I don't use the student bathrooms that often; however, I share a bathroom with a few unnamed people who take old-people lengths of time in the bathroom. Today I lost the race to one of these old-people-who-really-aren't-old-but-take-as-much-time-as-an-old-person-in-the-bathroom-god-what-are-they-doing-in-there-this-is-taking-so-long. As a result, I had to use the student bathroom.
There was only one student in there and he was in one of the stalls. I could hear him blasting some music in his iPod while he was, well, blasting a #2. The music was pretty heavy stuff, like the stuff from soundtrack to the movie 300. It occurred to me that this kid was taking a pretty epic poop. I imagine in his mind the act of pooping was his way of fighting back innumerable hordes of orcs, that it was helping him save a princess, that it helped him conquer a dragon, that it saved the twin towers from terrorist attacks. There is really nothing epic about the act itself, but today was different, today lived in infamy, today that kid became a legend.
At least in his own mind.
Addiction Part 3
(This blog is a response to a recent blog entry by Ed, from the blog Striving for Mediocrity)
I can stop at any time. Really, I can. I mean, I don't need another guitar. I can just look, after all.
And look I do. Craigslist, eBay, you name it. Even though I have several guitars myself (far more than necessary), I look for new ones. Whenever I feel guilty about this need irrational need for more material possessions, I justify it by looking at guitars for other people. It's not so bad then, right? It might even be noble; an expert on the subject simply bestowing his opinion upon the unknowing masses. My dad's looking for a hollowbody guitar, so now I can indulge in the browsing and buying process. I get my little taste, my fix.
You see, the thing is about guitars is that you do kinda need multiple guitars. Not only do they get different sounds, which you need for performing a diverse range of sounds for a diverse set of songs, each guitar has its own set of songs. Picking up a particular guitar changes the ways your hand moves, influences what chords you will play, and bestows a certain mentality for songwriting. Playing new guitars is almost a creative necessity.
But I'm not addicted.
But that temptation can sure be strong. I mean, there has been some deals on Craigslist lately. Once in a lifetime deals; the kind of deals where you could easily justify indulging one more time. The thing is, though, sure the guitar's a deal, but the guitar I envision is not the guitar that's for sale: It's the guitar with all the mods. New pickups ($80). New tuners ($30). A set-up including intonation, adjustment, etc. ($50). That $150 guitar just became a $300, requiring an extra $150 I never actually had.
And them I'm down in the hole again. I hit rock bottom when my bank account bottoms out.
But I'm not addicted. No sir, I can quit any time. In fact, I've been "clean" for a full year now and counting.
Hi, my name is Ben and I'm a guitar addict.
I can stop at any time. Really, I can. I mean, I don't need another guitar. I can just look, after all.
And look I do. Craigslist, eBay, you name it. Even though I have several guitars myself (far more than necessary), I look for new ones. Whenever I feel guilty about this need irrational need for more material possessions, I justify it by looking at guitars for other people. It's not so bad then, right? It might even be noble; an expert on the subject simply bestowing his opinion upon the unknowing masses. My dad's looking for a hollowbody guitar, so now I can indulge in the browsing and buying process. I get my little taste, my fix.
You see, the thing is about guitars is that you do kinda need multiple guitars. Not only do they get different sounds, which you need for performing a diverse range of sounds for a diverse set of songs, each guitar has its own set of songs. Picking up a particular guitar changes the ways your hand moves, influences what chords you will play, and bestows a certain mentality for songwriting. Playing new guitars is almost a creative necessity.
But I'm not addicted.
But that temptation can sure be strong. I mean, there has been some deals on Craigslist lately. Once in a lifetime deals; the kind of deals where you could easily justify indulging one more time. The thing is, though, sure the guitar's a deal, but the guitar I envision is not the guitar that's for sale: It's the guitar with all the mods. New pickups ($80). New tuners ($30). A set-up including intonation, adjustment, etc. ($50). That $150 guitar just became a $300, requiring an extra $150 I never actually had.
And them I'm down in the hole again. I hit rock bottom when my bank account bottoms out.
But I'm not addicted. No sir, I can quit any time. In fact, I've been "clean" for a full year now and counting.
Hi, my name is Ben and I'm a guitar addict.
Frosh
I've started teaching freshmen this year for the first time since student teaching. It is kinda awesome. They will do anything and everything I ask them with such relish for life and just plain freakin' breathing it will bring joy to your heart.
It's also a pain in the ass.
These kids want to share any and every little thought in their tiny little brains, no matter the pertinence of the story. I've done a pretty good job feigning interest, but it's very difficult at 7:15AM when they start coming in and just watching me do anything I do. It's like I brought my dog to school, actually. It's not like, really, it is bringing my dog to school.
During one of my freshman classes today, a girl asked me if I got tired of listening to or saying, "That's really interesting!" to freshmen stories or connections. I looked at the class - silence.
"I never really say 'that's interesting,' have you noticed?"
Sorry freshmen. I love you. Really, I do.
It's also a pain in the ass.
These kids want to share any and every little thought in their tiny little brains, no matter the pertinence of the story. I've done a pretty good job feigning interest, but it's very difficult at 7:15AM when they start coming in and just watching me do anything I do. It's like I brought my dog to school, actually. It's not like, really, it is bringing my dog to school.
During one of my freshman classes today, a girl asked me if I got tired of listening to or saying, "That's really interesting!" to freshmen stories or connections. I looked at the class - silence.
"I never really say 'that's interesting,' have you noticed?"
Sorry freshmen. I love you. Really, I do.
Kids Say the Darndest Things
From a speech about the book "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea":
In teacher speak we would call that a connection between prior knowledge and character analysis. In normal speak we just the kid's a weirdo. He's also kinda funny and says this crap all the time. I'm not sure he's even real.
"Captain Nemo's kinda like that old guy who lives down the street who's lawn you have to mow because you egged his house."
In teacher speak we would call that a connection between prior knowledge and character analysis. In normal speak we just the kid's a weirdo. He's also kinda funny and says this crap all the time. I'm not sure he's even real.
Diatribe
One of my class' vocab words is "Diatribe," which is an angry, bitter attack. Let me demonstrate.
I am dismayed to find that I am still struggling for credibility with the parents of my students, especially when I have yet to actually meet them.
I asked my students to "be real" with me, so it follows that I should "be real" with them. So I shared a little of my life (which I usually save for later in the year) including the fact that I "recently" (3 years, yikes!) went to WWU and that I play in a band. I'm sure those are the only two details my students remember when mom asks how are your classes, mmm, yes, and your teachers, what are they like? Oh, they probably mention that I'm way young and that a bunch of kids thought I was a senior. So, in the parents mind I am some young idiot probably lamely attempting to be the "cool" teacher by being younger and playing in a band. Nevermind the fact that I graduated from college, got fantastic marks in my internship, immediately got a job in a competitive market, taught a successful two years, run the freshman orientation program, and so on. Nope, I just play in a band and try to look young, probably in an effort to score with their teenage daughters.
Son of a bitch.
I got an email from a parent today responding to a letter I asked him to write about his student. I did this with all the parents, and most are pleasantly surprised to see a teacher engaging them. Not this guy. He expressed his concern over the grammatical errors in the letter, especially considering I am an English teacher. To his credