Queens. I met them there and we walked out into the chilly night air to head to dinner. This is one aspect of life that they’re definitely not missing now that they’re in Alabama. Luckily for NoHips, I knew a place nearby with a fine selection of scotches (Art-History knows it too!) so we were soon eating and drinking and catching up in the comfort of the St. Andrew’s.

It’s strange to have my parents staying the night in the city. When they were still in Bethlehem, it made no sense to fork out for a hotel room when their own bed was an hour’s drive away. It’s just another manifestation of the wholesale change that’s accompanied my parents’ move to Alabama.

The following morning, they hopped a cab (NoHips was in no mood to take the subway) out to Queens so that Ma could see my apartment. She has a thing about needing to see the spaces where her children are living. JimmyLuke and HungarianPhrasebook were around and the whole lot of us ended up heading out for brunch together. This was HungarianPhrasebook’s first encounter with the ‘rents, and she took it remarkably well, considering JimmyLuke is practically an adopted son in my family.

The ‘rents headed back to Manhattan: Dad for the conference, Mom for the shopping. I retreated to my cave and continued to grade. That evening, I headed back into the city again for dinner and drinks with the ‘rents. It’s not often that I get a three-meal trip out of them, so this was special. This time, we found a place that I had never actually tried, but which turned out to be excellent. Maison looked like a French brasserie from the outside and we soon found it to be a restaurant full of les gens français on the inside. It’s always a good sign when the customers in a restaurant are from the same country as the food. NoHips and I shared a massive stack of oysters, clams, shrimp and crab called “Le Gourmand” that was exquisite. Ma ordered a crepe, pronouncing the word in such a perfect French accent that the waitress assumed she was French. It was like we were all back in the street fair in Bayeux thirteen years ago.

So today ends a three-day weekend which, except for my three meals with my parents, hasn’t amounted to much of a break for me. And now I feel that I should probably get back to that pile of grading that still remains. Damn.

Fall Back

2007-11-04T07:18:00.000-05:00

I woke up today at 7 AM. Stupid farmers. Then again, the extra hour of sleep is only a fraction of the sleep debt I have to repay if I hope to recover from last week.

The week started the same as any other, which meant I was stressed out and ready for the weekend by Tuesday morning. This was unfortunate, since Tuesday consisted of my usually mind-numbing team meeting having "outside visitors" --principals from other schools who want to see how ours is run-- sit and watch us while our principal asked us redundant questions about how we were helping the lowest-skilled students succeed. During my first class period following the meeting, he brought the visitors by my classroom, specifically to see what I was doing. Thankfully, the four minutes he spent in my classroom were four minutes during which I was roaming between the lab groups, checking their progress on a review activity that I had devised. This meant that the students had notes and materials that helped them answer the questions they were being asked (by me, the principal and the visitors) and I could show off my "Socratic questioning" technique. The staff meeting this week was significantly better, and I didn't have the urge to yell and scream afterwards. But that was still followed by my Pace class, which sucked any remaining energy out of me.

Wednesday was Halloween. I'm not sure if I can fully express what that means to a NYC public school teacher, but I'll try. Students are crazy on Halloween. They're full of sugar, packing silly string, and (in my school) no longer in uniform. I decided that the best way to combat the craziness this year was to one-up the insanity. I shaved my beard, donned a bowler and some suspenders and dressed as Alex from "A Clockwork Orange." The teachers thought I looked great. Not one of my students got the reference. It was widely circulated that I was Charlie Chaplin, some sort of magician, or a tap-dancing mental patient. And I was fine with that. Frankly, if I had come across a 14-year-old New Yorker who was familiar enough with "A Clockwork Orange" to recognize my costume, I'd put him at the top of my Likely Shooter List.

The most positive result of my costume was that I looked psychotic. My students were freaked out enough that I could keep them in line simply with a wicked grin (see picture). Everyone was exhausted by the end of the day. We dismissed the students early, cancelled PM School and kicked them out of the building. I got to leave by 4:15, the earliest I'd been out of work in weeks. I hadn't been home more than 15 minutes before JimmyLuke invited me to come to the Haloween parade. I accepted, but only because I was still in costume. We hit Resevoir below Union Square for dinner and beers beforehand. Then we grabbed a couple of drinks while we waited outside a bar on 6th Ave. for the parade to start. Unfortunately, it wasn't too long afterwards that I began to feel the weight of the week dragging me down. I bolted for home at 8:30, just 45 minutes after the first elements of the parade passed us.

Thursday I was giving a quiz, so it was a fairly low-maintenance day. The students were surprised to see me shaved again. I guess without the eye makeup and hat I looked even more different than the day before. I was also informed by one of my male students that my new shaved look was making life difficult for him because all the girls thought I was now cuter than he. I told him not to worry, since I didn't know of anyone who thought he was cute. Yes, I'm at that time of the year when I can insult the students to their face in the middle of class and they think I'm cool for it.

Thursday night I met PianoGirl for dinner. She was taken aback by my clean-shaven appearance and did a double take when I walked into the restaurant. Then I tried to order scotch and was carded. The waitress was very apologetic once she saw my birthdate. I'm officially seventeen years old again: sophomores think I'm cute and I can't buy alcohol. The dinner was good until we started talking about our plans for Christmas. That quickly devolved into an argument about my opinions of certain members of her family. It wasn't pretty. I left the restaurant alone.

Friday was all about coasting to the finish. Some students asked me if I had the quizzes graded. I laughed. We talked about sedimentary rocks. The day ended. My union rep came by my room after school, just to check how the week had been in light of last week. We had a little discussion regarding the finer points of dealing with sociopathic supervisors, but at this point I was just ready for the week to be over.

No Idea was full of the usual assortment of teachers (but no StuntMan) and I was feeling like I was ready to call it a night fairly early. Of course that all changed when Tex strolled in and sat down with me. She had moved away from Bethlehem when we were only fifteen. Through the wonders of Facebook, we'd gotten back in touch and had the usual "We should get together some time!" conversation. Previous conversations such as that had proven to be little more than politeness, but she apparently meant it when she said it. We quickly got each other caught up on the last decade or so of our lives. At one point I even called up SecondLaw, who was soberly working at her copy desk down in Philly, so she could catch up too. As the fates would have it, Tex is now working just a few blocks south of my school and living in Hoboken. We were chatting well into the night. Having an old friend from high school show up randomly basically sealed my new-found teenaged status.

So even weeks that seem to pile the crap on with second helpings can be redeemed in the least likely of ways. Who knows what this week will bring?

Boredom Pays

2007-10-27T13:38:00.000-04:00

You know what's great? School on Saturday. No, wait. That's not it. You know what's great? Being paid for going to school on Saturday and basically surfing the internet all day. There, that's better.

I'm currently filling in for the 11th grade chem teacher, who's attending a PD meeting in Queens, by sitting around in the chem classroom while the students I had last year are using highly variable amounts of effort to complete their science fair projects. Every now and then I get a question, every now and then I help someone work through a problem with their experiment, but largely I just sit and surf, while occasionally chatting with the students who aren't actively engaged in anything. I'm not honestly sure why some of them showed up, since they don't seem to have anything to work on. One poor sap got here at 10 AM only to find that his partner (who was bringing all the materials) wasn't showing up.

I like that I'm getting paid for this, but I'm seriously starting to get bored out of my mind. Thankfully, within the hour I can go home and do as little as humanly possible. I need some time to recover from the crazy nights I've been having recently. Thursday, Art-History showed up in the city out of the blue and we hit the St. Andrew's pub for some scotch and dinner. We discussed our post-Xmas plans, which the bros and I have been debating now for some time. I have now formed the humble opinion that if our goal for New Years is to party and get drunk and have a good time, this is something that we can do most anywhere, so we should do it in a place with the least expense, most convenience, and highest number of bars per square mile. This mythical place is, of course, New York. It has all the above advantages, plus the fact that my apartment can accommodate guests (thanks to JimmyLuke's air mattress and my couch), saving hundreds of dollars that would otherwise be spent on hotels. Plus, it's significantly closer to all of our final destinations, post-New Years (Africa for Chnepr, Baltimore for Art-History, and --this is easy-- New York for me). Also, here we have the option of including other locals who are known to us in our revelry (party bus from Bethlehem, anyone?). A point to consider. Still, after all our discussions, Art-History seemed set on Vegas with his girl. To each his own, I suppose.

After our scotches, there was the opening party for BourbonSamurai and Quantum's new theatre company. Art-History gladly tagged along, and the evening quickly devolved into varsity-level drinking. I managed to avoid getting completely hammered, since the promise of a school day the following morning required eventual sobriety. Nevertheless, yesterday morning I did not have my "A-game" for my first lesson. Thankfully my teaching improved as my hangover lessened and by the end of the day I was ready for the weekly pilgrimage to No Idea that evening. Drinking commenced again, but once again it was of a lesser degree. Spreading my drinking out over two consecutive nights, though undoubtedly resulting in more total drinking, apparently is effective at lessening the rate of drinking.

So after two (relatively) late nights, I'm actually in pretty good shape as the kids muddle around in the lab and try really hard to get their experiments to work. The girls who are trying to make perfume are only getting stuff that smells like vomit. The guys trying to work the supernova-finding program have only found one so far. The water wheel group makes a big mess, but not much else. But at least they're having a good time, working through their problems and finding innovative solutions. And who knows? "Puke," by Calvin Klein, could be a major fragrance this spring.

Too Many Rants?

2007-10-23T21:38:00.000-04:00

OK, my Tuesday schedule sucks. After a team meeting and a full day of teaching 8:20 to 3:10, there's the faculty meeting till 4:30. Then it's the race downtown to get to my graduate class, which runs until 8:15. Which means I don't usually see the inside of my apartment until at least 14 hours after I leave it. Such is the case today as I have just returned (thanks to a combination of class and wonderful train issues) past 9:30 PM. On days like today I feel like I missed the sun. I'm up before sunrise, and with the meager exceptions of walking to and from the subway, I’m never outside. By the time I’m home, it’s dark.

Perhaps this is why my Tuesdays have become days on which I feel the need to gripe, complain, or generally express my discontent with the world at large or certain people in particular. Or maybe because it’s that I deal with so much idiocy on a daily basis that every now and then the whole damn thing just boils over and I have to tell someone.

Case in point: school. The high school at which I work is a good school. The standardized test scores are high. Our graduation rates are 40% beyond the 50% average for New York City schools. We have young, talented, and dedicated faculty who are also intelligent and motivated workers. We have small grades full of generally peaceable, eager students who want to enlighten themselves, despite the presence of a handful of troublemakers who make it their business to bring down everyone in their immediate vicinity.

But we never hear about how good we’re doing from our administration. We never hear about the tremendous successes we’ve achieved while catering to students who come from low-income households, sending the first members of countless families to college. We’re never praised for the lives we’ve changed or the difference we’ve made in the continuing battle against the shortcomings of urban education. If we here these kinds of things at all, we hear them from the parents of our students or the students themselves (usually only after they graduate, when they realize that we were justified in kicking them in the ass to force them to pay attention to what was going on in class). The only thing we hear from our boss is how much better we could be doing.

Last year 95% of our 11th graders passed the U.S. History Regents test. 96% of our freshmen passed the Living Environment (that’s the fancy name for “Biology,” for my readers outside of NY) Regents test. All but one of our sophomores passed the Math A Regents test. All but one! Still, the only thing we hear from on high is that we could always do better. I'm begining to suspect that even if we managed to push all the students, kicking and screaming, to pass our classes, we'd get a memo about how three students had attendance under 90% for the school year. This background level of surreality is what has characterized the interactions of the administration with the faculty.

The kicker came today, in our normally boring faculty meeting, when we were asked about suggestions for improving our sadistically inane Professional Development. We all took turns writing on some big sheets of paper at the front of the room and our comments were then read aloud. As the teaching coach started to go through her explanation of what we were going to do with this data, our principal suddenly stands up, literally cutting her off in mid sentence and standing in front of her. “I have to get something off my chest,” he says, and proceeds to ridicule and insult the staff for raising objections in the first place. This from a man who insisted earlier that the faculty be “up front and open” about problems or issues we had.

As his diatribe continued, it became clear that he had neatly grouped the faculty into two groups: new teachers --who don’t know anything about teaching and therefore can’t complain about anything because they don’t know what they’re talking about-- and veteran teachers, who think they know everything and need to be more open-minded. I’m definitely in the former category. My two years in the system don’t really qualify me as a veteran, so I must be one of the ignorant newbies, moving slack-jawed through a profession that I don’t fully understand. It was all I could do to not walk right out of the meeting at that point.

I’ve come to accept a lot in the time that I’ve been teaching. But I don’t appreciate being insulted to my face by the man who hired me. I’ve been fuming about this for a while, and I obviously would do well to sleep on it before doing something rash, but I’ve decided that something needs to be said. See, I like my job. I like my students. I like my fellow faculty members. Many of my close friends are among them. But getting a slap in the face like this has made me consider just how much madness I’m willing to endure from my boss. The only continuing complaint I have about the quality of my professional experience is the insanity of the administration. We’re not at the point where I’m even considering leaving my job or looking elsewhere. But today showed me that such a possibility is not entirely out of the question.

Is Our Children Learning?

2007-10-16T21:33:00.000-04:00

A thought struck me tonight as I sat and idly watched the hours tick by during my class on "Differentiated Instruction." We were looking through the Individualized Educational Programs (IEPs) of some NYC students and were talking about the kinds of accommodations we’d have to make in our classrooms to fit the needs of these specific students. There were students with mild autism, emotionally disturbed students, dyslexic students, hearing-impaired students, and many others. The basic idea was simple (and ultimately knowable without having to take a whole damn course to understand): different students require an instructor to take different approaches to ensure that the material is accessible to everyone.

This discussion got me thinking about one of the most commonly uttered phrases in educational circles: we believe that every child can learn. Perhaps because I was tired enough to be feeling obstinate, perhaps because I was just bored enough to let my mind wander, I started thinking of this tenet in a whole new light. Yes, as teachers, we must believe that every child can learn. But can every child learn everything? I think not.

At its surface, this statement seems self-evident. Not every student excels at integral calculus; not every student will understand the character development of Hamlet. Often, those who do one task well will struggle with the other. Students who write excellent short stories aren’t automatically assumed to be able to identify silicate minerals and vice versa. But if we accept the premise that it might not be possible for a student to excel in all subjects at once, do we not open the door to the disturbing conclusion that some students just might not perform to par in our particular class, regardless of what our efforts may entail?

This idea flies in the face of everything we’re taught to expect as teachers. We’re supposed to be the magic makers, turning failing students around and making bright students perform at ever-higher levels. Simply put, this is unrealistic. Countless hours of teaching experience shows that not every student will learn everything, even if lessons are differentiated, multiple intelligences are acknowledged, extra resources are brought to bear, and all the weapons in our educational arsenal are utilized.

I personally know of some people who went through years of acting school at one of the more prestigious universities in North America and yet couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag. Did their eminently qualified and talented acting professors fail in some way or are there just some people who aren’t cut out to be actors, regardless of the excellence of the instruction they receive. Not everyone can be a rocket scientist. Not everyone can be a master sculptor. Is it rational to believe that everyone can pass high school Earth Science? (And I mean everyone. Public schools aren’t in the business of turning students away.)

Perhaps I’ve been beating you, the humble reader, over the head with my point, but I feel I have to explain myself only because my opinion runs so far counter to what policymakers, administrators and the general public feel is the norm for education in America. Our eventual success is taken for granted, it’s simply a matter of rolling up our sleeves, keeping our nose to the grindstone, and following other pithy metaphors for hard work and dedication. Don’t worry, student-who-failed-every-math-class-in-the-last-four-years, just a little more effort on your part and a hefty dose of good ol’fashioned know-how from your teacher and you’ll be passing in no time. Everyone can do it! Everyone can use a circular saw correctly! Everyone’s great at water polo! Everyone plays chess!

We need to stop deluding ourselves and our children with the naïve notion that we can all excel at everything. We all have our failings in life. We all experience the thing we can’t understand (Quantum mechanics) or the accomplishment that we’ll never master, no matter how much we may be dedicated to the task (Running a 16:00 5K). And is it that so bad a fate, to recognize that we’ll never be the astronaut (or paleontologist) that we grew up hoping we could be? It’s only when someone is honest enough to tell us that we’ll never make a passable plumber, pianist, or physicist that we get the opportunity to explore what our future might feasibly entail.

Going through the motions in a job that doesn’t suit you must have a place in a certain circle of hell. The whole point of your professional life is to find what you do well and do it as well as you can. Who can be burdened with the shortcomings life may contain when you know in your heart that one thing you’re meant to do?

If a man is called to be a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper who did his job well.

-Martin Luther King

We will always need streetsweepers. But they won't have to know a thing about Earth Science.

Sliced Bread Feels Inadequate

2007-10-14T22:38:00.000-04:00

Yes, the reign of the pre-sliced loaf may be over. Apple has seriously outdone itself on this one. For $299, this iPod Touch was four times the capacity and only $50 more expensive than my Nano had been 18 months ago. Oh, and it allows me to surf the web wirelessly from the palm of my hand. That's the coolest thing in the world, if nothing else because (unlike Blackberry schmucks) I'm not paying a dime to do it for as long as I damn well please.

I first purchased said device on Friday evening and have basically been playing with it ever since. I fiddled around with it while still relatively unsober on Friday night and then continued to use my waking moments for the rest of the weekend palmtop surfing while watching TV or cooking in the kitchen or doing anything else. It's worth noting that a full day's worth of idle webbing was more than handled by the Touch's battery. Also, the on screen keyboard (that's very similar to the iPhone, though it comes with a handy double-space-equals-period-space feature) is a breeze to use now that I've had a bit of practice. Of course, it's an Apple product so the user interface is flawless.

What's really been fun though, is toting it around my neighborhood and discovering wireless internet I didn't know was there. I found a network while doing laundry at my laundromat this afternoon. Oh, the possibilities! Now I'm excited to get it into Manhattan for work tomorrow and see just how many networks I can access on my way to and from the subway.

At this rate, there may be instantaneous Facebook updates in the future. Matt is...on the N train...ambling down 23rd St....stopping at the bank...walking up the stairs to school...almost at the door to his classroom...teaching.

At the very least, this device is a hell of a replacement for my Nano. So, is anyone interested in buying a Nano? Black. 2 Gigs. No scratches. Works perfectly. Recently made obselete.

Apocalypse, We Hardly Knew Thee

2007-10-14T18:45:00.000-04:00

It's been more than two months since I moved out of my old place and into the new digs with JimmyLuke. And now it appears that Apocalypse, the maker of quality rhino sounds, is headed back to Ohio after spending the last two plus years in NYC. Granted, he goes to join his girlfriend of many years and he will undoubtedly find more theatre opportunities than the city of New York had to offer him. Still, it's the end of an era. To mark this occasion, Hubris had devised a "Take Apocalypse to a Bar Night." I was the only man to accept the challenge, thus it fell to the two of us to make Apocalypse's last night out a good one. The night in question was Thursday night.

It ended up that PianoGirl joined Hubris and I in celebrating said occasion. We went to the Crescent Lounge, which seemed a lot hippie-er on the outside than it was on the inside. The only problem was that Apocalypse didn't join us until after our first drink at the Crescent Lounge. The three of us were on our way out when Apocalypse and War, his significant other, arrived. The whole group then headed for the Brazilian joint on Broadway. Hubris needed food, the rest of us needed booze. We were all satisfied.

For some strange reason, Hubris ordered tequilla shots and we all drank them. I am not entirely sure why this was so. Bt nevertheless, we complied. PianoGirl and Apocalypse required an extra lime to keep it down, but in the end everyone seemed to take it all in stride. The net result of the evening, after all goodbyes were said, was that I woke up Friday morning hung over and generally out of it. Despite PianoGirl's best urgings, I went to work and taught the children, though I was feeling the pain of the night before. The only way to conclude such a day was with more drinking. This was accomplished with the help of the usual suspects and our favorite Friday bar.

I left the bar with an inexplicably low tab ($15? I can't be that drunk on $15...) courtesy of BigTony, who tends the bar and was apparently only charging me for every third drink. I had a brilliant idea as I stood outside the bar, so I headed to the Apple Store, which is open 24/7 just for such drunken flashes of impulsiveness as these. There, I acquired an iPod Touch, which I have since decided is the greatest invention in the history of inventions. (Except maybe for the trebuchet, though a trebuchet is a poor choice for finding wireless internet or playing music. Likewise, the iPod is ineffective at smiting Visigoths, Huns or Mongols.)

Still, I feel the device is awesome enough to warrant its own post.

It's Been A While...

2007-10-10T22:37:00.000-04:00

Here it is. October. It's no coincidence that my last post coincided with my last weekend of summer vacation. I just spent an eleven-hour day at school today, the latest in a series of long days that have been punctuated only by weekends --which are hardly days off-- and the all too brief time I spend sleeping.

I suppose I should give some sort of closure to my tremendous summer odyssey, which culminated in a strange sequence of rental company haggling, art museum exploring and free baseball game watching with Crinus, MarcusBrody and Murph. We got a new rental car (recall that the old one had been slightly mangled by suicidal wildlife) only after the unspeakably bitchy lady behind the rental counter conceded that we could get one if we had an accident report from the insurance company. This was after a good half hour of her assuring us that we'd have to wait 48 hours to get one. I mused with Crinus that this was the equivalent of:

"Oh, you can't do that."

"Why not?"

"You'd need five dollars to do that."

"I have five dollars."

"Oh, then you can do that."

...But strung out over a laboriously long back-and-forth exchange that nearly had all of us wanting to strangle this woman. Rental car finally in order, the three of us went to MarcusBrody's museum, where he wasn't. So we looked at some exhibits, grabbed some refreshments at a local pub (with the greatest selection of Scotch in the Western Hemisphere!) and strolled by the Denver Art Museum while awaiting his return.

We found that he had returned with free Rockies tickets, which was fun because baseball is a Good Thing. The Rockies were playing the Brewers, who would later collapse their season like a leaning tower of bar coasters. I was happy to root for the home team and thereby vicariously help my Cubs, who weren't quite in town. Of course, as of now the Cubs have managed to smash their heads repeatedly into a brick wall (possibly covered with ivy) and fall from playoff glory without the aid of a doofus with 1985 headphones in the 3rd base box seats. So none of that matters. Still, the game was fun at the time.

The next day, Murph and I bit adieu to our gracious hosts (who officially need to come to NYC, *ahem*) and headed for Rocky Mountain National Park, where we drove high enough to mingle with elk, bighorn sheep, and crazy cyclists with death wishes. Our evening was spent in the House of Amazing Comfort, where we got a dinner lovingly prepared by people neither of us had ever met who are strangely hospitable to all geologists they encounter.

We had to leave the Great Geologist Loving Family at about 4 AM the next day to catch our respective early flights. While Murph headed back to the pancake-esque topography of Kansas, I flew to the sweltering jungles of Alabama. It was 110° in the shade. I was going there to move furniture. What the hell was I thinking? I was thinking that my loving parents had helped me move five times before (to college and back freshman year, to college sophomore year, to grad school, to New York) so I figured I owed them at least one. I am insane.

I forgot that my parents have at least five times as much stuff as I do. Guys, we're now even. I mean seriously--I assembled your bed. The Freudian issues from that alone should spare me from future moving duties. BrynJoe and Art-History, time to step to the plate.

Granted, I spent a good part of my week enjoying the free food and booze, ample air conditioning and cavernous living space of my parent's new gigantic house, whose 15-foot ceilings only served to make my mother appear even shorter. But another, sweatier part of that week was spent lifting and unpacking innumerable boxes in insane heat. Undoubtedly, without my help, old NoHips McRugbyWounds and his better --though significantly smaller-- half would have been unable to move many heavy objects.

As of this writing, Art-History and his taller --and significantly better-- half have already been down to visit the 'rents, who've since transformed the box-filled abode that I got to know into a passably habitable Southern mansion.

So since getting back to the joys of city life, I've acquired a new set of students (now with 40% more...students!) and begun year three of my tenure as a teacher. At least this time around I'm teaching the same thing as last year. But with 130 children to worry about and the ten-hour days starting to pile up, I'm already counting down to the approaching Thanksgiving vacation, when I'll return to the House of Innumerable Boxes and, hopefully, find it boxless at last.

Day 5: Black/Death

2007-08-26T14:22:00.000-04:00

Despite the beers of the previous evening (and Murph’s strangely persistent nausea) we managed to wake up fairly early, bid farewell to FeloniousThunk and get out of the door before 8 AM. Murph drove for the first shift since, as she put it, she only gets sick when someone else is driving on curvy roads. This being the first time we’d tried to drive the road from the apartments to the park entrance during business hours, we had to deal with the construction along the way. We headed out of the park and up past Dolores, nodding appreciatively in the direction of the Brewery.

After gassing up in Dolores and grabbing some road snacks, we hit the road north towards Telluride. Not two minutes later, we were stuck behind a tractor. Not a tractor-trailer. A tractor. Like for farms. Cruising along at 10 mph, a line of cars and trucks was quickly coalescing behind a farmer who steadfastly refused to look behind him. A half mile later, he finally let us pass and we steadily climbed up into the mountains through the villages of Stoner (I’m not kidding, check a map) and Rico towards the Lizard Head Pass up at 10,222 ft. From there it was downhill (relatively) past the impressive Ophir Needles to Telluride, a place where my family will never ski because we’re not millionaires. Yet.

It was about this time that we hit more construction and a pack of nutty cyclists who were going the opposite direction, up the road towards the pass. They would not be the last nutty cyclists of the trip. It was a little after Telluride that Murph declared the need for a pit stop in the near future. One problem of driving through the wilderness is that such a thing is not always possible. There were 15 miles left before Ridgway, the next village of any appreciable size. It was an eternity. And of course, once we got there and Murph dashed for the ladies’ room, there was a line.

Disaster averted, we pushed on towards the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. It was about 1 PM by the time we got there and we spent about a half an hour looking around in the Visitor’s Center area before we headed for the only real trail of any length in the park at the end of the road. From High Point at the end of the road it seemed to be a short walk to Warner Point, which looked back into the canyon. We set out and didn’t really bother with any gear, water or anything. I even wore flip-flops. It didn’t take too long to make it to the point, where the views were amazing. Looking northeast, we could clearly see the diabase intrusions cutting through the metamorphosed Paleozoic and Proterozoic basement rock on the north side of the canyon. I climbed a little promontory of rock near the end of the trail to get a better look and get some pictures that could scare the crap out of my mom.

We headed back to the car and realized upon our return that we’d been gone for nearly an hour. We decided to curtail the remainder of our time in the park in favor of a quick exit and a mad dash for Boulder. So two quick overlooks later we were on our way. We stopped off for a late lunch and made a quick call to Crinus, who was our hostess for the evening and needed to be informed of our later than expected arrival. It was 3:30 at that point and looked like we’d be hitting Boulder around 9:30. She gave us directions to rt. 93, the road leading up to Boulder, and asked us to call once we hit that road, about a half hour from her place.

We drove north, hitting I-70 in the middle of the Glenwood Canyon, one of the most beautiful tracts of interstate in the country. Murph was finally starting to feel better after really not having a good time for most of the day. We hit Vail for our next pit stop, which boasts a 3450 ft. vertical and 5289 acres of skiable terrain serviced by 34 lifts. Yes, we must ski there. As we climbed towards the 10,666 ft. Vail pass, we noticed a bike trail paralleling the highway. Yes, there were nutty cyclists on it. The sun started setting about the time we hit the continental divide through the 11,700 ft. high Eisenhower-Johnson tunnels.

Yet again breaking our ban on nighttime driving, we pushed on until we could see the lights of Denver ahead of us. We took the exit for rt. 93 and headed up towards Golden and Boulder. I called Crinus and got the last few directions to her place. “Sounds great, Crinus. I guess we’ll see you in a half hour. Bye!” I hung up the phone.

“Holy shit! Did you see that?” Murph yelled.

“No, what?” I had been looking down at the phone in my lap.

“A deer just ran across the road!”

“Whoah.” I looked straight out of the front windshield.

The next seconds seemed to take a few minutes to elapse. I only saw the second deer coming from the left side out of the corner of my eye, but I knew what was happening. Murph saw it about the same time. We yelled obscenities. The deer crossed the left lane of traffic. Murph swerved right, braking hard. There was a thump and a crash as the windshield shattered with the impact of the deer’s head. Murph pulled off the road and we both took a deep breath. We seemed to be in one piece. Thankfully it appeared that the deer had only sideswiped us, so we had no deer guts in our lap.

The windshield was definitely screwed, but we had no idea about the rest of the car. I grabbed my flashlight and walked around the front of the car. The deer was surely dead, but looking back behind our car I couldn’t tell where it had ended up. The oncoming traffic blinded me and I was more worried about the state of our car anyway. The front of the car was spotless, except for the innumerable bugs we’d killed in the course of week of driving. The windshield was smashed in the bottom corner and a few cracks snaked their way across the driver’s side. The left mirror was dangling off the driver’s side door. There was a dent in the door. A small tuft of deerskin was hanging from the front edge of the door. However, apart from all that, the car was OK. It was certainly drivable, just not by Murph. When I got back into the car, she wasn’t doing too well; the nausea was back. Since we really didn’t know what else to do, Murph called her rental company and talked to someone who explained what we were going to do in the morning. It was clear that she was in no state to drive for the remainder of the evening, so I got back out of the car and headed for the driver’s door. Not wanting to see the damage, she shimmied over to the passenger seat while I opened the driver’s door and got in. The dent made the door hard to open.

I called Crinus to explain. Crinus suggested pub food and beers. We assented. A half hour later, we were in Boulder at Crinus’ place. We dropped off our luggage and piled back into the deer damaged car to head to the bar. MarcusBrody, Crinus’ husband, was there already, leading trivia night. We grabbed a table outside and imbibed and ate to our hearts’ content. Once we were sated, we returned to Crinus and MarcusBrody’s apartment, where Murph and I took over their living room. It was kind of a long day and now we had some bureaucratic bullshit to take care of in the morning. We weren’t looking forward to it.

Day’s Score:
Drinks: 4
Miles: 480
Maximum Elevation: 11,700 ft.
Roadkills: 1 (deer)
Potential Future Family Ski Trips: 1 (We can’t afford Telluride)

Day 4: Unlawful Entry

2007-08-20T22:35:00.000-04:00

We woke up very early and were out the door by 7:30. We wanted to get to Cliff Palace, the largest of the dwellings, and get out before the first official tour started at 9. FeloniousThunk had to dress in his full ranger gear, though it was his day off, so that we’d look the part of a ranger giving a tour (albeit to two people) in the event of our being accosted by park staff or nosy tourists. I remembered Cliff Palace from my last trip out to Mesa Verde and remember being disappointed by the fact that we couldn’t climb around in the dwelling and instead had to stand outside it while a ranger pointed to different things that we couldn’t really see because we weren’t allowed to go inside. Well, this time around we had a ranger to take us all the places that we weren’t supposed to go. FeloniousThunk called in our “tour” and we went down to the ruin.

Cliff Palace from the inside is phenomenal. Actually getting to step through the doorways and enter the rooms where ancestral Puebloans lived gives a much better sense of the history that emanates from such a place than merely walking by it and snapping some pictures. We were treading where ancient people lived and died, running our hands over the stones that they used to fashion their houses. We were careful not to leave footprints.

We spent a good hour in Cliff Palace, checking the orientation of the kivas (supposedly they all face south, but we found some that didn’t) climbing through doors and small openings and exploring every inch of the ruin until the “first” tour of the day showed up above us and we exited before having to answer any potentially incriminating questions.

After a quick stop for brunch back at the apartment, we headed out to Weatherill Mesa, a section of the park I hadn’t even visited during my family’s trip. Along the road, FeloniousThunk indicated that we should pull over into an unmarked and inconspicuous gravel driveway. We grabbed our gear and hiked to the edge of the mesa, where we found a trail marked by cairns. For those not in the know, a cairn is basically a pile of small rocks. The trail wound down the side of the cliff and led towards the cliff dwelling called Mug House. Apparently, people found mugs there.

Mug House is not shown on the Mesa Verde maps at the Visitor’s Center. It’s not open to the public. This is one of the advantages of traveling through a National Park with a ranger who is employed by that National Park. Once again, it was simply a matter of calling in to the dispatch center on the walkie-talkie and all was well. Mug House was a two-level dwelling with terraces out in front, one of the few ruins in the whole park to exhibit evidence of farming.

We spent a good amount of time looking around the ruin, peering into the kivas and admiring the wall art. I decided I wanted to try to get up to the second level of the dwelling, which looked like it would involve some climbing. I was admittedly out of practice when it came to climbing, but managed to clamber my way up a rock face on the northwest side of the ruin and make my way across a rock ledge to the ruin. I was quite proud of my little climb and spent a while exploring the parts of the ruin that Murph and Felonious didn’t feel like reaching. They shouted questions and requests as I moved through the various rooms. We were trying to interpret the strange rim that was around one of the windows. Later we decided they might have been designed to give a better seal when the stone doors were put in place.

Once I managed to get myself down (without falling, I’ll have you know) we headed down to Long House, which was an open ruin. You’d normally buy a ticket, but this was just the latest in a series of things we didn’t have to worry about thanks to our ranger guide. Of course, the tour was run by another ranger, who FeloniousThunk referred to as one of his “all-stars.” The ranger was understandably a little miffed about having to give a tour with another ranger in the tour, but Felonious promised not to upstage him.

There were only two other people on the tour, so it was definitely not close to the 60-strong tours that Felonious assured us were standard at the more popular sites. After cruising through Long House, which was interesting though not as fun as the two ruins to which we’d already had unfettered access, we headed for some mesa-top dwellings, which were inhabited by the Mesa Verde people (no, I will not call them Ancestral Puebolans) before they moved to the cliff dwellings.

By this point, the day was drawing to a close and Murph and I felt we needed to thank FeloniousThunk for his hospitality. So, we piled back into the car and headed to town. Now “town” happened to be the burg of Dolores, population 857, an hour’s drive from the park. However, it’s home to the Dolores River Brewery, which means that this small town possibly has more microbrew pints per capita than almost any other town in America. The beer there happens to be quite good, as is the pizza. After partaking of both in and exchanging various stories, we headed back to the car for the drive back to the park.

During this drive, the heavens opened in one of the more amazing thunderstorms I’ve ever experienced. The lightning lit up the landscape all around us. It was in the context of this environment that FeloniousThunk proceeded to unravel the tale that begat his nickname. Felonious, I must say that, though I have known some crazy females in the past, I’ve never had one frame me for domestic violence, so you take the cake.

On our return, Murph was feeling a little queasy from the winding road, the beers and possibly my less than stellar driving.

Day's Score:
Drinks: 2 (I was driving)
Miles: 80, mostly to and from beer
Ruins: 4

Day 3: Up and At Them!

2007-08-17T09:00:00.000-04:00

Our day started relatively early. We said our goodbyes to Untenured and Cogito after partaking of their freshly made muffins and were on the road by 9:30. I took over the driving since Murph had been doing the whole trip so far. We found out just how large the San Luis Valley was by driving the 30 miles of flat plains out to Del Norte along US 160. The road got more interesting once we started to climb up into the mountains. The road peaked at the Wolf Creek Pass, 10,850 ft above sea level on the Continental Divide. There we left the highway and headed up a dirt road (voiding our rental car warranty) to an overlook that was over 11,300 ft high. From there we had a view of both sides of the Continental Divide, the Wolf Creek Ski Area (peaks at 11,870 ft, 1604 ft vert, 465” of annual snowfall, 1600 acres of skiable terrain. Take notes, bros.), and a possible hiking area in the San Juan National Forest.

We descended the mountain and headed a little further along the highway to Forest Road 725, which was little more than a dirt track, looking for what our map showed to be a clearly marked hiking trail at that road’s end that would lead us to the peak of Treasure Mountain at close to 12,000 ft. The road got ugly in a hurry. In the interests of our rental car’s undercarriage and our own prospects for getting back down the mountain, we resolved to go the rest of the way on foot. However, the first trail we spotted ended up going nowhere in a hurry. We backtracked to the road and just followed it up the mountain with the occasional ATV enthusiast screaming by us. The road ended and we spied the trailhead. The trail was easy to follow because it seemed that multiple ATVs had ignored the “No ATVs” sign and plowed on ahead into the forest. Ten minutes into the forest we came across a weather recording station where the ATV tracks stopped. When we were further along the trail, it seemed to go in multiple directions at once and quite nearly disappeared altogether. Though armed with a Brunton compass, we decided it wasn’t worth getting lost in the woods during our first real hike just to make it to the top of Treasure Mountain. We turned back.

The whole semi-aborted hike took us more than an hour, mostly due to our exhaustion at breathing the thin air at 10,000 ft. We climbed back into our car and headed down the mountain again, stopping at an overlook along the way that had a particularly impressive tillite outcrop (pictured at left). After cruising through the oddly tourist-heavy town of Pagosa Springs, we took a small detour south to check out Chimney Rock, which was listed on our map as an “Archaeological Area” so it clearly required a stop. Though impressive-looking from the road, it turned out that the only way to get up to the actual rock and its associated archaeology was to take a two-and-a-half hour tour courtesy of the private company that owned the land (it’s apparently not even a State Park). We looked casually around the tiny visitor’s center and decided to give it a miss. Murph informed me that the crude displays were all mislabeled and inaccurate anyway. We both agreed that there probably wasn’t more than twenty minutes worth of stuff to see there so it wasn’t exactly worth two-and-a-half hours.

We stopped next in Durango for a late lunch and a walk around the touristy historic district. I managed to connect to the internet for the first time in days at a little coffee shop where I posted my work for my online class and then immediately got caught up in the addictive world of the web. Murph pried me away (after insisting that I add Untenured and Cogito to my friends list) and we were off again.

We soon came to Mesa Verde, the entrance looking just as impressive as I’d remembered it from fourteen years prior. Rounding a bend in the highway near Mancos, we saw the green mesa (hence the name) jutting out prominently against the sky. At the entrance, Murph put on her “I’m a visiting ranger” act and flashed her National Park Service ID to waive the entrance fee. That made it our second NPS freebie of the trip (Kansanography had paid for our entrance to Great Sand Dunes). There was still a half hour of winding roads from the entrance to where we were staying at the Farview housing. There we met up with FeloniousThunk, with whom we’d be staying while in the park. He used to work with Murph at Hopewell Culture NP in Chilicothe and was now employed at Mesa Verde.

FeloniousThunk suggested that we look at some of the cliff dwellings before sunset, so we piled back into the car and headed down the road to the sites. We got a few pictures at various locations before the light gave out and then it was back to the apartment for drinks and dinner, which consisted of FeloniusThunk’s amazing tofu stir fry, marking only the third context in which I’ve found tofu to be edible.

After a bottle of wine, we were ready to hit the sack, but therein lay the problem: the National Park Service offers two-bedroom apartments, and FeloniousThunk’s second bedroom was taken up by his roommate, SilentRanger. So Murph and I were left to choose between the Couch of Uncomfortable Skinniness and the Reclining Chair of Intermittent Pop-upiness. I got the couch. After numerous failed attempts to attain sleep in the chair, Murph opted for the floor.

Day’s Score:
Drinks: 4
Miles: 200
Maximum Elevation: 11,300 ft.
Parks: 1 (Chimney Rock doesn’t count)
Potential Future Family Ski Trips: 1

Day 2: Sun and Sand

2007-08-16T07:11:00.000-04:00

When I woke up on Friday, there were hummingbirds outside my window. The ranch house had half a dozen feeders and there were groups of hummingbirds crowding around to get at the sugar water. That’s when I remembered that I wasn’t in the city any more. Murph and I packed up our gear and headed out to a point of geologic interest a short drive down the road from the ranch house. Along that very road, Edward Drinker Cope and Otheniel C. Marsh had excavated some of the most well known dinosaurs more than a hundred years before. As we drove along, we resolved that we should do no more driving in the dark if we can help it since the scenery we’d missed on the way in was amazing. We arrived at the Marsh quarry and checked out the ancient creek bed that had yielded 250 crates worth of dinosaur bones, all of which were packed out by mule teams all the way to the railroad and shipped overland back to the museums of the East Coast. The quarry is pictured below. Note the awesome paleochannel features! Sweet!

After our first short hike at altitude, we headed back to the house for a quick bite to eat before meeting up with the field school folks for our trip down to Great Sand Dunes. We left around 1 PM, following the field school vans out of Cañon City. The drive down to the park went through some really impressive canyons along US 50 between Cañon City and Salida that were full of rafters taking advantage of the large amount of runoff that was making for some excellent rapids. Turning south onto US 285, we entered the large San Luis Valley. We could see the dunes clearly ahead of us. We didn’t know that they were still some 40 miles distant along the base of the Sangre de Cristo Range. It was almost an hour later that we actually pulled in to Great Sand Dunes National Park. By then it was around 4 PM and we wanted to get some dune climbing in before the day was out. We bid adieu to the field school at their campsite in the park and promised to return after getting our dune-climbing fix.

We wanted to tackle the highest dune in the group closest to the visitor’s center, a pile of sand more than 650 ft high. This was the same dune that I had failed to climb with my family when we visited the park in 1993. Of course, I was 13 and my youngest brother was 8, so Murph and I were a little better suited to the task this time around. Even so, hiking through sand is tough going and we were just over halfway up the dune after twenty-five minutes of brisk walking. We stuck to the ridges for the most part, except for one dash up a slip face, and the wind got steadily stronger as we ascended. We slowed down as we got near the top, but managed to reach the summit an hour after we started. The view from the top was breathtaking, stretching out over the miles of sand dunes to the north and reaching all the way across the valley to the Lagarita Mountains in the west. Our descent was much easier than the climb up. Running at top speed down a sand dune is an invigorating and stupid way to cover a lot of ground very quickly. Murph wasn’t having any of it, which was good because it gave me a chance to catch my breath between sprints. Though there were a few times when my body seemed ready to outpace my legs and send me face first into the sand, I managed to make it the whole way down without embarrassing myself. Even with our frequent stops, we made it down the dunes in twenty-five minutes.

Tired and sandy, we headed to the field camp campsite where there was beer, dinner and a roaring fire. We still had no idea where we were going to stay that night and we knew we wanted to make it to Mesa Verde the next day. We just figured we’d play it by ear when Untenured offered to let us stay at his place in Alamosa, a half hour away from the campsite. We said our goodbyes to Kansanography and the rest of the field crew and headed to Alamosa, following Untenured and his wife Cogito into the unlit darkness separating the National Park from the town. This was already going against our no-dark-driving resolution, but it was just a quick jaunt through the rather uninteresting valley anyway. Nevertheless, thanks to the utter pitch-black dark of the rural road, Murph managed to (most likely) run over a chipmunk and we saw Cogito hit a rabbit right in front of us. We decided not to tell her about the rabbit. Upon arrival at the house, however, Cogito expressed her dismay at accidentally killing a helpless bunny. We admitted witnessing the whole thing. The only real way to cure a wildlife-murdering malaise is with wine. Thankfully, we had brought a large bottle.

Untenured actually hadn’t seen his house until that very moment. He and Cogito had bought it weeks ago and he’d been off with field school the whole time while she’d been painting and moving in. So he was as eager as we were to check out the new digs. We slowly but surely demolished the wine while offering decorating advice. Despite the fact that I had just met these people, they seemed more than happy to accept my interior design suggestions. I have no idea why. Once we were completely tired out, Murph and I retired to the “green room,” named for its newly-acquired paint, and quickly fell asleep, resolving to make it an early day to get out to Mesa Verde with daylight to spare.

Day’s Score:
Drinks: 8? Maybe more.
Miles: 150
Maximum Elevation: 8,500 ft.
Parks: 1
Roadkills: 2 (1 chipmunk, 1 rabbit)

The Trip, Day 1: Planes, Trains and Automobiles

2007-08-15T12:59:00.000-04:00

It’s been almost two weeks since I set out on the crazy adventure, so I figured it’s about time to start telling you all what’s been going on. Thursday, August 2nd was a day when I woke up early to make sure my last minute particulars were together before my 1 PM flight out of Newark. I thought briefly about taking a cab there, but realized that there was a good chance the cab ride would cost a significant portion of my airfare. I decided instead to opt for the train. So around 10 AM I lugged my luggage up 36th Ave. towards the N line, declining the offer of cab rides from two cabbies hanging out in front of the bodega. A quick subway ride later I got to Penn Station and wandered over to the Jersey transit side, lamenting that I had forgotten to check the times of the trains for Newark. I had plenty of time to spare, but no idea when the next train was leaving. After I got my ticket, I found that the next train was leaving in five minutes, so I got on board and was out Jersey-bound less than a half hour after I’d left my apartment. Getting to Newark Airport from the Jersey Transit trains means taking the AirTrain, which costs $5.50 and goes about 400 yards. It’s expensive, but at least it’s annoying.

By the time I had checked in, cleared security and found my gate, I still had an hour and a half before boarding. This called for beer. So I headed for the bar, which was fairly well patronized 11 AM on a Thursday. I had a seat between an ad exec talking on her Blackberry and a tourist contemplating the remains of his turkey sandwich. Two beers later I was much better suited to flying and headed for the gate, armed with my book and iPod.

To conserve funds, each of my flights on this trip were one-stoppers. This stop was in Cincinnati, known for chilidogs, sub-par baseball and racial tensions. With two hours to kill between flights, I headed for another airport bar. This one was called “The Pub” and made a concerted effort to turn a corner of a second-tier Midwestern U.S. airport into a slice of Britannia. It failed. But it had Guinness on tap. I sat between a couple returning from a Florida vacation and a Brit on her way across the U.S. None of them had heard about the bridge collapse in Minnesota, so they were glued to the TV and kept asking me questions about it since my viewing of a newscast that morning had evidently made me an expert in civil engineering and architectural quality control.

One more flight and I found myself in Denver around 6 PM, local time. Murph pulled up to the outside of the terminal just as I collected my bags and headed out the door, making for one of the most efficient airport pickups in recent memory. The rental car for the trip was a 2008 Dodge Avenger, a name that sounds like we should be driving to the Fortress of Solitude. It was spacious but with too small of an engine to power it. Still, it was brand spankin’ new and had about 3000 miles on it. We headed down Denver’s boondoggle toll road, which makes you stop and pay $2 every four miles, and stopped off for road snacks, a Colorado atlas and some booze with which to thank our hosts for the evening. Getting back on the road required an additional 75¢ for some reason and Murph bemoaned the basket-throwing technique of the car ahead of us. “He’s doing them one at a time! Just throw them all in at once!” she said. To prove the superiority of her method, she pulled up and hurled a trio of quarters at the toll basket. “Oh shit, one missed.” Here she opened the door to scour the ground for the errant coin while I rooted around in my pocket for a replacement. Thankfully, there were no cars behind us.

We made it to Cañon City just after dark and warily wound our way up the back roads towards the backwoods homestead of Kansanography, a recently retired professor and friend of Murph’s who was kind enough to let us crash on his couches. We drank and ate with him, his wife and two of his co-professors from field school, Untenured and Storyteller. After dinner, Kansanography declared that it was about time for a visit from OldTimer, who I thought might be one of their many pets. But it turned out that he was the neighbor from next door (which was surprisingly close considering the rural nature of the surroundings) who was a corrections officer, cowhand, and part-time riding coach. OldTimer had met movie stars and taught them to ride horses during the filming of multiple movies in the area over the years. He even had a story about one movie star in particular that involved a quart of cocaine.

After spinning yarns for a while, OldTimer declared it was time to head home since he had to be up early to corral inmates at the penitentiary. Untenured and Storyteller headed back to the field camp and the rest of us prepared to bed down. By this point it was about 2:30 AM Eastern, so I was happy to end the first day of the trip and crawl into bed.

Day’s Score:
Drinks: 6
Miles: 2,000 (plane) 120 (car)
Maximum Elevation: 35,000 ft. (plane) 6,500 ft. (car)

We Have A Plan

2007-07-30T13:46:00.000-04:00

This Thursday, I'm flying out to Denver. It's the first leg of my grand summer vacation vacation. For a week, I will be enjoying the wonders of nature with my good friends Murph and Crinus, who were previously involved in such memorable geologic outings as San Salvador (pictured), back in 2004. This will actually be the first time we're all reunited since VespaMan's wedding a year ago, which was only one night anyway. This time around, Murph and I will be trucking all over Colorado, doing as much nature-loving hippie stuff as possible. We've got a car, our field gear, a sufficient amount of wanderlust and money to spend. Oh, and for two days, we'll be hitting up Crinus for some free lodging in Boulder. It has the makings of an excellent trip.

After that, I get from Denver to Huntsville (by way of Atlanta), to join the fam in the new digs as El Presidente and Señora Primero of the University of Alabama at Huntsville. Mom mentioned recently that this is the first time in our family's history that none of us have seen where any of the others are living. The 'rents are in a dinky apartment in Alabama awaiting their spacious mansion, I just moved into my new place, BrynJoe is somewhere in East Africa, and Art-History is in a Baltimore ghetto. None of us have visited any of the others' respective places of residence yet. As is the curse of the eldest brother, I shall be the first to do so. Don't worry, BrynJoe and Art-History, I'll make a full report of the 'Bama lodgings as soon as possible.

iWant

2007-07-27T10:32:00.000-04:00

About a month ago, my cell phone contract came up for renewal and I briefly considered ditching Verizon and getting a brand spanking new iPhone. I soon reasoned that my possession of two fully-functional iPods --regular and nano sized-- and the substantial initial costs of iPhone ownership were two solid reasons to stick with my service. Verizon after all basically gave me $150 in credit, allowing me to get a "Chocolate" phone for free. It's no substitute for an all-in-one phone/iPod/minicomputer/Terminator, but compared with dropping $500 on an iPhone, this was economically a no-brainer.

Just a week after that thrifty decision, my father wrote an email to me and my brothers:

Happy fourth to all of you wherever your are. Just a heads up if you
happen to write to me on my uah email - it is read by my three
assistants - so watch what you say.

My iPhone number is xxx-xxx-xxxx if you want to call during business
hours. I'm trying to get my old Lehigh phone onto a Verizon account with
Mom so I can talk to you more easily.

Despite seething with jealousy, my globe-trotting brother saw the real reason for the message and replied:

You just wanted to let us know that

a) you have an iPhone
b) you have three assistants

And let me say that I, for one, will try very, very hard not to abuse
the fact that three proper, polite, southern ladies read your email.

Now all this time I had still been standing by my decision to not blow half a grand on a friggin phone. I had congratulated myself on my financial restraint and pondered with considerable glee how many beers I could buy with the money I'd saved. All this was thrown out the window yesterday. It was yesterday that my sterling laptop, a vision in slightly dented titanium given to me by that same globe-trotting brother (who now is undoubtedly reading much faster, hoping to find just what it was that went wrong with his belovéd baby), gave its first signs of age. I was sitting in school, enjoying the Intarwebs while my students toiled, when the laptop ceased to receive power from its cord. The cord itself had been tempermental in the past. Only a certain angle seemed to provide the necessary power and light the little green light that told me everything was OK. Now suddenly no amount of twisting and turning would keep the power flowing.

There were two possibilities: one, the cord is faulty and needs to be replaced for $80; two, the internal power module is crapping out, requiring extensive repairs of unknown expense. I quickly paid a visit to the website of the 5th Ave Apple Store and made a Genius Bar reservation for that afternoon. Reservation complete, I quickly put the 'puter to sleep and took up my book for the remainder of the school day. I arrived at the store a few minutes before my reservation and took to looking around. The store was in its usual state of over-occupancy. A seminar on Final Cut Pro was in full swing. Kids were playing games on iMacs. Every computer and iPod had one or more customers peering at it or utilizing the store's free wireless internet. I browsed the games. Nothing too interesting, although I may be persuaded to get Call of Duty one of these days because I do so much love shooting things. My name finally appeared on the Genius Bar queue at #12. Still a bit of a wait. I wandered over to the iPhone section.

And here my troubles began. One iPhone model in the corner was miraculously unattended. I picked it up and started fiddling around. Damn. Damn damn damn damn damn. My technolust was immediately aroused. I watched some videos, listened to some music, surfed the internet and tried typing on the screen. That last task was not as difficult as you might expect, as long as you were typing normal English words. Proper names and and combinations of letters and numbers (such as getting directions from 22nd St and 6th Ave to 77th St and 5th Ave) were difficult because the machine didn't know what you were trying to say. But when typing notes or text messages with normal sentences, it was remarkably accurate. The iPhone may do away with txt spk because it's much easier to crappily type full words and have it recognize them than it is to try and type abbreviations accurately on a small keyboard.

The map feature was the best. I could buzz around Manhattan and see whatever I wanted, either from a satellite or streetmap. With this thing I'd never have to ask "Where's the nearest [anything]?" ever again. Traffic was updated in real time. It would be indispensible when catching a cab.

I was loathe to put it down and head to the Genius Bar, where I eventually discovered that it was just the cord that needed replacing (breathe easy, bro) and not some dire internal issue. However, immediately after I purchased another power cord, I found myself back playing with the iPhones --moving through pictures with a flick of a finger, zooming in on webpages with an inverse pinching motion-- like everyone else in the store, enthralled by the little wündergizmo.

In short, I now regret my hasty though frugal decision to start a new contract with Verizon. So I must wait two years before I can get an iPhone. Of course, by then they'll be implanted in your brain so that you can listen to music during boring meetings and your phone conversations will be indistinguishable from the raving homeless guys who talk to themselves on the street.

Easy Money

2007-07-25T10:17:00.001-04:00

This week, I'm teaching "Science Academy" at MVA. The basic premise behind this course is that students who failed a science course during the school year will have a last chance to do enough work to earn that missing credit in science. However, much like the pictured Spanish Inquisition, our school seems to find more last chances for our students every time we list them. Currently, the list reads as follows:

Attention students (and heretics)! Do not fail this class, or else you will have to take PM School after school to make up the credit.

Do not fail (or fail to attend) PM School or else you'll have to go to Summer School.

If you don't do that, you'll have to take another PM School class in the fall!

And so help us, if you make it to Senior year without passing this class, well then we'll just have to assign you a "special project" to make up the credit.

Oh, and if you don't manage to do that, we'll see if we can't look through your transcript during the hours before graduation and make one of your math credits count for a science course.

So you see, if you fail this one class this summer, you will only have one last- three last chances! You have three last chances!

Aside from my own professional disdain for the sheer number of last chances each underperforming student is given, the week has gone remarkably smoothly. For one thing, I only have half a dozen students under my supervision. For another, the day only goes from 9 AM to 1 PM. And I'm getting paid per session, which is the teacher equivalent of overtime, for every hour. Oh, and that's in addition to the checks I continue to get every two weeks for the fantastic amount of jack squat I've been doing this summer.

The money's great, but the work load's even better. As I write this post, I am currently sitting in a positively silent classroom, full of students diligently completing the work that they've been given. I don't have to lecture. I don't have to prepare anything. I merely hand out the packets of work that each science teacher left behind for their little failures to complete and make sure they spend their time working and not napping. This means I'm free to blog, surf the web, send annoyed emails to my prof about the bookstore's continuing lack of textbooks, and generally enjoy free time. Grading? We're looking for quantity, not quality here. If the students complete the work, it's good enough.

So remember, folks: the young people of our country are being groomed to expect multiple opportunities to succeed after they fail. These are kids who think life is a computer game with unlimited lives. Didn't get it that time? Ooh, tough luck. Try again! It doesn't matter!

When people talk about grade inflation, they're usually talking about the top 10% getting undeserved A's. I'm more concerned with the grade inflation of the bottom 40%. Given the fact that only a slim majority of NYC high schoolers graduate, one has to wonder how many of those "graduates" have been given 87 last chances to succeed. What message does it send to the kids who passed their classes on the first try when students who submit a lousy project two years too late get the same credit? How can we expect students to put in their best effort when they're constantly given do-overs and ever increasing numbers of last chances? How many do-overs and last chances will they get once they're employed in the real world? There aren't a lot of jobs that come with no consequences for failure.

I'm Movin' Out (Duh do do DOO du doo du doo)

2007-07-23T18:58:00.000-04:00

Yesterday morning, I hopped on a Trans-Bridge bus and headed back to Bethlehem. My purpose for the trip wasn't to visit anyone in particular, but instead to clean out the last vestiges of my childhood from the old homestead, now unoccupied since my parents are in Alabama. I arrived in Bethlehem around 11 AM and was greeted by JimmyLuke, who had acquired a large truck for the purposes of moving both my stuff and his stuff. We decided to load my stuff first. We drove across town, pulled around the back alleyway behind Montgomery St. and I couldn't help but think how much the neighborhood had changed from what I remembered as a child. So many houses had been repainted or now had different occupants. Peter and Nancy's old backyard had lost many of its hedges. The house at the top of the block no longer looked like it was in disrepair. A million small changes reminded me that this wasn't the home I remembered any more.

My Dad had advised me not to go into our house. "It's better to remember it as it was," he said. I agreed. But after getting the key from where Jane had left it by her back door, I couldn't help but glance in the window as I walked towards the garage. The porch, where so many Christmas trees had stood, was bare. The family room, our primary sitting space for two decades, had nothing sitting on its shiny new hardwood floor. The addition, added just over a year ago so my parents could live out their autumn years in this house (old people need a bathroom on the ground floor), was as empty as the rest of it. I somehow doubt my parents will be back here once my Dad finishes his tenure at Alabama. Who wants to move when your in your sixties?

I got to the garage and opened it up. In addition to the bed, bookshelves and couch, there was every saved memento of my childhood stuffed in shoeboxes and canvas bags. JimmyLuke and I moved the large furniture items into the truck and then set about doing a little keepsake triage. Drawings, photos, gifts, cards, toys, and many things for which I no longer had a soft spot in my heart were thrown into the waiting trash bins. A few items were spared. My Mom had inexplicably saved my baseball card collection, now well over fifteen years old. It's quite possible some of them may be worth something. I can't throw out books, however old they may be. Some high school artifacts were identified as worthy of keeping, including my senior year yearbook signature pages which contained a particularly nice note from JimmyLuke himself.

There was even a card from the rest of my 3rd grade class that they had given me when my family left for Sweden. I still remember getting it. Ms. McGouldrick had sent me to the office to "pick up some papers" and in my absence the class had affixed their thumbprints and signatures to a snail-shaped card. On my return, the class caught me completely by surprise. At the time, I didn't know how many of them I'd be seeing again, but there are some childhood signatures on that card from people I still know and love today. That was definitely a keeper.

Everything was packed into the truck (or a garbage can) within an hour. Then we were off. We stopped for lunch with JimmyLuke's Mom, who once again failed to let me even attempt to pay. I need to master my Dad's stealth check-paying abilities. Afterwards, we descended on Highland Avenue for our second load-in of the day. Once we had everything we were taking from there, I noted just how much of his stuff remained in the house. I was thankful that JimmyLuke's Mom wasn't moving as well, so he still had space to store his childhood memories. Our truck wasn't built to hold the entire contents of two people's lives.

We were on the road before 4 PM. Less than five hours to load a metric shit-ton of stuff and eat a leisurely lunch is not bad at all. On the way, we picked up HungarianPhrasebook, JimmyLuke's better half. Since our truck was created with only two people in mind, she sat on a pillow (brought expressly for that purpose) in between the bucket seats. She couldn't see anything but the tops of trees, which meant she probably had the best view of New Jersey any human has ever gotten.

Navigating the streets of Manhattan in a 16' truck wasn't too difficult, and neither was the approach to our apartment in Queens. However, getting the truck into a spot where we could park and unload was another thing altogether. The driveway was in no way large enough to accommodate us and the street was too narrow to double park. So we half backed in to the driveway, completely blocking the sidewalk and leaving the nose of the truck sticking just enough out into the road that passing cars thought twice about whether or not they could fit. Don't worry, they could.

With three people unloading and no stairs to climb (yay garden apartment!) we had the whole thing unloaded in under an hour. HungarianPhrasebook then took the last of our belongings into the apartment while JimmyLuke and I attempted to find a place in Queens to park an ungainly rental truck overnight. We came across a place just a few blocks away and walked back to the apartment for beers and decorating.

One beer later, we started moving furniture around. The couch, chair, coffee table and bookshelf all fit into the main room just fine. We even spread out the rugs my Mom had bequeathed us. The kitchen table was assembled, my bed was made, and we cleared paths through the debris, flattening boxes as they were emptied. Two beers later, we attempted to set up the DVD player, which was unfortunately a failure. The surround sound worked fine, but we couldn't get a picture to appear on the TV. Bummer.

Eventually, we turned in for the night and I fell asleep on my lovely, fluffy new bed. Unfortunately, it's too big for my old sheets, so I actually fell asleep on top of a quilt on my lovely, fluffy new bed. First order of business, once the monsoon rains stop, is to buy new sheets.

Boom!

2007-07-20T17:52:00.000-04:00

Denis Leary once said that he loved living in New York City because there are so many different ways the city can kill you. This week, there was a new one: steam explosion! Yes, just in time for rush hour on Wednesday, a century-old steam pipe exploded right next to Grand Central Station, killing one and injuring dozens. Now that's just some serious divine smackdown right there. Plenty of people are flattened by buses, many are mown down by gunfire, but only a select few get to be blown up by a steam pipe.

My favorite part about the whole thing, besides the utter weirdness of a steam pipe exploding in the first place, was the speed with which the powers that be came on the television and assured us all that this was not an act of terrorism. Seriously, whether Al Qaida or ConEd have blown something up in midtown seems a little unimportant to me. Yes, it's good to know that bin Laden's not maliciously blowing up steam pipes and turning 41st St. into a volcano, but it appears that ConEd is inadvertantly blowing up steam pipes and turning 41st St. into a volcano. Either way, it sure does mess with the midtown commute. And I doubt the one unlucky victim really cares who was responsible for the explosion anyway. Dead is dead whether an incompetent utility company or a terrorist cell kills you.

--

In other news, I'm all moved in to my new apartment. Well, except for my furniture, which is in Pennsylvania. I've spent the last couple days without a bed or couch, but that just means I've been floor sleeping and spending a lot of time at PianoGirl's place. Sunday, JimmyLuke and I will be heading to B-town to collect his stuff from storage and my stuff from the parents' garage, which sadly is theirs no longer. Once everything's in place next week, the apartment will feel a little more liveable and less like a place where I occasionally sleep and blog.

Small World

2007-07-11T19:12:00.000-04:00

Tuesday evening was the last class of the summer at Pace. Everything from here on out is online classes. Woohoo! So after a truly educational experience, the class was looking forward to some varsity-level drinking. Unfortunately, Bayside, my usual post-class drinking buddy, was listed as doubtful due to a pinched nerve in his neck. Undaunted, I decided that I would brave the Beekman Tavern with only my less-familiar classmates to keep me company. In any case, it was the last class of the year and I'd be damned if I wasn't going to toast the end of the madness.

Class was done by 7 PM and Bayside and I headed south, I for the liquor and he for the subway. We parted ways and I headed towards the bar, already stuffed with education students outside on their first smoke break. I made my way through the group towards the door, only to be stopped by someone calling out my name as I passed. I turned around, expecting to see someone from a previous Pace class. Instead, I saw GlacierGal, who I literally had not seen since graduating OSU. Instead of a polite "Hello" or "How are you?" all I managed to get out was a "What the hell are you doing here?" This also marks the second time that she's proved the diminuitive nature of the globe to me. When we first met in Ohio, we discovered that she had been friends at Smith with QuayHoe, a girl with whom I'd attended high school. QuayHoe told me then that this girl was crazy, and I have had many instances to see it for myself.

The funniest of these instances is remembered fondly by those of the OSU Geology department, and involves GlacierGal, J-Ro, a massive amount of liquor, and J-Ro's bathtub. 'Nuff said.

It turns out that GlacierGal is actually a Teaching Fellow as well, Cohort 13. And she's teaching high school Earth Science. And she's taking classes at Pace. And has been since February. The magnitude of the coincidence can not be overstated. Naturally, such a fortuitous meeting required that drinks be ordered.

As we drank and caught up on the last two years (How long had it been? She asked about ReporterGirlfriend.) we were joined by her classmates and some old classmates of mine, namely BronxHippie and Bones. Soon the bar that I had ventured into alone was chock full of people I knew. GlacierGal and I chatted about old girlfriends (she prefers the company of women), Bones and I talked about school, BronxHippie and I discussed baseball. The evening was going well and I was buying drinks aplenty.

As is so often the case, it soon became clear that we had all been there far too long. GlacierGal headed for Brooklyn, where a lovely man on the 5 train flashed her. BronxHippie, Bones and I hopped into a cab and headed for Bones' apartment on 8th St. Bones is a surgeon turned teacher, so though he could easily afford such a place up until recently, I have no idea how he does it now. We were all fairly close to the point generally called plastered, so the natural thing to do was to try and see just how messed up our minds could get before the evening was through. Turns out, our minds can get pretty messed up.

We became aware of our surroundings again circa 1:30 AM and immediately wondered where the time had gone. With the evening suddenly up in smoke and our dim perception of the world around us gradually becoming less hazy, we decided it was time to call it a night. I walked north towards Union Square and called PianoGirl, who was really thankful to get a drunken stoned phone call at such an ungodly hour on a Wednesday morning.

As I approached Union Square, I decided that it was too hot to take the subway and I was going to take a cab instead. So I flagged down an air-conditioned taxi and headed for home. My body soon ceased functioning and I lost consciousness.

It was only after peeling myself from bed this morning that I thought about my credit card and realized I had no recollection of ever paying my tab. With a due sense of dread, I opened my wallet only to find that all my plastic was present and accounted for, along with a receipt from the Beekman Tavern. I apparently left a nice tip.

You know what's great? Nothing.

2007-07-03T14:44:00.000-04:00

Yep. A whole lot of nothing. I love summer. Even more, I like the stack of paychecks that will be deposited every two weeks over the next couple months while I am responsible for all that nothing. Yes, it's time for the two months out of the year that make the other ten months worth it.

I stayed up till 1:30 last night watching The Empire Strikes Back, drinking cabernet and eating cookies with the roomies just because I could. I rolled out of bed this morning at 10, went cycling around Manhattan, up to the George Washington Bridge and back and then ordered a pizza which I consumed while watching three episodes of Blackadder III. And now I'm blogging.

If it weren't for my damned class tonight, I'd have absolutely nothing to do today. Maybe I'll do some Sudoku. Or play some video games. Or watch terrible movies on TV. I want my obligations to be as few as humanly possible for the next two months. And if those days are anything like the last five, I'll be in luck.

Clarification Via Parable

2007-06-25T21:44:00.000-04:00

Imagine that you are an office manager in a financial firm. Your company has a few thousand employees, with roughly one hundred who report directly to you. Your superiors want to increase the productivity of your division and charge you with increasing profits for the coming fiscal year. As incentive, your own pay and performance will be determined by the productivity of those working under you. This seems fair, since your skills as a leader and motivator will directly influence the productivity of your team, so you agree to the terms. There is, of course, a catch: you can never fire an employee. No matter how infrequently they show up to work, no matter how little work they accomplish in any given day, no matter how undependable they may be, they’re still going to be on your team and their work will be used to evaluate your performance. You can’t even transfer them to another division unless they’re caught doing something criminal such as theft or threatening a colleague. Still undaunted, you begin working with your team.

It turns out most of your team is at least partly productive. A select few are real go-getters, routinely going above and beyond to complete tasks and move projects forward. The majority are somewhere in the middle, completing most of the work you assign to them but occasionally forgetting about individual tasks and often putting less than their best effort into their work despite your best efforts. But at least 15% of your employees are just completely undependable. You can’t count on them to show up, let alone accomplish any work. Furthermore, it becomes clear that they know precious little about how the firm works or even about finance and economics. You wonder how they got into the firm in the first place, but since you can’t fire them or transfer them you end up spending more and more of your time giving them pointers on the basics of simple things like compound interest and price to earnings ratios. You have less time to supervise the rest of the team, so the group’s performance as a whole suffers. As the year goes by and the approach of your evaluation looms, you worry that the least reliable workers in your division are going to be the focus of your superiors. After all, whenever you’ve gotten messages from the boss regarding your employees, it’s been about those underperforming ones and how he’d like to see them working as well as the rest of the team. They’re the ones he asks about in meetings. They’re the ones he usually meets with directly to alternately encourage or reprimand them.

Your evaluation is much as you anticipated. The successes of your productive team members are largely overlooked and your boss is adamant that your bottom 15% isn’t performing as well as it should. Even those employees who you’ve managed to improve significantly are less important than those who still languish at the bottom of the barrel. You try to explain that you’ve been working for months to try and get everyone at the same level, but with so many different abilities and levels of commitment among your employees, it’s impossible for everyone on your team to perform equally well. And with no recourse for removing the low performers, your profits suffered.

If this situation sounds normal to you, you must be a high school teacher in a public school. And some people may at this point out that comparing schools to businesses isn’t fair, since employees of companies are responsible adults and students in schools are children. The problem is, this comparison has become standard practice for state administrators and politicians, two groups with extensive classroom experience. As schools become more “results oriented,” they’ve taken on a more businesslike atmosphere. Productivity must always be rising, costs must be lowered, scores and student performance constantly improved. Anyone who reads the above story would agree: there’s little to be gained by trying to run a business like a school. I would argue that running a school like a business makes even less sense.

There are multiple reasons for this. Firstly, while profits can always be increased (ExxonMobil has basically proved that there is no upper limit on profits), test scores and class grades are capped at a stingy 100%. You just can’t get higher than that. And as the law of diminishing returns will tell you, it’s progressively harder to incrementally increase test averages. Going from a 62% to a 72% average is relatively simple compared with getting from an 88% to 98%, which, speaking as a former grade-grubber, is routinely hard to maintain even for just a single student. Actually, even that's simplifying it overmuch. I know students who couldn't get from a 62% to a 72% if their life depended on it.

That aside, there’s the uncanny ability of any profitable company to rid itself of unproductive employees. If your department's numbers aren’t up to par, you can always terminate your least productive employees. Entire divisions can be reshuffled if they’re not performing at the level that upper management has prescribed. Public schools are understandably discouraged from permanently removing students from the classroom, but one result of this policy is that there are large numbers of students who don’t want to be there, refuse to work while there or exhibit bad behavior as often as possible. Are we permitted to deal in any kind of permanent way with these students? Of course not. We can only suspend them, which really makes the whole getting-them-up-to-speed-with-the-rest-of-the-class thing kinda impossible.

Finally, to paraphrase a former Defense Secretary, you go to school with the students you have, not the students you want. While a supervisor or manager in the business world has the relative freedom to choose who gets hired and fired, teachers are just given a list of names. While potential employees are vetted and screened, public school students are mandated to represent all levels and abilities within their community. What's that? You're a sociopathic loner with a 75 IQ and a penchant for armed robbery? Why we've got plenty of room for you here in 10th grade! Wait, what's that? Your 24-year-old boyfriend knocked you up but you want to keep the baby because you'll "be 2getha 4evah?" Go for it! We'll be waiting for you to repeat the 9th grade when you get back. I'm sure your mother will provide adequate child care between her two jobs and your three younger siblings.

I'm not sure that people understand that we can't simply turn students away. These kids literally have no where else to go. That's why they hang around school for hours after classes are over. They'd rather not go back to their homes and deal with gangs, abusive parents and crime-ridden neighborhoods. Enlightened students aren’t widgets. We can’t just churn them out at an ever-increasing rate while lowering costs and increasing quality. Education takes time, effort, and a large amount of money to be effective. And the general public understands this at some level, or else no one would ever pay $130,000 to send their children to college. The frustration of every teacher boils down to being asked to do more with less: less time, less materials, less money, less individualized attention for each student in an over-stuffed classroom. So if you want to know why I’m pissed off when I get grief for my 89% passing rate*, there’s your answer.

*Why wasn’t it 95%? I have five students (out of 91) with more than 20 absences this semester alone. I’d have trouble passing a course if I only showed up three out of every five times. And I’m halfway intelligent.

Murderous Musings

2007-06-20T23:12:00.000-04:00

Rant:
I'm not saying I want to kill my boss. I'm just saying it might be enjoyable if he weren't alive any more. And I wouldn't particularly mind if I was the primary agent responsible for causing the situation which currently persists to turn into a situation that was more descriptively akin to the situation I just described above. In which he were to assume a rather permanently less animated role. Among the living. Forever.

The way things stand in my school right now, there are two possible states of affairs. I can either have my students ready for the Regents exam or I can have my class grades in on time. These are non-compatible. If someone would simply explain this to my boss I would be fine and dandy. However, since he's getting bitchy emails from above, we're all getting shat upon. I was pulled out of a proctoring session yesterday to get chewed out for not having my grades in on time. I was told I was "holding up the whole team" only to find later that I was one of three teachers (out of five!) in my grade who didn't have grades in yet. My Regents exam was yesterday. I've spent every day up to that point giving my students what they need to pass it. And all but 2 managed to do just that, thankyouverymuch.

I get the feeling he thinks we're all just sitting around not doing anything since class ended last week. I mean, it's not like there's anything we should be doing, right? Please. I haven't spent a day at school since Wednesday that was less than 10 hours long. But hey, it's not like I'm doing lots of work. It's not like I've been proctoring exams, supervising lab practicals, evaluating portfolio presentations, finalizing grades, grading exams, writing evaluations or generally attempting to organize my room. If I'd been doing all that, I'd have been tremendously busy for the last week and would be going completely batshit insane by now.

But I'm not.

So it's fine.

Ha!

/rant

Everything Old Is Young Again

2007-06-18T20:52:00.000-04:00

Mostly, my strange and terrifying face. I got a haircut early last week and then got bored on Thursday night and decided to shave. Never give a bored man a razor. I had no idea that trimming the fro and shaving the beard off (for the first time in ages) would take roughly ten years off my face. But nevertheless here we are. Granted, this picture even takes a couple days' stubble into account. I assure you, the baby-faced visage sported by yours truly on Friday was like I had gone back in time to high school and yet somehow remained a teacher. My students were unsure what to make of it.

When you make a big change in appearance, everyone notices. The roomies commented on my recent "expansion of face." My co-workers joked that I would be stopped for not wearing the school uniform. My girlfriend felt like she was somehow cheating on me. And after all of this, I have to say: I'm a little scared of my face. Since I've been able to grow facial hair, I've had something, whether it was the crap moustache from the Chapin days or the full beard I've been sporting recently. The only real exceptions have been when I was the youthful Sylvius in As You Like It four years ago and last Christmas when I shaved once and promptly decided that my face was scary and needed to be covered up again. I don't know why I didn't learn my lesson then, but I certainly have now. I need some serious facial hair and fast.

I also need the pain that is Regents Week to cease and desist as soon as humanly possible. I spent most of today running around like a madman while trying to prepare the lab component of the Earth Science Regents, which conspicuously lacked an answer sheet for the students to fill in. I had naïvely assumed that the answer sheet would be delivered with the test itself, but I was wrong. So after a two and a half hour delay during which time I was utilizing every resource I could think of and making as many other people stressed out as possible, I finally said, "Fuck 'em," and gave the test to the students with a blank piece of paper for them to fill in their answers.

Halfway through said test (of course) the answer sheets arrived by fax. The students who remained got to copy their answers down onto the official Regents Answer Sheet, while the rest of them will just have to wait. All this after I had ran around all morning setting up the bleeding lab in the first place. My room is a mess because the janitors are "cleaning," which seems to mean that all my shit has to be thrown all over the place so that they can get to the windows. I have grades due this week, but that's hardly going to get done at this rate, and on top of it all I'm still trying to buy a flipping apartment.

It's a good thing I'm so young now, because I'm going to need a lot of energy.

Teh Intarwebs

2007-06-12T11:02:00.000-04:00

It's the last day of school today and I have a test to take for my night-school class tonight. So of course I'm wasting time.

People search for some truly random stuff that somehow leads them to my blog. Observe:

"travis is dead" No, he's really not. I believe my post said as much. Though he did make rhino sounds.

"willem dafoe is seduced by" Well, not me at any rate. I swear. But possibly PlayerToBeNamedLater...

"how to play borachio" In the simplest terms, one must simply live life without limits.

"ditmars" It's a street. It's vaguely near my home. I may have mentioned it once or twice.

"as we near the end of the school year" Yeah. It's very close to being over. What could you possibly hope to find by searching for this?

"trifecta is in play" A Fark reference? I can't believe I'm the top hit for that...

"angry nine hand crank generator" Wankle rotary engine? Who are you and why are you searching for this?

"you just leave hanging on" English no speak. Get out my life why doncha babe?

"bachelor party hooters" Surely others have written more movingly on this subject.

"i act like an insane person when drunk" This must be Jack Large, otherwise known as Unspeakably Violent Jack, the bull-buggering, beast killer of no fixed abode! Sir, I have a crack team of drunkards that you must join at once!

Ouch.

2007-06-10T18:03:00.000-04:00

American Football is a sport designed around the wearing of a helmet and pads, such that the player minimizes the risk of injury to his head and torso while he is colliding at high speeds with other players on the field. However, we of the Batshit Insane Nutter Society have decided that pads and helmets aren't necessary acoutrements of this sport. This has, as of this afternoon, resulted in a tremendous array of bruises, open wounds, possible concussions, definite contortions and likely a subdural hematoma here and there for good measure.

Yes, today was the day the boys played football in Astoria Park. And what a grand day it was. I managed three touchdown catches, an occasional completion during my brief stints as quarterback, and one tackle of BourbonSamurai that only slightly dislocated my shoulder and was in the endzone anyway so it didn't exactly count. I actually brought him down by managing to somehow flip his body over mine (I know that sounds a little gay) and then rolling around on the ground and debating the effectiveness of tackling someone bigger than me by having him crush my spine. It was not an especially cunning plan.

Hubris won the title of Most Tackles Broken, Most Dirt Eaten, and Most Homosexual Moment, for when Bourbon managed to hit him in the back and roll over him, causing him to curl into a tight ball and immediately pop out of it and wonder out loud if he had actually managed to perform fellatio on himself.

Uber was our referee, since he had an audition later and didn't want to get dirty/broken. He was the smartest man on the field. After we were all sufficiently battered and bruised, we declared "next touchdown wins!" This is another way of saying that we were done playing since we were having trouble walking straight and couldn't remember the score anyway. Unfortunately, my team of me, Hubris, Dom, other Dom, and Mac were outdone in the end by Bourbon, Kodie, BrownSox, T and Ringer, who was brought along by Bourbon and proved to be the best all-around athlete of any of us.

Afterwards, a bedraggled band of people stumbled back to Bourbon's lair, where we watched baseball, played Halo and moaned occasionally. I only realized as I was leaving that it had been a mistake to cycle up there, since I now had to cycle my broken ass back home.

My final tally of injuries is not actually that bad, considering the total mayhem of the afternoon. My shins are pretty well ripped up and my right ankle's a little tender. My slightly dislocated right shoulder managed to pop itself back in, so that's no problem. My elbows escaped mostly unharmed, but I seem to have some tremendous scrapes on my back. Above all, I got dirty. My shirt looks like I've been rolling around in dirt all day, which is a pretty close approximation of what that game was like.

Ouch.

I had to share...

2007-06-05T14:06:00.000-04:00

Actual exchange between a student and myself, earlier today:

Student: Hey Mister, are the Appachalan...Appalichen...
Me: Appalachian?
S: Yeah. Are the Appalachian Mountains in New York?
M: ...
S: ...
M: You've never heard of the Appalachian Mountains?
S: No.
M: The Appalachians? You don't know if they're in New York?
S: Are they?
M: Yes. They are.
S: Oh. Thanks!

I don't even know where to begin, so I'm not going to start.

Memorial Day Madness

2007-05-30T19:43:00.000-04:00

My parents are very near retirement age. I think I just lost most of my inheritance by writing that sentence in such a public forum, but nevertheless I will soldier on. The facts remain: they subscribe to AARP magazine, they require the aid of reading glasses to decipher menu items, and my mother once described her hobbies as gardening and word puzzles. Regardless, let me hereby announce that they can throw one hell of a party. Actually, two!

The occasion for the first party was the graduation of my brother (known to the blogosphere as Art-History) from college. This meant that family friends and other old folks from Bethlehem would be mingling with frat buddies and buxom young coeds. I found myself in the middle, along with PianoGirl (who was along for the weekend) and any friends from home I could wrangle. There was a tent on the back lawn, oodles of food, and a metric shit-ton of booze. The upshot of this party was that my parents have less than one month left in the house, so we could really cut loose. We just had to leave it in one piece for the next party, but more on that later.

The invitations said 6-10 PM. Ha. By 6:30, it was Art-History, girlfriend of Art-History (henceforth Interpretive-Dance), Dadoo, me, and a handful of college folks who’d made the drive up from Philly all standing around the keg of Stella (oh hail to thee, keg of Stella!) trying to size up the number of beers we’d each have to imbibe should no one else show. Luckily, more people did.

The party was in full swing around 7:30, and the improbable mix of fifty- and twenty-somethings continued to defy logic and work like a charm. Perhaps the philosopher Homer Simpson was right when he spoke of alcohol as “the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems.” In this case, alcohol bridged the generation gap. Later in the evening, JimmyLuke showed up and saw that indeed, PianoGirl exists. Garf followed much later and just caught PianoGirl on her way to bed around 1 AM. Now at this point the party had become a true drunken festival. The keg was kicked, beer pong was being played in the backyard, shots were being taken from plastic cups, and the girl from next door was making out with a random guy. The obvious way to up the ante was for Garf to flash someone, as she did when trying to convince JimmyLuke to stay longer than 3 AM. The strange calculus of “two beers equals one boob” was somehow agreed upon. It makes one wonder what a case is worth…

I finally succumbed to sleep around 4:30 AM, but the party was still going. Let me stress that by this point there were no other members of my family awake. My Mom had been quite social and stayed up until around 2 AM talking politics with Garf and my Dad was last seen with Art-History’s frat brothers, doing vodka shots (he says two, they maintain it was four).

The morning revealed the full extent of the party. At least, that’s what I’m told. I didn’t arise until well into the morning. People apparently slept where they fell. Literally. Our neighbors described the sight of bodies on the grass the next day. We found garbage and glasses all over the place, indoors and out. A wine glass and a beer bottle were found neatly standing on top of the air conditioner between our house and our neighbors. As he put it, "Apparently a couple wanted some privacy." Someone booted in front of each of the next two houses down the block. NextDoorGirl couldn’t make it the 10 yards home to her parents' house and ended up crashed on a mattress in the basement. People continued to emerge from various rooms and floors at all points of the morning. The only disappointment was that PattyWhack didn’t end up passed out in the basement bathroom, but still. My God. It was beautiful.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t stick around to savor the after-party awkwardness since I had to take PianoGirl out to Jersey to her Dad’s place. Yes, we both met each other’s parents over the weekend. It’s like über-serious and stuff. Anyway, by the time I got back from that excursion, the remnants of the last party were gone and the preparations for the next one were all over the place. Caterers were rushing to and fro while Mom was cleaning and bustling around the kitchen. This was going to be a decidedly different evening.

Party number two was strictly an adult affair. (No. Not like that. Pervert.) This was my parents’ going away party, the last hurrah for the old homestead. The parents had purposely staggered the invitations. Neighbors arrive at 3 PM, Lehigh folks at 4, everyone else at 5. It was brilliant. It was genius. No one even got there till 3:45. The mix of people was amazing: people who had stayed in our house back when we were living in Sweden, people who worked in the school district, people who worked at the university, former graduate students, old rugby players, golfing buddies, parents of friends of mine, and an altogether wonderful assortment of people who didn’t know me but recognized me as my father’s son right away.

The clouds opened up just as things were getting good. Luckily, there was the tent. Most people fled inside, but a hardy few remained outside. My Dad dashed inside quickly only to return momentarily with two magnums of wine (one white, one red). What a host. A motley crew of fifteen or so huddled under the tent, drinking happily. One Lehigh PhD dubbed us the “S.S. Minnow” and promptly proclaimed me to be the Professor. I countered that there were at least half a dozen more qualified people deserving that title under our little tent and instead volunteered to be Ginger.

As some folks started to head off, I was coaxed to the piano by a man who wanted me to play Christmas carols. It’s not that he was drunk. He was. But this was for tradition’s sake. For clarification, see any posts of mine about Christmas. The carols only lasted for one song, with the hallowed songbooks being passed off to another Bethlehem family, that the tradition might continue in our absence. Still, there was a clamoring for requests and I was suddenly quite busy and madly playing away at the piano, which is always better when I’m drunk (my trills are much easier) but also worse (I don’t tend to notice when I’m pounding the keys so hard that my fingers are becoming red).

My mother was moved to tears by the gathering of friends who stood there singing around the piano. Granted she’s moved to tears by commercials for pediatric medicine, but this was still an emotional moment. Even the caterers joined in, singing as they packed away their tables and glasses. One by one the guests left, and I got the feeling of what this house would look like when completely emptied.

All told, it was quite a weekend. Our mission to deplete the liquor cabinet was a complete failure. That's right, my parents received more booze as going-away presents than we managed to get rid of in the course of two parties. This is not necessarily a bad thing. They’ll be well supplied when it comes time for their housewarming party this summer. Preferably during the 10 days that I’m down visiting, OK guys?

ZOOM! What was that? Oh, it was May.

2007-05-24T19:42:00.000-04:00

Frickin' May. Bein' all fast-movin' an' stuff.

I think it's been a month since my last non-delayed post. Why? Well, there was the college trip, then my Central Park trip, then my attempting to purchase an apartment, then a funeral, two birthday parties and a retirement dinner. Oh, and I have a little thing called school. And I wrote a 23-page research paper. And I crashed my bike. And there's the paper I'm editing. Oh forget it. Let's just say it's been a hell of a month. However, the end is approaching faster than a really fast thing wearing its super fast outfit with the intention of moving very fast...ly.

How bad has it been? Let's put it this way: I've seriously cut back on my drinking. But all this will be fixed in the next couple days since my parents are throwing two parties back-to-back in Bethlehem. Oh yeah. It's last call at the ole homestead. So for those of you who know the old abode in Bethlum, feel free to drop by on Saturday evening for the first installment: Steve's graduation party. Yup, the lil'est bro is out of college, which officially makes me an old man. He's moving to Baltimore to be nearer to his beloved girlfriend (for those of you unfamiliar with Steve, this is about as out of character as a Frenchman voicing his dissenting opinion in a quiet and dignified manner) and is working in advertising. It's a career placement, I'm sure, that will vex Brother Number Two, who's been talking for years about his desire to get into the ad biz, only to have Nibs the Younger beat him to the punch. It's OK, bro. Let Art-History have his fun. You can always let your Masaai guards go to town on him. Or maybe a rhino?

The really interesting part of this weekend is that I'm trying to convince PianoGirl to visit the homestead as well, seeing as the next opportunity she'd have to meet the 'rents would probably be once they're already down in Huntsville. Oh, and also Dad has insisted that we should try to make as big a dent in the liquor cabinet as possible so they don't have to pack it up and ship it to 'Bama. Even if we don't drink it all, I may need to leave some space in my luggage...

That reminds me: I should probably pack something seeing as I'm leaving tomorrow. Yet, I have the funny feeling that I just got back from Bethlehem...

How to plan a wedding effectively

2007-05-12T20:06:00.000-04:00

Kevin, my friend of more than twenty years, got it completely right. First, he chose a date for his wedding which guarantees that he will never forget his anniversary: the 20th of April. Second, he held the wedding on neutral ground, between his own family's town and that of his bride's family. There was a mere 90 minutes between ceremony and reception, meaning we didn't have to figure out what to do with ourselves before the drinking started. The hotel where everyone was staying also housed the ballroom for the reception, assuring that everyone would drink till they dropped. And most importantly, the reception featured an open bar from 7 PM to midnight.

In addition to the crowd from the bachelor party, there was a large assortment of people from my youth who I hadn't seen in a very long time. The reception would give ample opportunity for all of us to reconnect in the context of unlimited alcohol and free food. God bless America.

Kevin had me seated with a bunch of his cousins, who were all approximately my age and at least one of whom was a single, attractive teacher (bonus!) who lived in Chicago (d'oh!). Once the dinner and accompanying festivities were over, the dance floor opened up and the trips to the bar became more frequent. Everyone was happily dancing the night away and I was getting to catch up with some seriously old friends, who turned out to be just as cool as I remembered from when we were in grade school. Except of course that now we were getting blitzed.

The dancing ended when the open bar closed around midnight. But our evening was destined to continue. A hardy core group of true drunkards, ranging in age between 22 and 63, headed for the hotel bar, which was open until 1:30. There we took over the jukebox, scared off the other customers, ordered more drinks than God, and attempted to shoot pool. We were unsuccessful in convincing the manager to keep the bar open later than 1:30.

But not to worry! Brian, the intrepid twin brother of the groom, had prepared a bathtub full of beers beforehand! It was now our sworn duty to empty that tub. Todd was of course instrumental in this act, as he was in the impromptu wrestling that followed. At one point, he decided to test out the theory that he and three other men could tackle Johnny, former wide-receiver for Villanova. Oh how we failed. What possessed me to join in this fray? I blame the bathtub beers.

I can not say for certain what time it was that we finally called it a night, but the following morning was a painful affair. There was brunch for all, and those who arrived looking the groggiest were those who had spent the most time partying the night before. We piled into our respective cars. I took up a supine position in the rear of the 'rents-mobile. The hour-long drive back to Bethlehem was not enough of a nap. I went directly to bed upon our return and slept for three hours. Then we went drinking again.

The hardiest of the wedding crew were down at Starter's drinking and eating like nothing had happened. I knew better. Todd was AWOL since he had returned home only to start drinking again during the Yankee's game. Mike had talked with him earlier in the evening and declared him "in bad shape." According to Mike, Todd developed the uncanny ability to begin talking about another subject before his previous conversation had really wrapped itself up. Undaunted, we bravely drank without Todd, eventually adjourning to the Big D's household for double-elimination beer pong. Around 3 A.M., it was clearly enough partying for one weekend. We packed it in.

Let it be known! Kevin has set the bar high! Brian, Karrie and Johnny have much to do if they expect to beat such a party.

Why I Do It

2007-04-25T17:48:00.000-04:00

I promise I'll get to the drunken wedding stories soon. Parent-teacher conferences are happening now and they have been phenomenal. A parent just left my classroom and I felt I had to share this right away. His daughter is one of my above-average students. She’s not stellar, but she’s a consistent B student. Her father is in his late thirties, a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a large scar running from above his left eye down almost to his chin. He’s always been to the P-T conferences and always wants his daughter to excel. We always have a good conversation and a laugh or two.

As we wound down the meeting, he looked at me and said, with his daughter sitting next to him, “We are just so proud of her. She’s my angel; she’s my hero.”

He looked at her, smiled and then became serious, saying, “I had a kind of a rough time growing up and she, she’s just so smart and so beautiful... She’s going to be the first member of our family to go – well not the first member to go – but the first member to go to college and to finish. We just know she can do it. We’re so thankful.”

He turned back to me, looked me in the eye and said, “And I just want to thank you. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done, for the passion that you’ve shown and for the help you’ve given her. Thank you so much.”

He stood up and vigorously shook my hand, tears welling in his eyes.

I've never felt more humbled and proud to be doing what I do.

Notice of Impending Update

2007-04-22T11:39:00.000-04:00

Ow. My brain.

It has been said in the sporting world that one should "go big or go home." I went home this weekend, where I then went big. More stupid things were accomplished this weekend than I can coherently recall at this moment. But have no fear! As soon as I can piece together a logical sequence of events, I'll give you all the gory, incriminating details.

I scooped the Wall Street Journal

2007-04-18T18:55:00.000-04:00

The people at the Wall Street Journal have evidently been reading my blog. And though they don't say so emphatically, they've clearly opted for the "police state" solution. See my previous post if this isn't making sense to you. Their basic thesis seems to be that "any gun control crusade is doomed to fail anyway in a country like the U.S. with some 200 million weapons already in private hands." They'd obviously agree with modern philosopher Homer Simpson, who once famously stated, "If something's hard to do, then it's not worth doing."

The WSJ folks then go on to blame the 2000 presidential election results on the Democrats' over-zealous enacting of gun control measures after Columbine. Strangely enough, I'm pretty sure that the end result of that debacle had more to do with the sizeable stick which was at the time encased in the hindquarters of Al Gore, and the perplexing tendency of Jewish retirees in a certain Florida county to vote for Pat Buchanan.

The most audacious part of this article is that the authors try to insist that our country's lax gun laws have nothing to do with the frequency of school shootings here: "The 1996 murders in the Scottish town of Dunblane--17 killed--occurred despite far more restrictive gun laws than America's." I have to admit, they're right. Granted, they had to go back 11 years to find a terrible massacre outside of the U.S. But since the Dunblane killings, over a decade ago, there have been thirty-six school shootings in the United States. When I see a statistic like that, and the horrible toll listed on that time-line, I'm just speechless. If you look carefully, you'll see that during the same span, Bosnia-Herzegovina and Yemen registered two school shootings between them. Yes, we're that far ahead of Bosnia and Yemen in a violent crime statistic.

But hey, guns don't kill people. Bullets fired from guns do.

Serious Thoughts on Serious Stuff

2007-04-17T17:25:00.000-04:00

By now I hope everyone has heard about the incomprehensible tragedy at Virginia Tech. If you've been under a rock or something, check any news site in the world and I'm sure they'll fill you in.

Of course people are looking around for someone to blame besides the evidently disturbed and anti-social young man who wielded the weapons. People are already talking about what the police could've done better, and at least one person has already taken the Columbine route and blamed video games. Thanks for staying on topic, Dr. Phil.

People seem to be missing a point which strikes me as fairly obvious. We really can't prevent these things from ever happening ever again. At least, not if we want to continue to live in a free and open society. Sure, we could have security cameras in every dorm (when's the last time a security camera stopped a crime in progress?) or armed guards at every doorway. But the bottom line is there's precious little we can do against a determined gunman with what from all accounts sounds like a ridiculous amount of ammunition. We've seen this before. Turning in your nail-clippers or shampoo and getting felt up by a 65-year-old man doesn't make your plane ride any inherently safer. They only stop you when you have metal on your person. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out how to beat that system.

As a society, we're only interested in the illusion of safety. And that's all we can have, because we're so damn preoccupied with letting people have as many weapons as they damn well please. Well, that's not entirely true. No one argues for the right to bear cruise missles. So even the gun zealots recognize there's a limit to the Second Amendment's power. "Arms" apparently don't include cruise missles. Fair enough. But you can't argue with the fact that 32 people would be alive today if it were illegal to own a handgun in this country.* Check that; 32 is the tip of the iceberg. In 1996, the latest year where statistics are available, more than 34,000 people (that's ten 9/11s and we're not fighting any wars over this) were killed by firearms. 54% were suicides and 3% (more than 1,000) were accidental deaths. But remember, guns are used first and foremost for protection.

So yes, blame the violence inherent in our society. Blame those video games, Dr. Phil. Blame the cops, who couldn't predict the next move of a violent madman within an hour of discovering he existed --most madmen don't take a two-hour break and switch venues mid-rampage-- and had university officials alert the tens of thousands of people on campus in the most expedient manner they thought possible. But don't go insisting there's some way we could have stopped this from happening without some serious overhauls to our collective perception of what constitutes an acceptable level of Big Brother intrusion into our lives. If you're not going to say it's OK to take away guns (and let's face it, who doesn't need a gun?), then be prepared to admit that it would've taken a slew of armed guards, metal detectors, and an ever-vigilant militia prescence on campus to stop this.

If you don't want to see a headline like this ever again, the choice is clear: either we become a police state or no one outside law enforcement gets a gun. Otherwise, brace yourselves for this kind of thing to happen periodically.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my perfectly safe job as a New York City public school teacher. Perhaps I'll write a little letter to my brother in Sudan.

*How long do you think it will take before the NRA advises issuing sidearms to RAs?

The grand vacation tabulation of things that happened

2007-04-12T21:01:00.000-04:00

It's been a while since I posted. This is because vacation attacked me from all sides. Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Wisconsin and California invaded. But we held our ground. The number of stories in this vacation are too many, so I will summarize where appropriate with lists. Allow me to explain.

Last Saturday was the bachelor party of Kevin, a man I've known since we were both four years old. We were in play-group together. He knocked out one of my baby teeth while we were fighting. My brother got stung by bees in his backyard. We go way back. So of course, this was a hell of a party. Allow me to introduce you to the dramatis personae of the weekend, as they were described on a list of participants we each received, along with phone numbers, at the onset of this crazy outing.

Kevin: Groom, once funneled a 40oz beer, smelly
Brian: Twin bro, rides subway to work, lived in Kansas
Johnny: "Little" brother, bully, enforcer, unemployed
John: Father figure, Big-D
Victor: Uncle, Doctor, boxer
Jackie: Doctor, went to school w/Chris Farley
Todd: Gov't employee, alcoholic, big beer muscles
Ariel: MacGyver, wrestler, new dad
Mark: Penn State superfan, sports encyclopedia, Central grad
Luke: "Brainiac," shoulders don't function
Mike: Rainman, Beirut lover, can fill awkward silent moment
Rob: Penn State superfan, sports encyclopedia, lived w/Kevin
Me: Dino lover, mad scientist, will play Billy Joel for money

We were careful to note the members of our party who were qualified medical professionals. The day started early Saturday morning, when we piled into three cars to head up to the Scranton area to play paintball. By the afternoon, our team had amassed an impressive variety of statistics.

Wins: 2
Losses: 0
Ties: 1
Flags captured: 3
Paintballs used: 1500 (approx)
Total newbies on our team: 7
Times Ariel was an unarmed runner: 2
Number of opponents under the age of 10 pelted with paintballs: 1
Number of times that kid shot Kevin: 2
Total welts on Kevin's body: 17
Shots to Kevin's head: 5
Large red marks still on his head for his interview Monday morning: 2
Friendly fire casualties: 15 (we shot each other a lot)
Friendly fire casulaties that were Kevin: 14 (OK, it was mostly Kevin)
Successful use of 3-man scout teams and bum-rushing: 2
Free-for-alls declared: 1
Impromptu manhunts declared: 1
Rules broken: All

But this was merely the beginning. After this it was back to B-town for showers, changing, and then off to Atlantic City. We arrived in the hotel moments after the Georgetown-OSU game started. An advance party was sent out to get seats at a restaurant. Of course, that restaurant was Hooters.

Total time spent in Hooters: 4.5 hours
Drinking participants: 12 (Jackie had to drive later)
Pitchers of beer consumed: 29 (approx. 116 beers)
Deaths from alcohol poisoning: 0
Total alcohol tab: $300 (God bless Atlantic City)
Basketball games watched: 2
OSU victories: 1 (take that, Brian!)
Bachelorette parties spotted by Todd: 1
Bachelorette parties flagged down by Ariel: 1
Bachelorettes who signed their names on Todd's chest: 1
Bachelorette's friends hit on by Mike: 3
Incriminating photos of Kevin and the bachelorette: 7
Phone numbers obtained by Todd: 1
Cigars smoked: 10

The party didn't stop there. We hit the casino.

First-timers learning how to play craps: 2
Total winnings of those two: $90
My poker winnings: -$40 (after being down $160, then up $120)
Roulette bets made by Luke: 4
Roulette wins by Luke: 2
Total losses of Johnny and Todd: $640
Total winnings for them after that: $1640
Attempts to get Kevin to a strip club: 4
Strip clubs attended by Kevin: 0
Free drinks obtained: Many
Time of my own passing out: 3:45 AM
Time of Johnny and Todd's arrival back at the hotel: 8:30 AM
Checkout: 11:00 AM

The ride back to New York consisted of Todd and Luke (still drunk), Brian driving Todd's car (hung over) and me (loopy).

Diners passed over en route: 1
Amount of regret that followed: Infinite
Number of exits until supsequent diner was spotted: 5
Anger directed towards the Garden State Parkway and Jersey in general: Infinite, but tempered with a hangover.
Todd's realization that he was finally sobering up circa 11:30 AM: Priceless

And then was the grand arrival of Dubs and PlayerToBeNamedLater, the out-of-towners. This called for touristy outings and massive drinking fests.

Museum visits: 3
Off-Broadway shows: 1
Celebrities sighted: 1
Actors known from American Beauty and Adaptation and Capote and Syriana next to whom I peed at an adjacent urinal when encouraged to do so by PianoGirl and PlayerToBeNamedLater: 1
Estimated chances I could take said actor in a fight: 50% (he looked spry)
Northwestern alums alarmed by PlayerToBeNamedLater: 5
Roomies of mine seduced by her: 2
Random friends of hers I've met: 2
Roomies of mine actually seduced by her: 0
Drinks imbibed: Aplenty

After a brief sojourn home to the folks in Bethlehem, it was back to home and back to work. If all goes well, I may actually sign a contract to own an apartment by the end of the week! How sweet is that? Now I've just got to get past the co-op board (a feat I'm told that only takes two months or so) and I'll have my own place. With JimmyLuke, of course.

Now next week it's Kev's wedding, then the college trip, then...wait, I posted about all those plans already. Read the last post.

The End of School is Near!

2007-03-26T18:05:00.000-04:00

It's nearly time for Spring Break (T minus four days and counting), which means it's nearly time for summer...which means it's nearly time for the school year to be over. The next four days are covered: review, review, quiz, Mythbusters. Aaahhh....autopilot into Spring Break. Then the insane dash to the finish. Basically the next three months will run like this:

Spring Break:
Eleven days of alternating debauchery and accomplishment as I go from Kevin's bachelor party (woohoo Atlantic City!) to hanging with the various and sundry out-of-towners (woohoo drinking!) to the rest of the break where I've got nothing to do and may end up down in Philly or back in B-town for a few days, all while grading, lesson planning, writing papers for grad school, organizing stuff for the journal, making an offer on a home, doing my taxes and sorting out that damnable British passport.

Rest of April:
P-T conferences, Kevin's wedding, a field trip and an overnight college trip (you may recall the last college trip) will make the month fly by.

May:
Teaching schedule turns into "Regents Review 24/7," meaning my lesson plans are shipped to me from the Math teachers and I don't have to grade or plan anything, but there aren't any days off except Memorial Day and the one-day Central Park field trip I've planned, so the teaching staff may have to resort to silliness to keep ourselves sane.

June:
I will likely own a home by this time. Add to that the fact that the last instructional day is the 13th, the Earth Science Regents is on the 19th, and for some reason, the last day for teachers is the 27th, and it's just possible I'll be completely batshit insane by the end of the month. So I'll be in the right frame of mind when I help the parents get settled in 'Bama and try to make it to Africa later in the summer. (By the way, bro, we should plan this at some point...)

I can't actually fathom how quickly this school year has gone. Perhaps school has managed to increase the speed at which time passes. Jane, get me off this crazy thing.

Impromptu Musical Outing

2007-03-22T16:21:00.000-04:00

Yesterday evening, just as I'm feeling like I should be heading home from school, my phone rings. It's Schneidz. Seems he and Bernie and their friend Nancy were on their way into the city for a concert and would I be interested in joining them for concert and/or drinks afterwards? Well duh. So I hopped a subway downtown to the Mercury Lounge on Houston, the same place I saw Office last summer. Schneidz and company weren't there yet and were in fact lost, so I gave directions via cellphone and nipped across the street for a quick drink before the show. I sat and graded for a bit, had a couple beers, and finally the crew showed up, just as the show was starting at 7:30. Because of our tardiness, we were relegated to the back, but (as I said to a fellow back-of-the-floor person) we were there for the sounds rather than the sights anyway.

Not that the performer wasn't worth a look. Indeed, I'd never heard of Bic Runga before, but now I'm glad I have. It was just her and a guitar all night, but her voice was amazing. Her speech was very Kiwi, but her singing was purely delightful. She's part Maori, part Chinese, which is officially one of the strangest ethnic combinations I can think of, besides Swedish-Senegalese. Unbeknownst to me, but knownst to Schneidz, Bernie has apparently been a Bic (pronounced "Bec") Runga superfan for some time now. He was "in the zone" the whole time, a big smile plastered on his face. Schneidz and I were impressed enough to wander over to where her CDs were being sold.

It turns out it was Mrs. Runga who was selling the CDs while her daughter was performing. So Schneidz and I had a lovely chat with her about her impressions of her first time in America and my own semi-antipodean origins. She mentioned how hard it is for someone from a Muslim country (she's living in Malaysia) to get into the U.S. these days. "I'm not a terrorist, I don't want to bomb anything," she said, "I just want to visit!" Hmm. Now all I need to do is include the words "shoot" and "president" in this post and I'll be sure to be blacklisted by the CIA.

We picked up CDs, and actually brushed with Bic herself after the show, just as the bouncers were clearing everyone out before the beginning of the next act. Bernie entirely had no idea what to say to her and just stood there dumbfounded for a bit. Autographed CDs in hand, we headed across the street for a few more drinks and a little food. Beers were ordered all around except for Schneidz, who asked for the bar's "specialty." This sounded dangerous and was. A strange fruity pink drink appeared, which he downed with a concerned look. The next round he asked for something "with more balls." He soon found himself faced with a Long Island which in no way contained iced tea. It was just a Long Island liquor thing. I could smell it distinctly from across the table. With this much alcohol imbibed, soon it was clearly time to go home, but not before Schneidz had managed to get himself invited to some random woman's birthday party, which he was forced to politely decline. He bought her a shot and said his goodbyes.

Making sure my companions were oriented in the right direction to find their car, I grabbed a subway and headed for home. It was after 11 PM by the time I even got into my apartment. Needless to say, I had a very improvised lesson this morning.

I'd like to buy a vowel...no, a home!

2007-03-21T17:30:00.000-04:00

Mortgage payment is a terribly adult phrase. It ranks up there with "tax bracket," "child support," and "mastication fiend" in terms of its sheer amount of adult content. Yet I am now contemplating this term with a new-found seriousness. I've been looking for a place to buy for a while now, but it's only once you talk to a nice lady over the phone who runs a credit check, asks what your annual income is, and discusses your payment options, that the idea of owning a home really becomes tangible. Granted, this is New York City, so "home" really means "two-bedroom apartment." But still, it'd be mine. My own. My precious.

I figure there's only so much time that throwing money down the hole-that-is-rent makes sense. And I have passed that time. I'm inching closer towards beginning my fourth decade of life (I will never state my age in such terms again. Oi.) and perhaps I'm just feeling the need to be a little more grown up. Or maybe the sense of community that I feel in this city has made me want to invest in its real estate and stay a while. Or maybe the truckload of free furniture that's been promised by the 'rents has made me anxious to have space in which to put it. Whatever it is, I'm apparently on my way to getting a place.

I've been looking at a few places now and have decided that moving to Manhattan is a silly idea. It's too damn expensive (even in Inwood) and I can get a place with much more space for a fraction of the cost in Queens. Plus, I like Queens. I need to live close to the N train or I won't know what to do with myself.

So now the game is afoot. I'll know by tonight what my mortgage payments might look like and I'll be seeing apartments this week and next. By this time next month, I may have found a place. By June, I may have closed. That could mean I'll have to leave my old tried-and-true residence in three months time! Anyone looking for a sublet for the summer?

Officially Official Officialness

2007-03-14T17:15:00.000-04:00

Now the actual official announcement about my Dad has been made here. Also my African brother has posted a story about it, so it's evidently international news. I should note that the press release from UAH comes complete with two very academic photos of Pappy with the same suit and dress shirt each time. He clearly needs to diversify his wardrobe before his Presidential duties begin. Still, it should be noted that he did wear different ties. Perhaps he was going for the "power" look when he was orating but chose the "softer" look for the sit-down Q&A. Both looks featured the reading glasses, just in case the Cambridge accent wasn't enough to highlight his academic qualifications.

I'm currently in the middle of "Spirit Week" in school, where the students get to dress up each day instead of wearing their uniforms. Today was "Superhero/Villain" day, so I was of course a mad scientist. This is one of the fringe benefits of having your own lab coat. Two weeks remain between me and Spring Break. I'm planning on bumming around NYC and possibly getting back to Bethlehem and/or down to Philly during this time, but I'm looking forward to spending some time outside in the nice weather.

Speaking of which, it's seriously hot for some reason. We're talking almost into the 70s here. And to think, last week our faculty meeting was canceled due to the -10° wind chill. Global warming. Go figure.

Yay Dad!

2007-03-10T14:08:00.000-05:00

Those of us in the family have figured this announcement was coming for some time now, but it's nice to finally see it in print. Barring a meteor impact, plague of locusts or other act of God, it appears that my father will be the next president of the University of Alabama at Huntsville. This is a big change. I mean, this totally skews my football loyalties, since I've always been a Big Ten person and I'm not sure how I feel about having to root for the Crimson Tide. Mostly, I just can't figure out why there's an elephant there. Also, dude. It's Alabama. Dad has assured the fam that it's "not the Alabama you think it is." Right now I've got to take him at his word, but we'll see soon enough. I've already agreed to help the 'rents with the move this summer. In case you're the stalker type, they'll be living in the large house pictured below.

Score. Dibs on the turret bedroom, bros. So what does this mean for the fam, besides a real estate upgrade? Well, first off there's the obvious loss of the ole homestead in Bethelehem, which will make holiday gatherings substantially more complicated. No more hopping a Trans-Bridge bus to B-town for Thanksgiving I suppose. I never considered the fact that last Christmas might have been our last Christmas in that house. (sniff) Oh well. A damn water pipe burst in the old place while the 'rents were in Australia last month anyway. The old dump's falling apart! The new place supposedly has enough space to comfortably host a 200-person party on the ground floor. So to take my mind off the sad fact of having to leave Bethlehem behind, here's the deal: if you're one of my 200 closest friends*, we need to organize some sort of ungodly drunken psycho monkey crazy fancy mindblowing housewarming party this summer. The only downside, of course, is that y'all (I feel the urge to use this term more often) have to fly to Alabama. Call me. We'll talk.

The joke in Huntsville, according to reports, is that the area's known as the "Tennessee River Valley" so that you don't realize you're in Alabama. It occurs to me that Tennessee is not exactly that much higher on the cosmopolitan culture scale, but whatever. Ma and Pa (I feel the sudden urge to henceforth address them as such) have assured us that Huntsville is a wonderful town and have been gushing over the people they met and the surroundings they found down there when they went to visit back in January. Also, I should point out that Space Camp is located in Huntsville. Yeah. That's right. Friggin Space Camp. I don't know about you, but I grew up seeing ads for Space Camp (not Space Camp) all the time when I was watching 3-2-1 Contact as a little kid. Incidentally, 3-2-1 Contact is totally and utterly responsible for my love of science. Oh, and my Dad of course. Sorry, Dad. Anyway, the point is that I've wanted to go to Space Camp for at least two decades. Granted, it was pushed to the back of the mind for a long time in there, but now Space Camp is finally within my grasp! Dad can pull strings, call in favors, scratch backs, shake hands, fiddle with knobs and fix it so that I can train to be the astronaut that I always wanted to be and now never have a chance of being. Sweet.

The other net effect of this move to 'Bama (I'm overcome with the urge to henceforth refer to it as such) is that my parents now have an excess of stuff that simply won't "go" in a Victorian-style Southern mansion. So this puts more urgency into my current search for an apartment to buy. There's a truckload of free furniture waiting for me if I can find a place by June. I should really get on that.

*If you're not sure whether you're on the 200-person list, you're probably not. Those who know, know.

Back to Work

2007-03-05T18:21:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's time to teach the children once again. So I woke up this morning to my 6:30 AM alarm and spent a good fifteen minutes not moving from bed, deciding to skip work, convincing myself not to skip work, and finally hauling my ass off the bed. I was in school at 7:45, which gave me just enough time to get myself together before classes started at 8:20. I spent five hours teaching the same crap the substitute was supposed to go over on Friday but didn't or couldn't or both. However, this had the unanticipated side effect of my students thinking I am even more cool than previously suspected. One student actually said, "I hate teachers who can't teach!" I restrained the urge to counter with something about students who can't learn.

After school was over at 3:10, it was time for my Monday Regents Prep class, with 15 or so sharp kids who want to take the Earth Science Regents Test in June. This is the cream of the crop. The best of the best. The whole enchilada. Well, maybe not that last one. For a lark I asked them to put a dot on New York City on a blank map of New York.

Fun fact: three got it right, four others were close, the rest...not so much. Bonus fact: none of them noticed that New York City was clearly indicated on the map on the opposing page.

I have since decided I will give my students a 100-point extra credit quiz. Blank U.S. map, states and capitals. No, even better: a 192-point* quiz: countries of the world! The fun part: how many students can't find their country of origin?

I got home twenty minutes ago and have been endeavoring to recall why exactly I teach.

*Sucks to you, Vatican City and Taiwan.

Nawlins

2007-03-03T16:51:00.000-05:00

Well, I made it down to the Crescent City all the way from the Big Apple. One day off of school and a one-stop flight were all it took. I landed just before sunset, with the full moon visible. The drive from the airport revealed some evidently still empty houses along the way that had telltale signs of hurricane damage. There was also quite a bit of traffic for a city that's roughly half as big as it was two years ago. Arriving at the hotel, I quickly realized this was going to be a good time. The International House Hotel is an amazing place. It's two blocks from the French Quarter, and one night's stay is equivalent to my weekly salary. Fortunately, this trip is on Springer. I mean, everything's on Springer. I haven't paid for a damn thing since I got here. I could dig this corporate thing...

I got a little gift baggie at the front desk which included some books (yay books!), a T-shirt and some assorted goodies from Springer. When I found my room, I saw that it had cavernous 12-foot ceilings, a king-sized bed, elegant decor all around and jazz music streaming from the radio on the bedside table, which also had a selection of New Orleans jazz CDs laid out for my listening pleasure. I ripped all of them onto my laptop. They rule.

After enjoying my luxurious living area and settling in, I decided to hit the hotel bar for a quick drink before the dinner reception. After all, I didn't know a damn person at this thing (save Amelia) and I certainly wasn't going to meet a bunch of intelligent and well-known scientists without getting a little loosened up first. My logic is flawed, I know. As I stepped off the elevator, Amelia was actually seated in a chair in the lobby, talking with some other people. "Oh, let me introduce you," she said, gesturing to the man with whom she had been chatting, who was now standing behind me, "This is Niles Eldredge." Turning around, I suddenly recognized the face that smiles from the dust jackets of more than one book on my shelf back in New York. I very awkwardly stuck out a hand and introduced myself with a big, goofy grin on my face. It was kind of like meeting a rock star, but for science.

I was then introduced to a whole group of people who had all evidently had the same idea as me and were preparing for dinner with a couple drinks. I decided it was high time to join in. I also finally got to meet people with whom I'd been corresponding by email for quite a while, which was nice to finally put faces to names.

We all walked to the restaurant in the French Quarter and were greeted there by an open bar. The other teachers and I were the first to attack said bar, which says everything about teachers in general and was also a good sign that I was going to get on fine with these folks. I flitted about for a bit, chatting to anyone who cared to listen about teaching, science in general, and the usual getting-to-know-you kind of stuff: "Oh, you're from there. Oh, I know so-and-so who works around there." And so on. The buffet consisted of (what else) gumbo, jambalaya, po' boys, fried shrimp and other cajun specialities.

As the evening (and the drinking) continued, I at one point found myself seated at a table with Dr. Eldredge and for some reason I was talking about my Masters thesis. I am a tool. The conversation shifted to creationism and I started talking about my passing interest in creationist literature and websites. He suggested I write something for the journal on the sites in sort of a scientific response kind of thing. I think I just started mumbling incoherently at that point.

When the group finally left the restaurant, we headed back to the hotel bar for *more* drinking! I was quite well on my way to getting soused by this point, and was trying to remain as articulate as possible, mostly by talking veeeeeerrrryyyy sloooooowwwllllyyyy so as to give my brain a chance to keep up with my mouth, which is hard enough under un-inebriated circumstances. Another tab was opened up at the hotel bar, so the only price I paid for my drinks was a steadily decreasing mental acuity. I think my brain realized it was fighting a losing battle. Finally, close to midnight, I headed for the elevator.

--

I was awakened around 8 AM this morning by nothing at all. Eight total hours of sleep, aided greatly by the alcohol in my system, had left me rested, and only in slight pain. I decided to hit the hotel gym to work off the hangover, such as it was. One 5K run and a little weight workout later, I felt much better. The meeting began at the civilized time of 10 AM, which was much better than the damnable 8 AM sessions I'm used to during professional meetings like GSA that don't seem to take the previous night's activities into consideration. Everyone was quite chipper and very awake. I even remembered a few names (and some subjects of conversation) from the night before. After a quick breakfast, we got down to the business at hand.

I took a seat in the corner of the room, just about as far as possible from the central table where the Eldredge family was seated and across from the Springer folks encamped on the opposite end. Introductions went around the room from the Springer side, so I was one of the last to speak. As people gave their little blurbs about themselves, I was overcome with the horrible feeling that I was the least qualified/experienced person in the room. Many of these people have been working in their fields for longer than I've been alive. I've just completed my first full year of teaching.

The meeting itself was largely an exercise in moving forward in fits and starts. Do we change the name of the journal? ("Outreach and Education in Evolution" does seem a bit clunky...) What about the tagline? How's the cover picture for the first issue? Where should we be looking for advertising revenue? What's our audience? What's the goal of the journal? Some of these things I had thought about before, many were new. I had never seen the cover before, for example. There was a fantastic debate about how to address those who oppose the teaching of evolution. This was an issue which we realized couldn't be solved in the course of one meeting, but the discussion itself was very valuable. It made me consider my stance on quite a few points, especially considering I've just gotten through Dawkins' vitriolic "God Delusion." I still think we should be talking and reaching out to creationists (except for the the young-Earthers: they're just not worth it) but perhaps it's better to not be as confrontational.

One of the major developments was that the release was moved up from next year to this coming September. Oh, and I'm apparently now going to co-edit a section on the web presence of evolution and ID creationism. Dr. Eldredge suggested this on the basis of our conversation from the previous night, when I must have sounded more erudite than I recall...

Now the meeting's over, we've all agreed to continue discussion in some online forums for the next couple weeks, and the only thing left to do is have another dinner reception, which is convening in approximately two hour, presumably with the same free drink policy as last night. At least this time I don't have to worry about having to meet famous people; I've already met everyone.

One thing I've learned from this trip? The best way to get to know people quickly is to drink with them. Tonight, I'm sure, will be another exercise along those lines. It should be fun.

2007-02-26T17:14:00.000-05:00

I know, I know. I've been neglecting my updating duties lately. I have a good explanation! I was on vacation! Granted, it wasn't the kind of fantastic vacation that involved beaches, warm oceans, scantily-clad women or even any sunshine to speak of, but it was still fun. All last week was my "mid-winter break," otherwise known as the days off that New York City teachers get so that they don't murder their students. Such was the case with me. The days before the break seemed to drag incessantly. Thursday I gave the students a period-long quiz and Friday I showed them an episode of Mythbusters in class just to keep myself from dismembering them in my mind.

The break started in a fun way, with PianoGirl joining me and some of the regulars at No Idea after we ran from the school with all speed. I actually behaved myself quite well this time around, which was probably good for me. After a weekend of bumming around and doing as little as possible, I hopped a bus to Philadelphia, for a visit to Christine, who I'd seen briefly while I was at GSA in the fall, but hadn't really spent time with in perhaps six or seven years. We had a fantastic night on the town, during which I was introduced to her friend Sheila and the three of us drank Belgian beers in Monk's until the wee hours.

After a late start the next day, it was up to Bethlehem, where Christine had an interview and I had parents newly in from Australia. That evening, my parents and I hosted an impromptu dinner party with Christine, Luke and Schneidz all in attendance. I believe this was the first time in history that my parents had eaten, drank and been merry with me and a group of my friends. And did we ever. We had a couple beers before dinner, demolished the wine cabinet during dinner, and hit the hard stuff afterwards. Well, almost all of us. Christine wasn't drinking since she had to drive back to Philly (sorry if we were really really drunk, Christine) and my parents retreated for bed before we hit the after-dinner liquor. Schneidz at one point called Garf (twice), then fell off his chair, then ate some chips and salsa. He forgot all of this in the morning. Luke slowed down sufficiently to get his car home in one piece and awaken for the most drunken commute of his life. Schneidz collapsed on Steve's bed downstairs and only emerged around 11 AM the next day, in much better shape than one would expect.

That following night, Schneidz and I planned to meet Luke and his girlfriend Natalya at the Brew Works. Of course, he arrived about an hour and a half after I did. Actually, Schneidz missed the two of them completely. Luke wasn't drinking (wise man) and they called it an early night. Thankfully, Garf showed up before they left, so I wasn't drinking alone in a corner, avoiding everyone else from my high school. Come to think of it, it was fairly empty in that regard. Only one random run-in that night. Pretty low for Bethlehem. Scheneidz and Garf and I had a hell of a good time and I reveled in the fact that my tab after a full evening of drinking was a mere $27. I think that buys four drinks in Manhattan.

Inexplicably, the three of us found ourselves at Denny's at 2 AM, eating burgers. Afterwards, we retired to my parents' house, where Schneidz and I had some bourbon and Garf tried drunkenly to get one of us to drive her back to Easton. Sorry, said we, but there's bourbon here. After a few bummed cigarettes and a long sobering up period, Schneidz was overcome by the constant pestering and drove Garf to her home in Easton. I realized then that it was 5 AM and I should probably sleep. So I did.

There, in abbreviated form, is the entirety of my vacation, with a special focus on old friends reacquainted with and drinks imbibed. Now I'm mentally preparing myself for New Orleans, so I must read up as much as possible on the people with whom I'll be talking evolution so as to sound more like an informed, educated and erudite person and less like a bumbling idiot. Oh, and I've got to figure out what the hell I'm doing for the rest of the week in school, not to mention the day I won't be here. This will be hard.

Outreach and Education in Evolution

2007-02-15T12:46:00.000-05:00

That's the title of the journal, on which I am now (through circumstances I'm still struggling to understand) a member of the editorial board. The press release has been picked up by several smaller outlets and next Friday's issue of Science is doing a piece on it. In addition Niles Eldredge, director of the American Museum of Natural History and all-around bigwig in science circles, the following other people are on the board:

Daniel R. Brooks
University of Toronto

Joel Cracraft
American Museum of Natural History

Douglas Eernisse
California State at Fullerton and National Evolutionary Synthesis Center

Douglas Eldredge
Lincoln High School

Joseph Fail
Johnson C. Smith University and National Evolutionary Synthesis Center

Linda Froschauer
National Science Teachers Association, President-Elect

Douglas Futuyma
SUNY Stony Brook

Michael Gaspar
JFK High School

Adam Goldstein
John Hopkins University

Myles Gordon
American Museum of Natural History

T. Ryan Gregory
University of Guelph

Kristin Jenkins
National Evolutionary Synthesis Center,
Education and Outreach Program Manager

David Kohn
Drew University

Sir Harold Kroto
Nobel Laureate
Florida State University

Bruce S. Lieberman
University of Kansas

Ronald Numbers
University of Wisconsin

William Miller III
Humboldt State University

Eugenie Scott
National Center for Science Education
University of California, Berkeley

Ian Tattersall
American Museum of Natural History

Telmo Pievani
University of Milan II

Ilya Temkin
New York University

John Thompson
University of California, Santa Cruz

Jory P. Weintraub
National Evolutionary Synthesis Center,
Education and Outreach Program Manager

Matthew Williams
Manhattan Village Academy

David Wilson
SUNY Binghamton

Carl Zimmer
Journalist and Book Author

So in addition to the myriad number of university professors, musem curators and professional evolution advocates, a Nobel lauriate for good measure and plenty of other people far more qualified than I, there's little old me (way in the back thanks to the magic of alphabetical order) straining to understand just what I can offer to a board already so full of intelligent humans. My Dad told me, "Just remember you know a lot more about teaching 10th graders than just about anyone else on that list." This may be true unless the other high school teachers are more experienced, a likely fact considering the brevity of my tenure. In any case, when I do get a chance to mingle and talk with these folks in two weeks, I intend to be significantly less verbose than usual. Contrary to popular belief, I know when to shut up in the presence of higher intelligences. I just don't encounter them that often.

Seriously. I own books by a few of these folks. I'm hoping to get some data on my students put together just so I can contribute something to the meeting. In fact, we've just finished up a unit on geologic time and are about to take on the history of life on Earth. It's the perfect time to get their impressions of evolution as a whole before I give them the full indoctrination. Even more appropriately, I've just finished reading Dawkins' "The God Delusion," which --while ruthless in its attack on virtually all forms of belief-- was ultimately quite though-provoking. I feel primed to discuss the history of life on Earth with these students, as well as address any of the misconceptions they may have about the whole process. Now I just need to write some lesson plans...

But it was the only thing stopping them!

2007-02-07T18:21:00.000-05:00

I don't know about you folks, but I know that the one thing that gave me pause when I considered having premarital sex as a teenager was the knowledge that I might get a sexually transmitted disease. Yup, if there were no such thing as AIDS or genital warts, I'd have had all kinds of sex with the girls in my high school. My short frame, weak build, nerdly demeanor and frustratingly vigilant parents had nothing to do with it. But now those liberal doctors and medical researchers are taking away one more reason for teens not to have sex. It's all spelled out right here. Some Commie immunologist has developed a vaccine for human pappilomavirus (HPV), which causes genital warts and cervical cancer in women. And then some bleeding heart liberals decided to vaccinate every girl in Florida at the tender age of 11. I ask you, is that early enough in a state like Florida? That aside, this is a clear attempt to make sex more appealing to teenagers. Because let me tell you, sex is not appealing to teenagers.

Carol Griffin, of the Eagle Forum family group, said it best: ''What's the message here in Florida? It looks like they're trying to increase the sexual activity of our young girls.'' Without the constant threat of disease to hold them back, teenagers would be having sex all the time! If the good Lord hadn't blessed us with clamydia, every teenage boy would want nothing more than to have near-constant sexual contact with teenage girls. Thankfully, that is not the case. In this Christian nation, every God-fearing young man knows better than to resort to his baser impulses, but helping him steer the narrow path of righteousness is the knowledge that the fetching young lady in Algebra class might secretly be a festering den of genital warts. This horrible vision in his mind is the one thing that stops him from fornication. Now he'll know for sure she's innoculated! Promiscuity will run rampant! The last barrier to complete adolescent hedonism will been lifted! The end times will be upon us! Sinners repent!*

*Ten bucks says there are people out there who would agree with this. Can you believe that there are seriously people who want to block this proposal because they believe it will promote teenage promiscuity? If any of you folks are reading this now, shaking your heads vigorously in approval of my stance against the evils of vaccination, I have one thing to say: I hope your daughters die of cervical cancer.

Ward is not dead, and neither am I

2007-02-05T18:43:00.000-05:00

I realize this blog has taken on the kind of tone normally reserved for drunken frat boys, but keep in mind that the High Holy Days have their price. And what a price indeed. This has been the most ungodly drunken weekend in a slew of ungodly drunken weekends. Nevertheless, you be the judge.

Friday was the celebration of my 27th year of life on this planet, so there were guest speakers invited to No Idea to mingle with teachers (some) and stay after teachers had long since left. I started the evening around 4:30, when I was very coherent and tired from school. After drinking with teachers for many hours, I was joined by Ajrun and Uber, who heeded the call to join my drunkenness. By the time they arrived, only a handful of MVA folks were still on hand, and I had even considered calling it an evening, since it seemed like everything was winding down. But their arrival stirred a second wind in me, which was ultimately my doom.

We were joined by TheStuntman, an enormous man who's a regular at No Idea who thinks my name is Max for some reason but likes me because I'm a tiny person who knows a lot about Shakespeare. At some point, the man left to bring lightsabers to the bar, since he was currently being paid to train some Star Wars geeks in stage combat. He returned with the lightsabers and was soon asked to put them away by the bar management. Lightsabers are apparently dangerous weapons. Around 9:30, now that I was totally drunk, Rebekah showed up. After graciously putting up with my drunk ass of a person, she made an exit after a couple drinks. It was after 10 that Anthony showed up, though my memory gets hazy from here on out. At some later point, Ward was apparently there and I decided to wrestle him, so we were politely asked to leave.

I am told that my friends then took me home, and indeed I must take them at their word, since I indeed found myself at home when I was awakened at 3 AM, sitting at my desk, by Mark, who wanted me to drink bourbon in honor of my birthday. I mumbled something about "no...drink...later..." but he poured me a glass just the same. It wasn't long before I was back asleep.

The next day was equally insane, at least what was left of it by the time I finally emerged. Quantummas was upon us, and so Mark and I dressed entirely in black, he grabbed a stick of broccoli and I a rock and we headed into midtown, where the boys were meeting at a Korean BBQ place to celebrate the proverbial death and rebirth of Ward. By the time we arrived, T and Max were already drunk. We set to work playing catch up. I sat next to T, who immediately recommended Soju, the strange Korean liquor which was at the table in large quantities. "Oh! It's like candy!" he exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. We soon found his words to be true. We gave our gifts to Ward. I gave him the rock, that he may smite his enemies in the afterlife, and Mark gave him the broccoli, so he'd have something to eat around in the afterlife. Uber of course promised his eternal servitude and we all solemnly swore to bury him alive with Ward should the need arise.

The way this restaurant worked was, you order food (Anthony ordered everything, we just ate voraciously) and they bring out raw meat and cook it at these little grills in the middle of the table. So to make everything perfectly clear, we've now combined a table of 11 drunken men, fire, and raw meat. It was clear that only Good Things would come of this. Arjun at one point cried out inexplicably in pain. He had touched his leg to the metal container under the table which held the fire. We were less than sympathetic. The definition of when the meat was "done" was slowly shifted towards the raw end throughout the evening, to the point where Uber and Mark at one point were trying to eat half-cooked meat off the grill. Kodera, a late arrival, tried to forage for as much meat as he could, but it was a losing battle. Jordan, the innocent newcomer to Quantummas, tried to act like everything was cool, but secretly realized that we were all insane. Ward became steadily louder and more brave, then suddenly became quiet and contemplative, then drooling and nearly comatose. He left to go to the bathroom. At one point towards the end of the meal, Kyle went to make a phone call. Max, suddenly seeing me now that Kyle was no longer sitting between us, scooted down the bench and attacked me. Scouts were dispatched to fetch Ward from the bathroom, the check was paid, group pictures were reluctantly taken by a terrified waitress, and we proceeded to the street.

I suddenly realized then that I wasn't as drunk as many of our party. Perhaps it was the previous night that kept me cautious, or insanely tolerant, when it came to alcohol. Even so, I was thoroughly enjoying myself, and didst partake of the broccoli which we all suddenly decided to eat as we were standing in the freezing cold outside the restaurant that was glad to see us leave. Anthony, wielding the half eaten broccoli, led us uptown in the direction of the St. Andrew's pub, a fine purveyor of scotches and Scottish cuisine. The party thinned as T disappeared into the night and newbie Jordan ran for safety. As we walked (stumbled, etc) our way northward, Ward looked particularly frail. If we were a herd of zebras, the lions would've gone for Ward. I walked back to him and found him less than communicative.
"How are you doin', Ward?" I asked.
"I'm drunk. I'm tired. And I'm crazy," he replied matter-of-factly.
"Well, two out of three of those are good things." At this point we were just two steps beyond the entrance to a deli.
"Need money!" Here Ward wheeled around and entered the deli, with it's prominent ATM sign out front. I followed him in, fearing he would never make it to the back of the bodega. He hit individual buttons on the ATM with about a five second delay between each button and swayed back and forth, leaning on the ATM for balance while he did so. Eventually, money appeared. When I went to get money, he stood to one side, using a freezer case for support, and moaned under his breath. When we went to exit, he only hit two display cases on the way out.
"Maybe I should just get a cab," Ward proposed.
"An excellent idea!" I flagged one down in no time and helped him in. This man was done. It was as I stood there, contemplating my next move, that PianoGirl called. This would only result in Good Things.
So Ward made it home, the boys ended up having possibly the most insane night ever (I'll let others tell that story) and I ended out a long evening at home.

When I finally emerged the next afternoon, there was precious little time before the two Super Bowl parties that awaited. I only managed to make Chris' party, for it included gambling, buffets and (inexplicably) keg stands. It was also the coldest night in recorded history. When I finally left the party and stepped outside, I was convinced that death by hypothermia wasn't far off. And that was only during the walk to the subway.

So now I get to count down the days until my February break, which awaits me like a fantastical mirage, so close and yet forever out of my grasp. And for now, I need to recover, mentally and physically, from the most insane weekend on record.

The Ravages of Impending Age

2007-01-30T08:11:00.000-05:00

The Tri-birthday has come and gone, and that can only mean that my own birthday is fast approaching. That means it's time to take stock of the last year and see what the statistical analysis turns up. Professionally, I'm better off now than I was a year ago. I'm that much closer to getting a second Masters, and I've got 180 more teaching days under my belt. As an added bonus, there are no students in school until Thursday this week, so I've got precious little to do since I finished with my grades on Friday. The bottom line is, I'm teaching the subject I love at a school where I feel like I can deal with the amount of shit regularly thrown my way. Compared to the experiences of my teacher friends at other schools, the amount of shit being thrown is positively miniscule. I know of people in a veritable monkey's cage of flung feces. The only solution in such cases is protective outerwear.

The living situation at home over the past year went from normal to subletterless to back to normal, and vengeance will come soon enough to the rat bastard who provided that subletterless portion. So all is well there. In addition, my social life has seen a massive resurgence, concurrent with the High Holy Days (such as the aforementioned Tri-birthday) and the miraculous rediscovery of the existence of single, attractive, intelligent women. God bless America.

Add to all this the miraculous fortune of my continuing book project and my positively baffling appointment to the editorial board of a periodical and it becomes clear that life for me is going pretty well these days. So why the feeling of, at best, apathy regarding my coming birthday? I admit, I'm not especially happy to be inching steadily towards 30, which looms large on the horizon. Apologies to my over-30 friends, by the way. It's strange to be in a place where my social (read: drinking) friends are nearly all younger than me and my professional friends are nearly all older than me. BrynJoe, I feel your pain.

Last night, I met up with Carrie for a few drinks and the discussion turned at one point to the question of my feelings about the impending birthday. It was then that I recalled the grim mathematical calculation I had made in 4th grade: how old would I be when the year was the same as my address, 2002? Writing out the addition long-ways, I was faced with a sobering revelation: I would be old. In my juvenile mind, twenty-two put me squarely in the category of "adult." Now it's been half a decade since I passed the marker set in place by an eight year-old me, and I still don't feel like an adult. Yes, I do adult things all the time; I pay bills, I go to work, I do my taxes, I do dishes, I clean the bathroom. But I just don't feel grown up. Part of me is still eight years old, looking ahead to the future, when I'll be old, convinced that by then I'll definitely be an adult.

School's (sort of) out, and Travis is dead.

2007-01-23T22:02:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's that fan-tabulous time known as mid-semester break. Oddly enough, it's not actually a break for teachers. Only the students get to spend all day at home. I get to go to school like always, and listen to students come in one at a time for three days straight to give their Global History portfolio presentations. Yes, this is as much fun as it sounds. Thankfully, I've had an awesome weekend of non-preparation in which to prepare for this.

Last weekend started on Friday, where (I swear!) I had every intention of not drinking a lot with the faculty so that I could head back to Astoria for Sophia's party. Well, my best-laid plans were totally off. And for this I can blame my principal, who showed up to the bar just in time to buy all of us lots of drinks. It was Sue's birthday (this is truly the season of birthdays) so John had arranged for it to be her "name night" at the bar, meaning she drank for free. A bunch of her friends from Carnegie Hall showed up too, so we took over a substantial portion of the bar to celebrate. The drinks continued to circulate until I had had enough and managed to make my way to the subway. I got on the subway, passed out, missed my stop, ended up at Ditmars, and immediately crossed the platform to the train going the other way. There, I passed out again. This time I had the good fortune to wake up in time for Broadway, get some Guy food and stumble on home. I have only spotty recollection of any of this. But it is undoubtedly better than the time when I ended up getting out at 30th for some reason, walking the wrong way until I reached the Burger King at Astoria Blvd., realizing my mistake, getting back on a train the right way and finally getting home.

I awoke on Saturday and immediately began paper writing. The paper was due Sunday evening at the latest. I had a lunch date planned, but that turned into a dinner date. This was a good thing as it gave me more time to write. The dinner went swimmingly, as did drinks afterwards, but then I found myself alone around midnight. Now it was time to hit the Tri-Birthday. An entire room at Stout's had been rented out for this purpose, and we had to drink $900 of liquor to make it worthwhile. We made that goal and then some, as far as I can tell. To make matters more interesting, there was a karaoke guy in said room. Each of the boys had our turn on the mike, including the entire NU crowd at once on an especially moving and drunken version of "The Weight." Travis (shown here eating an eyeball) was along for the festivities that night and, in addition to commanding the karaoke machine like a pro, managed the envious feat of a quad-boot before even leaving the bar. I actually found out about this when I got a call from him long after I thought he had left.
"What's up, Travis? When'd you leave, man? You didn't even say goodbye or anything."
"I'm in the bathroom."
"What? I thought you went home."
"No. Please come and find me. I think I might die."
"Umm...Okay."
I came upon our hero in stall #3, making sounds roughly equivalent to a rhinoceros in heat. These moans were reverberating around the men's room just enough that it was hard to tell where they were coming from at first. As I approached the stalls and called his name, a man wearing a shirt with the bar's name on it turned to me and said, pointing in the direction of the moaning mystery stalls, "You know that guy?"
"I think so, I think it's a friend of mine. Is that you Travis?"
"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhh."
"Yes sir, that's him."
"Well, you should get him out of here."
"That's the plan. Come on, Travis. Let's go, buddy."
Travis emerged and looked as though someone had just punched him in the gut. I got him up the stairs (handrails are good) and out the front door, where he found himself a lamppost and clung to it to keep himself from falling off the Earth. I decided to get his coat and get him a cab. Coat located, I returned to find him much as I had left him. Then there was the little issue of the cab. I flagged one down, but the cabbie took one look and decided that Travis was too drunk to get into a cab. I begged to differ. He drove off. I then instructed Travis in the fine art of not looking quite-so-drunk-as-one-actually-is. He leaned a little less heavily on the lamppost.

After a bit of deliberation about when/if he was going to die and how many more times he would expunge little more than excess acid from his stomach, I decided it was not wise to leave Travis alone. A couple other party guests were outside smoking and I informed them of the situation. I then went to get my own jacket, say my goodbyes, and head for home. It was 3 AM anyway.

When I reemerged to the outside world, Travis was gone. I assumed he had gotten a cab, courtesy of the guests in whose capable hands I had left him. I wandered down the block to an ATM. Then I got a call from Anthony.
"Man, Travis is pretty bad. Where are you?"
"I'm just outside. I thought he left! "
"No, he's here. I'll take him out to you."
When I walked back to the bar, Travis was back on his lamppost. I instructed him to walk towards Broadway, where a cab could more easily be obtained. He did so, haltingly, stopping only to regain his balance or make rhino sounds at the gutter. A cab was finally procured, and I entered the cab making small talk with Travis so that the cabbie would not notice hat he was monstrously drunk. The cab was half a block away by the time Travis opened the door the first time. So it went, all the way to Queens. Red light. Door opens. Cabbie turns around. Travis makes rhino sounds. I talk like Travis is some sort of Olympic athlete: "Come on, man. You can get through this. Almost there. Mind over matter. Feel the burn." Door closes. Light turns green.

Back in Queens, I gave the cabbie a nice tip while Travis headed for the nearest shrub. We made it up the stairs with less help this time and went our separate ways. I to pass out on my bed, Travis to the bathroom. Truly this man is a marathoner of the highest regard. With little thought for his own personal safety, he partied it up with the best of us (and let's not forget that Mark was personally responsible for much of that $900 tab) and lived to tell about it. In the annals of our collective drunken history, this was truly a titanic off-the-bench effort.

Our hero finally emerged late Sunday afternoon, very much alive and apologetic for his drunken behavior on the previous night. "Don't worry," said Mark, "with this crowd, drunken behavior is never something you have to apologise for. It's more like a badge of honor."

Sickening!

2007-01-18T19:09:00.000-05:00

That's the only way to describe what life is like among 100 germ machines (read: students) every day. And despite my best attempts at avoiding contamination (see photo at left), the little bastards finally got to me. Thus, I am sick. It's either them or the sudden Arctic weather we've been having lately. After months of non-winter, we were certainly due, but this is just silly. Maybe February will kick our ass just to make up for December being such a wuss. Anyway, my sickness (and a distinct need to finish a paper for grad school) forced me to stay home today, where I've been typing for seemingly hours on end. So naturally, to take a break, I thought I'd post an update of sorts.

This week at school has been mercifully short, thanks mostly to the Reverend Martin Luther King and my resurgent social life, which is eating away steadily at my ability to complete my work on time. This resurgence is partly due to the re-introduction of females, previously thought to be extinct but now known to only be endangered, as well as the onset of the High Holy Days of Quantumnas, the Tri-Birthday and numerous other drunkenly pursuits. Other people have chronicled the most recent outing of the High Holy Days crew, so I probably don't need to elaborate on it here. I would like to add, though, that there are two more outings fast approaching this weekend, so don't anticipate hearing much from me until Monday. Plus, my grades are due next week. Never mind, you won't hear from me for a long time.

Frankly, the only rough patch of my life right now is dealing with my students. Well, to rephrase that, dealing with one student in particular. It's not that she's a bad student--far from it, in fact. It's just that her home life is, to put it diplomatically, not good and requires me to speak with the school social worker on occasions such as this week. Ignorance truly is bliss. Even with all the carnage in the world today, you can walk through life not having an inkling of the horrible things that humans are capable of inflicting on each other--as long as no one you know or care about is afflicted. And then, seemingly out of the blue, you hear about something that sucker punches you right in the soul.

I mean, I'm happy that she told me because otherwise she'd still be keeping this all inside and that'd be no good for anyone. At least now, if she can tell me, maybe she can get the help she needs to work her way out of this. And I'm sad too. It's just frustrating to know that, between the end of school and the beginning of the next day, things happen to my students that are completely out of my hands and I see the consequences all the time. But I'm also angry. I'm angry that shit like this can happen and that the goddamn perpetrators generally end up getting away with it. I definitely feel like beating the living shit out of someone. Your own family?! What's wrong with you?!

So all this crap is just festering inside my brain, forcing me to take a time out just to clear my head, get some work done and have time to just sit and think.

It makes me sick.

A Higher Purpose?

2007-01-15T21:51:00.000-05:00

God has neither smited (smoted? smoten? smitten? whatever) me nor given me a definitive quest to accomplish. He has, however, thrown multiple women in my general direction over the past three days. Praise be to God.

I followed up the random, yet unaccountably good, date of Wednesday evening with a second date on Saturday afternoon, walking around the Natural History Museum with *M* and generally having a good time. We had to part ways by dinner time, she to dine with her sister, I to head to the Village where Ryan's birthday was in full swing at Tio Pepe. There was a hell of a crowd to be had there, with Ryan's family and friends (with whom I was unfamilar) mingling with MVA folk (with whom I was eminently familiar!). After three hours of dinner and all-you-can-drink Mexican alcohol, the younger set decided to head to another bar on the East Side. We meandered down 4th St. and made it to Swift, which was pretty well packed. Over the course of about two hours, we managed to make it to a table and take it over. It was about this time that I found myself face-to-face with someone strangely familiar and yet distant. It turns out it was Carrie, of World Cup final fame, with whom Max and Mark and I had shared a table at the Beer Garden approximately six months ago.

She had somehow recognized me and come over to say hi. She was there with two other friends at the adjacent table. I went over to join them. We were soon sitting around the table with a bunch of my friends, and everyone was having a crazy drunken time. By the time everyone else left around 4 AM, I was alone with Carrie, which was not such a bad place to be. Thanks to Mark never calling her back all those months ago, she left me with her phone number and the line, "You will call me, won't you?" So let it me known that Mark is the greatest wingman alive, seeing as he managed to wingman me without even being there! Let's see Brownsox manage that.

In fact, at this very moment, Mark was proving himself the best wingman alive by busily buying Quantum the most expensive and female-ful birthday present of all time, a fact that I would only learn after I arrived home. I finally did stumble through my door at 5:30 AM or so. As I came out of the bathroom, I was surprised to find a shadowy form was seated at the kitchen table. It was Mark, barely clothed, who wanted to tell me the story of his evening, such as it was. He did so, and I listened, and I was amused. I was also vaguely disturbed by this semi-naked man who wanted to tell me drunken stories of he and Quantum at Scandals. So many conflicting emotions.

Sunday was a day of rest and football. Monday, a day which I had off, was also a day for which I had organized two quasi-dates, at different times of the day, with two different women. In the afternoon I saw "Pan's Labyrinth," which I totally recommend, and had some after drinks in the Village with *L* and I then proceeded to have dinner and more drinks in Midtown with *C*. So in grand total that's four different women I've seen socially over the last three days. This comes after a span of two years during which I've had exactly zero serious relationships. It never rains but it pours. I have no idea where this is all going, but rest assured you'll get no details about any of it.

I lead a charmed life.

2007-01-11T20:09:00.000-05:00

This is just about all I can conclude, especially considering the events of this week. But more on that later. To start from the beginning, there's very little chance that I should have even been born. I've documented how Lenin was partially responsible for the events that led up to my birth and how Hitler and the Soviet secret police had a hand in my eventual conception as well. In addition, I happened to be born in Bethlehem (no, not that one. No stable/manger.), in the richest country in the world and into a family who was willing to give me every opportunity to succeed.

To that end, I only applied to top-notch colleges. My "safety schools" were Northwestern and Cornell. And yet I still managed to go to college. After I bumbled my way through college and graduated with subtantially less than a 3.0 GPA, I was nevertheless picked up for a Graduate Assistantship (full tuition plus a monthly stipend) at one of the more prestigious geology departments in the nation, where I managed to get a past-president of the Paleontological Society and a world-renowned climate scientist on to my thesis committee.

Despite a sub-par thesis (who cares about the Silurian-Devonian boundary?) I managed to get a job thrown at me right out of grad school. When that fell through six months later, I was free to pursue my dream of teaching. Within three months I'd had a successful interview, two stellar teaching test scores, two room-mates out of the blue and a New York apartment search that was successful within 24 hours. Is this supposed to happen?

But there's more! Despite being a Teaching Fellow (read: cannon fodder), I was somehow interviewed and accepted at a clean, selective, small-class-sized public school that's half a block from the same subway line as my quickly-acquired apartment. So, instead of commuting for two hours to an overcrowed, ill-funded school in the Bronx (what I'd anticipated) I've got a twenty minute commute to an agreeable, welcoming school in Chelsea. I'm officially in the best school to which a Teaching Fellow has ever been appointed.

Then, all of a sudden I'm writing a book. It's going well, thanks for asking. And that brings us to this week. See, my editor emailed me on Tuesday to explain an "opportunity" she had for me. It turns out that her publishing company is throwing a lot of money behind a new periodical, backed by the AMNH, on educational advocacy for evolution. The editor-in-chief is the current curator of the American Museum of Natural History, the man who in 1972 published the theory of punctuated equilibrium with none other than Stephen Jay Gould. (If you don't know who this is by now, you won't be impressed when you find out.) To make a long story short, I'm now on the editorial board. And we're having a strategy meeting in March. In New Orleans. They're flying me down. And picking up the hotel.

And then for some reason I have an incredibly fun time on a date last night with someone who I'd never even met. No, you get no details on this.

In a brief aside, though the Buckeyes got their asses handed to them on a platter on Monday, even that night could not be ruined because the crew (Max, Mark, Quantum, Uber, Arjun, Kodera, Dom and I) managed to consume two herds of cattle at Plattaforma while finding a good home for 3 liters of wine. And I wasn't even hung over for school the next day!

So seriously, I'm either going to get hit by a bus tomorrow or God Himself will descend from the skies and explain that I've got some sort of sacred quest to accomplish. If I am to take the Ring to Mordor, I will gladly accept applications for the positions of badass elf, hardy dwarf and scruffy-yet-battle-ready ranger. Wizards and hobbits need not apply. The former tend to fall out of the story for fifteen chapters at a time and the latter are really no good in a fight.

New Year's

2007-01-07T21:33:00.000-05:00

On that most auspicious of nights, I had multiple plans of action. There were at least three parties I could've attended, I managed to get to none of them. Mark and Anthony departed the apartment around 6 PM, saying they were planning on meeting people for dinner around 7:30 at Blue Smoke and that I should join them. Since none of my prospective parties were starting until after 9, this was a definite option. "Dude! Just come to Blue Smoke," said Mark as he and Anthony left to furnish themselves with supplies for the evening. I decided later that I would indeed join them and got onto an N train around 7 PM to make my way into town. Half an hour later, I was in Union Square, calling the boys to see what was up. It turned out, they were in Grassroots instead, so I headed down to St. Mark's Place to join them. We watched football while I helped them demolish three pitchers of beer. By this point, it was time to head slightly uptown for the night's festivities, so we downed the last of the beer and left.

It was nearly 9 PM. I figured I'd hang around for a bit, then maybe hit one or more of my possible parties later in the evening. How wrong I was. First off, as we walked out of Grassroots, I heard a voice calling, "Hey Mister!." I froze, because I recognized the voice as belonging to a former student. I quickly performed a mental sobering-up and politely said hello. She skipped along beside me for about half a block and then thankfully turned and headed downtown. Mark and Anthony were quick to rejoin me.
"Did you make a new friend?" asked Mark.
"No, that was one of my students."
"Oh. Think she could tell you'd been drinking?"
"Eh. Maybe."
We arrived at Detour, a cozy jazz spot on 13th, and went inside. The $20 cover wasn't bad, especially considering it came with a drink ticket and it was New Year's Eve. I decided I should at least stick around to get my money's worth since I paid 20 bucks to get in.

Soon, our party of three was joined by many more: Arjun, Ward, Kodez, Devon and Margaret among them. Soon it was clear that we were taking over a dramatically large portion of the rather small bar. We were soon lords of our territory. We drank, we conversed, we had a hell of a good time. Before I knew it, it was time for the countdown. Striking midnight and singing "Auld Lang Syne" drunkenly, arm in arm with some of the best guys I know, was altogether fitting.

As the evening progressed (for no, it did not end there!) Mark and I decided to take over the dancefloor (such as it was) since Anthony and nearly everyone else had left, leaving the two of us to entertain two females who had inexplicably been left with us. I believe Mark danced with every woman in the bar. I managed three. Still, not bad considering by now we were beyond the realm of counting how many drinks had been imbibed. Eventually, Mark and I left (still, somehow, with females in tow) to meet Anthony at another bar in the financial district. We all managed to squeeze into a cab as well as share it with some random woman who we tried to convince to join us. We were unsuccessful. When we arrived at this downtown bar, we found Anthony, a-woman-who's-name-I-forget, and Arjun sitting at a booth in the back of a rather crowded bar. We got drinks and joined them. It was largely craziness by this point in the evening (read: morning), but we managed to get even more drunk.

When our merry band finally left the bar around 5 AM, we split into eighth grade dance groups. Boys in one cab, girls in another. The four of us headed back to Astoria, minus any females. Anthony, Mark and I got out on Broadway, seeking some Guy food, and Arjun continued on to points north. As I was put in charge of ordering food, Anthony was put in charge of yelling and hitting street signs with his hands. The other drunk people in line for Guy food were not impressed. Mark just kind of stood around and let Anthony hit things and yell.

We took our newly-acquired food back home, where we all sat down to eat delicious pitas, drink more alcohol, and watch Monty Python. Clearly, this was a time for the greatest name in Baroque composing, Johann Gambolputty de von Ausfern-schplenden-schlitt-crasscrenbon-fried-digger-dingle-dangle-dongle-dungle-burstein-von-knacker-thrasher-apple-banger-horowitz-ticolensic-grander-knotty-spelltinkle-grandlich-grumblemeyer-spelterwasser-kurstlich-himble-eisenbahnwagen-gutenabend-bitte-einen-nürnburger-bratwürstel-gespurten-mit-zweimache-luber-hundsfut-gumeraber-schönendanker-kalbsfleisch-mittleraucher von Hautkopft of Ulm. After that much excitement, it was time for bed. Considering it had been a New Year's where no one puked in a public place, no one ended up in Brooklyn, and no one woke up in a strange place, it was a pretty good time.

Breaks are so short

2007-01-02T18:49:00.000-05:00

I went home like yesterday and got back to the city approximately 2 seconds ago. In my world of rapidly shortening time, this is what I experience. Actually, I went home on December 22nd, with a fully-loaded car. Not of belongings, but of people. Brother Steve came into the city to pick me up and we carried Meggan and Brian, two of my oldest friends and fellow Bethlehem natives, back to the Christmas city. That night was the regular Christmas get-together at the parents' house, with four other families and their assorted offspring crowding into our living room to sing carols drunkenly while I play the piano slightly less drunkenly. I believe the following photo will illustrate this well.

Please note three things. One: my brother continues to look like a douche. Two: Cullen, seated next to me at the piano, though adorable, is happily married. To a Navy Seal. Seriously. Three: Pat, the scruffy-looking young man in the light blue shirt behind the douche, ended up passed out on the floor of our basement bathroom approximately ninety minutes after this picture was taken. He didn't collapse by the toilet, but had managed to wander over and find the floor in front of the washer and dryer. We only found him when we connected two seemingly disparate facts: Pat was missing and Steve couldn't get into the downstairs bathroom because it was locked. Way to party, Pat.

It should also be noted that Steve left this party and immediately sought other alcohol at a local bar. He caught a cab. However, approximately an hour later, he called me as I was sipping bourbon, absently watching latenight TV and chatting with my Mom. The following conversation ensued:
Me: Steve, what's up, man?
Douche: I need a cab!
M: Umm, I can't come and pick you up, you know.
D: What? Why?
M: I'm drunk. But clearly not as drunk as you.
D: I NEED A CAB!
M: Then call a cab company! What are you expecting here!?
D: I NEED A CAB!
M: Steve, this is your brother. Call a cab company. Not me.
D: Oh...*click*
This would've been funny on its own, except ten minutes later...
M: Steve, what's up man?
D: WHERE'S MY CAB?
M: Steve, it's me again. Call the cab company.
Again. Funny, except for the clincher. You see, Steve was out this night with one known simply as Kavan. His powers of persuasion are known the world over. He convinced Steve, through the use of his clever, "Just think about it!" ratioale, to walk home from the bar. It was two in the morning, they were a good four miles away, but in Steve's clouded mind, home was just around the corner. They hoofed it. Halfway home, it started raining. As Steve tells it, he then looked at Kavan, and in a fit of sobriety, said simply, "You're an idiot." Forty-five minutes later, a drunken, drenched Steve wandered in the door.

I managed to have three beers before church on Christmas Eve. Surely the guy who always brought the wine to Galilean wedding feasts would approve. After a nice Moravian service, it was off to Jean and George's for the traditional Christmas Eve bash. The evening was once again capped off by Steve, who drunkenly managed to explain in graphic detail the frequency, manner, and quality of his sexual exploits with one of the other party guests back when the two of them were in high school. Fortunately, he didn't actually say any of this in front of her and saved his little rant for the car ride home, when the 'rents and I were only too ready to laugh our asses off.

Christmas day was a day of refusing to change out of pyjamas. After paying tribute to our absent African brother with the "missing man formation" stocking arrangement, we set about opening presents and downing champagne. We even managed to get the absent bro on a video chat midway through the day. Dinner was Cornish hens, fantastic wine, and oodles of stuffing. Then there was time for more drinking.

Come to think of it, there was narry a time over break that I wasn't drinking, thinking about drinking, or sleeping off an evening of drinking. Man, my parents know how to show a guest a good time. And all this while contemplating a new job for my Dad, which possibly involves large red elephants, gun-toting hicks, and the presidency. But more on that later.

In my next post, I'll tell you about the New Years from strangeland, starring yours truly, Hubris and Bourbon. It starts like this: "Dude, just come to Blue Smoke!" and ends like this: "Johann Gambolputty..."

Over And Done With

2006-12-21T17:50:00.000-05:00

Well, almost anyway. I have precisely three hours of classes tomorrow with which to deal, but that's a far cry from the endless amount of time this week seemed to take. After weeks of "long days, short weeks," I was shocked, shocked I say, to have this week drag on interminably. There have been a few bright spots along the way.

On Wednesday night, the school band had their annual Winter Concert. I'm not sure I can really put this experience into words. Martin's been training these kids for years and the juniors (there are no seniors in the band) have definitely reached the stage where I can safely call them musicians. The younger kids have some work ahead of them, but that's not the point. From a technical musical standpoint, the concert was a disaster. A New York Times critic would've had a field day with the missed cues, sour notes and botched phrasing. However, that's not the point either. Not a critic in the world could've faulted these children for the feeling and emotion they put into their music. Martin has accomplished the unthinkable. He's replaced Jay-Z with jazz. The kids love music. They literally didn't want to stop playing.

After the announced program was completed, the crowd of teachers, parents, siblings and relatives clapped vigorously enough to warrant an encore, which the band was clearly prepared to give. But after that, the students kept coaxing Mr. Kelly back to the front to conduct them in one more song. They went through four encores in all. As I sat and watched them joyously blare out their rendition of "Mood Indigo," I was suddenly struck by the tragedy of the situation. This was arguably one of the best moments of their young lives. Their backgrounds don't really allow for many bright spots in the tapestry of their past. But now they were stars, and were having a grand time performing for a loving audience. This little high school show was a pinnacle for these kids who deserve so much more. I was happy for them and sorry for them all at once. The hardship of the road they took to get to this point contrasted sharply with the pure joy that they displayed onstage. I can only hope that they find bigger and better recognition in their lives ahead.

Last night, to much fanfare, was the annual MVA Staff Holiday Party. This means we got drunk. To start the evening off right, John, Chris and Cyndi and I went out early and hit a bar near the restaurant where we were supposed to meet everyone else. After said drink, we figured that we could mosey over to the restaurant a cool 15 minutes late and the party would already be in full swing. We were mistaken. When we got there, our principal was sitting with Felix at the end of a long table of empty seats. We had no choice but to sit down right next to them. Damn. John, Cyndi and I made a beeline for Felix's side of the table, while Chris bravely sat down next to Hector.

Things loosened up as Hector brought out a bottle of Ouzo he'd been saving for the occasion. At 92 proof, we were going just fine in no time. Then the wine arrived, then the sangria, and by then it was a hopping party with a crowd of more than twenty of us. Hector was buying drinks all around and we were clearly becoming a very loud and obnoxious group in the restaurant. Eventually, Kyle got to show off his salsa dancing skills, I was somehow corralled into dancing with a Flamenco dancer who was performing in the restaurant, and we all managed to embarrass ourselves in one way or another.

As things winded down, a dependable core group of die-hards remained to continue drinking, this time in the adjoining bar area of the restaurant. After much drinking of random shots, it was time to go home. After all, we all had classes to teach the following day. I shared a cab with Chris and Sarah and made it back to my place, where I promptly passed out. The upshot of all this is, since the party started at 5, it was only 9:30 when I passed out. Four hours of steady drinking will take it out of you. I slept like a baby.

Now I have but to pack my bags and ready myself for my departure tomorrow. Steve's coming into town to pick me up after school and I'll probably be gone at least until the 28th. But rest assured, there will be plenty of family drinking stories to share between now and then.

...you have much to learn.

2006-12-14T20:27:00.000-05:00

Today, I gave my students a quiz on volcanoes and earthquakes, which we'd been studying since Thanksgiving. It was decidedly similar to the review sheet I gave them on volcanoes and earthquakes earlier this week. That fact did not actually help them on the quiz, since they steadfastly refuse to study. Ever. As a joke, I put the following at the end of the quiz:

Poll:
Which would you prefer to experience firsthand: a volcanic eruption or an earthquake?

This little attempt at humor didn't go over as I had planned. First off, the term "firsthand" had to be explained to more than one student. "Personally," and "for yourself" were two explanations that they seemed to tenuously grasp. Then there was the grade-grubbing. "Will this question be graded?" I was asked. For a moment, I was silently incredulous. "Are you serious?" I wanted to reply, "Do you actually think that there is a correct answer to this question? I mean, clearly it's demonstrably better to survive a volcanic eruption than to live through an earthquake, right? What the hell!?" Instead, I was calm. "No," I said, "It will not be graded. It's just an informal poll."

Then came the kicker. Last period, I had to field a question about the very nature of the word "poll." "What do you mean, 'poll?'" asked an otherwise capable student. I just kind of gave him a questioning glance, not sure I was actually hearing what I thought I was hearing. "Do you mean like, a pole?" he asked, and accentuated his speech with hand gestures tracing out some sort of imaginary, 3-inch gauge, vertically-oriented cylindrical object in front of him. Yup, I was actually hearing what I thought I was hearing. This time, my urge was to burst out laughing. I suppressed it, since other students had by now turned around to see who the hell was asking what "poll" meant. "No," I said, "It's a poll. A survey. You know, when you vote, you go to the polls." Realizing that I was the only one in the room who could vote (except Manny, he's a vote-eligible 10th grader), I tried a different tact. "It's an opinion question. You can't get it wrong." This was greeted by a smile and a knowing nod. Finally.

Six instructional days to go.

Time Marches On

2006-12-12T21:22:00.000-05:00

...and waits for no man, and dicks away the moments that make up the dull day. The days continue to be long and the weeks short. I've managed to get an extension from one of my grad classes, which is good because I owe about half a semester's worth of work so I sort of need an extension. You know, to pass and stuff. As for my other class, I've done most of the work, I just need to get two lesson plans, a child study and a report finished by Thursday if I want to pass. Oh, and I'm giving some sort of quiz to my students that same day, so I may want to write that some time between now and then. Woo hoo. In lighter news, Christmas break is all the more closer, which means that rest and a significant reduction of work are right around the corner. Eight more instructional days. That's all.

In the really good news department, Travis arrived in New York today and wrote me a fat check to cover for the douchebag who was supposed to sublet our apartment but decided that Mark and I were rude slobs and bolted. Anyone who knows me and Mark knows that we are indeed rude slobs. But that's no reason to dick me out of good money, as has been noted in previous posts. And yes, those of you in cyberspace who still worry about such things, I will get around to getting my revenge on Steve, who's reachable at esh_bomb32(at)yahoo.com (Simply remove the underscore and add in a @ for the "(at).". I code his marvelous email communication thusly so that a Google search of his address wouldn't link anyone here. Feel free to email him and tell him he's a douche.) You see, it's not that I harbor a grudge. It's that I believe revenge should be, as Khan might say, served cold. And no, I won't tell you what I intend. That'd be evidence against me.

For now, I'm too busy with school to worry about such things. Eight instructional days remain between me and freedom. How wonderful.

Christmas Throws Up Next Door

2006-11-30T20:37:00.000-05:00

Yeah, Thanksgiving has come and gone, and that means it's time for the Spirit of Christmas to get loaded, stumble around Queens, and throw up on my next door neighbor's house. Seriously. If you want to find where I live, walk north from the Queensboro Bridge until you are overcome by a plethora of lights and decorations depicting everyone from Santa to a squad of toy soldiers to the entire nativity scene (complete with a strange, legless sheep!) as well as a slew of white lights and a sign proclaiming "No Parking: Toy Unloading Zone" or something to that effect. The thing is like a beacon. It's most likely visible from space. When I turned the corner tonight after walking home from the subway, I could clearly make out Santa perched by the second floor window sill, illuminated from within and catching reflected light from below, where the entire entranceway has been blasted with a few hundred lumens of piercingly white bulbs. At least they don't blink.

I've been saying recently that my days are long and my weeks are short. This week has proven that axiom once again. I can't believe it's Friday tomorrow. I should write a lesson plan. It'll be Christmas before I know it, and this year at least I won't have to ride my bike to school since the transit worker's union is safely abiding by the terms of their lucrative new contract. Actually, biking to school wouldn't be so bad this time around since it's nearly 70° out there right now. If you don't believe in global warming, you have now officially been given permission to shut the hell up. It's December tomorrow and I can workout outside without needing a long-sleeve shirt or sweatpants. I'm convinced this just means that February is going to be cold as balls.

I've vented enough for one round of blogging, so sorry about the sporadic updating recently and I'll try to provide a more constant supply of angry rants and drunken stories in the future.

So...close...

2006-11-20T18:21:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving break is within sight. Parent-teacher conferences are over. Now if I can finish grading this ginormous (it's a word, I just made it up) quiz, I can spend all the periods that remain to me having the students perform quiz corrections on it. That would be sweet.

Things that have happened to me recently include this weekend's triumphant whomping of Michigan by my graduate alma mater, OSU. Now this doesn't directly affect me except that Mark and I had a little wager going on the game. Long story short, he has to clean the apartment now, and it's not a bet he's happy about losing. We live in squalor.

In the same glorious weekend, I went to see some one-acts put on by the ever amusing Young Mirror company, namely everyone I know from Northwestern who's currently living in the city. Except Mariah. And Julia. One of the plays in particular, by the Artist Formerly Known as The Girl, was amusing in a great in-joke sort of way. The play, called "Incorporated," details how some well-heeled business types financially back a destitute, womanless, couch-sleeping man and help him earn millions of dollars and secure an heiress as a fiancée. I spent the first portion of the play trying to figure out which of my destitute, womanless, couch-sleeping friends the protagonist could possibly represent. I know a lot of couch-sleepers. Many of them have been on my couch.

I finally settled on Uber when a line about "giving your last $300 to a guy on the subway who claimed to be from the Luxembourg Liberation Front" or something like that, was delivered. This was clearly about Uber. Strangely enough, he was directing the show, having also appeared in an earlier show as a horned, shirtless, body-painted manifestation of a chest of drawers. Live theatre is a strange thing.

Also recently, I was formally observed by my principal for the first time this year. Despite a killer PowerPoint presentation, good comedic timing and excellent real world examples, I was faulted for failing to utilize sufficient Socratic questioning techniques over the course of my class. I still got a "Satisfactory" rating, so it's not too bad.

Now I must abandon this blog post and head to the misty realm of my students' attempts at eloquence and coherence. I will no doubt be disappointed, but that's nothing new.

I Don't Have Time For This

2006-11-12T12:51:00.000-05:00

Not that it'll stop me posting about it, but my grades are due in three days and I've got oodles of work yet to accomplish before that point. I have no idea how I'm going to actually manage it, but these things always tend to work out in the end. At least, that's what I comfort myself by saying.

Yesterday was not a helpful day in terms of getting things done. I awoke very late after a serious night of drinking with Rebekah and teachers that didn't end until well into the morning. Once I managed to drag myself from bed, I grabbed my bike and headed across the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan. Twice around Central Park was fun enough, but then I decided to take to the streets. I went down Central Park West for a while, past the Museum of Natural History, then cut across to Broadway. I followed Broadway all the way down to the Battery, which was a hell of a ride (Times Square especially) and had me weaving in and out of traffic for much of the way. Finding that I could go no further south, I did the only logical thing and turned back around.

Broadway became State St., then Water St., then Pearl St., and finally Bowery. A street that I recognize! I really need to spend more time downtown. As I rode up Bowery through Chinatown, the Empire State Building looked tremendously far away. I noted that the skyscraper was located on 34th and I was going to have to go all the way to 59th. I had a hike ahead of me. Traffic was thankfully sparse as Bowery became 3rd and I made my way through the Village, Gramercy and back up to the Queensboro Bridge. When I finally got home, I had been cycling for more than two hours. My legs felt like pudding.

Once I had showered and gotten dressed, it was nearly time for my two alma maters to go head to head on national television. I wasn't really thinking that Northwestern had any kind of chance against Ohio State, but the final score of 54 to 10 was a blowout by any standard. In fact, ABC decided it was such a blowout that they didn't need to show the 4th quarter, so they cut to Cal and Arizona, which was a more exciting game but less relevant to me.

With football out of the way and the day likewise coming to a close, I got myself some dinner and decided I would try and accomplish something. Oh, silly man. Mark called about a half hour into this idea and declared that I should accompany him and Ward to the Irish Rogue. Who was I to say no? More people showed up as the night went on and we drank and caroused muchly. As the party wound down, Mark made the executive decision that we should all ditch Ward in order to increase his chances of scoring with the girl that Ward had been hitting on for much of the evening. Ward was doing pretty well, considering he had managed to fight off two 14-year-olds from the bar mitzvah party next to us who were likewise interested in said female. Leaving him to play his game --as only he knows how-- seemed the only honorable option. We're still not sure if he succeeded.

Mark was adamant about getting a cab, but as the group of us ambled towards to the 49th St station, there was not a cab to be found. We opted for the train instead. Mark and I disembarked at Broadway, got some Guy and headed to Gibney's. We only lasted one pint there and proceeded to head for home. Sleep was not achieved until we had a lengthly and heated discussion of Mid-East politics and why Mark thinks that Hamas and Fatah are giving each other money while they keep killing each other. I could only take about a half hour of that before I went to bed.

Now I believe I've wasted enough time today. I should start some work before the sun goes down again or else I'll be swamped anew when I go to work tomorrow.

Liberals Prevail

2006-11-08T18:51:00.000-05:00

Sweet. Not only have we successfully taken over at least one house of Congress (and got at least 50% of the other! Come on Virginia!) but we've also forced Rumsfeld to run away. I'm pleased that the Democrats have actually been shown to have some spine in the last few months, but I'm still a little antsy about what exactly they plan to do now that they can't just sit at the back of Congress and hurl insults at the Republicans. A cohesive strategy on Iraq would be nice. My idea is that we should pick a side in the three-way civil war (dibs on the Kurds!), move all our troops to that area, and then let everyone else blow themselves up as much as they want to.

What would also be nice is if we could now have actual Congressional hearings into the overwhelming cock-up that is the handling of the war specifically and the nation in general. It's obvious that people are unsatisfied with the way things are going. Not one district switched from Democrat to Republican. Not one! (At time of this posting, 12 House districts and one Senate seat were still undecided.) Clearly people are peeved enough to want to put someone else in the driver's seat for a while. Now it's time to see if the Democrats can manage the duties of driver. Something tells me they'll be stopping to ask for directions at the next exit. Still, this is better than the previous strategy of "staying the course" even when the road veered off to one side ages ago and we've just been ploughing through sagebrush in a straight line for the last twenty miles.

Just so I don't leave you hanging...

2006-11-06T22:31:00.000-05:00

There was no new drama to report at school today. My former student is safe and was apparently treated much better by her father after Child Services stopped by her home, though she admits she was a little scared when they took her into a separate room to ask her questions. She's not sure how much longer this new, better treatment will last, but she's content that the situation has improved. If this all sounds very cryptic and strange, perhaps you should scroll down and read my previous post. It might help.

The real news of the day is that tomorrow is a spectacular in-service day. I'm not sure I really get the sarcasm across on the internet, so let me just reiterate that tomorrow is a spectacular in-service day. I'm certainly looking forward to spending my entire workday listening to people tell me that I need to set definite goals for myself and work on my classroom management. My principal may even wax philosophical for an hour or so on the importance of working as a team. Yes sir. A little slice of heaven awaits. If my blogging for the next few days consists of nothing but unintelligible grunts and moans, you'll know my brain has been rendered completely useless by an overdose of educational jargon and I am therefore no longer of use to society. I'd recommend 40cc's of bourbon and eight hours of sleep. Unfortunately these are two things I will not be getting for a while.

Not What You Expect

2006-11-05T17:20:00.000-05:00

I have a rather sensitive topic to discuss and it's something I hadn't yet had to deal with in my year's worth of teaching, so it kind of caught me off guard. On Friday afternoon, one of my former students confided in me that there was something very wrong in her life. I knew her well from last year when her mother passed away and she was out of school for a while. She came back in a remarkably chipper mood and proceeded to excel in my class, despite having missed most of the introductory material. I was worried that maybe she wasn't dealing with the reality of her situation, but talking with our school's social worker confirmed that this student was, in fact, just a remarkably resilient and emotionally strong human being.

Since that time, she's been living with her father, which has certainly tested her resilience. Her parents had been separated and her mother had been her primary care-giver, but that was obviously over now. She's dropped by my classroom to say hello a few times this year and seemed to be doing very well. After school on Friday she was not looking so good. She said it was because her father had hit her. He'd hit her so hard that she'd been knocked to the floor. Why had he done this? She was late getting home from school on Thursday.

She didn't feel that she could talk about it right then and left before she fully broke into tears. It was unnerving to see her in this state. She's the kind of person who never seems to be down: always smiling, always enjoying life. And in case there's a blame-the-victim type reading this who's convinced she's making it all up, you should also know that I've never seen this young lady cheat, curse, or intentionally harm another human being. I have no reason to question her moral compass.

I of course had to check that our social worker was aware of the situation. This is something teachers are required by law to report. Afterwards, I couldn't help wondering if I'd just sentenced her to a worse beating if Child Services shows up at their door. This kind of situation is one of the few things that will really get me angry. A man who hits any woman, for any reason, is bad enough -- but your own daughter? Legally of course, I can't murder this person and adopt his daughter so she can get out of this for good. The most I can do is talk to her when I can, and spend my entire weekend wondering what she'll have to say on Monday, if she's even in school.

Much Drinking

2006-10-29T12:45:00.000-05:00

Last week was the infamous Geological Society of America meeting in Philadelphia. I was able to pitch my attendance to said meeting to my principal under the auspices of "professional development" and "incorporating cutting-edge research into classroom pedagogy." This kind of thing indeed took place, during the day. The nights, however, were a time for me to catch up with many friends from grad school and undergrad who I hadn't seen in a particularly long time. This, of course, meant drinking. First, there was the night-of-many-beers in which Mike, Heather and I post-partied two alumni receptions to arrive at Monk's, which has more beer than they know what to do with. That night ended with the three of us walking all around downtown Philly, me heading (roughly) in the direction of my hotel and Mike and Heather walking much farther than they had to on their own respective return trip.

The following night was a party at Kate's father's house, which was reachable by a short train ride from downtown. There was fantastic food, courtesy of the venerable host, as well as an array of tasty beverages and a warm fire. Throughout the night, I was concerned mostly with the fact that I had to teach the following morning...in New York. This did not dissuade me from drinking. By the time I got on the train around 9:30, I was primed to pass out on the way home. I quickly did just that. I arrived at Penn Station and passed out again in a cab back to Queens. Thankfully, I didn't have to teach much of import on Wednesday.

Friday came quite soon. This meant two things. No Idea, where the name night was "Sarah," so two MVA teachers were drinking for free. One Sarah left early to prepare for her party. Chris and his Sarah remained behind while Ryan and I indulged in a little bourbon. Chris, Sarah and I eventually headed for the party after stopping for some food. Immediately upon entry, I was grabbed and told that I needed a costume. I was blindfolded and led upstairs. I emerged shortly afterwards, looking for some reason like the Statue of Liberty. Chris was also ambushed and emerged with an odd red wig and copious facepaint. I'm 90% certain that no pictures exist of this transformation. Only time will tell.

It was 2:30 before I left, after much dancing, drinking and general carousing. The 7 train wasn't running, so I simply walked from Courthouse Square to my apartment. This normally isn't that bad, except that it was raining. I emerged from sleep at 11:30 the following morning and promptly had to run down to the Port Authority to catch a bus home. The N wasn't running (what the hell was up with Queens trains this weekend?!?) so I caught a cab. Manhattan was somewhat flooded, so the trip took much longer than it should have. I missed the 1:45 bus by one minute. The upside was this meant that I could get some food before leaving.

As I was eating some lunch, a woman approached me and asked for some money. I just shook my head. It was only after she walked away that I saw she had crutches. She was not, however, using them to walk. She walked just fine, up to each table in the eating area, plopped herself down on the crutches and asked for money. No one was buying her act. It didn't help that she was walking briskly from table to table without the use of the crutches.

The reason I was going home was to attend a concert featuring piano duets. The concert also featured fantastic food and drink, all free of charge. So all in all, it's been a good weekend. Now I have to head back to the city, grade some quizzes and hope that the Bears can continue to look like the best damn team in football.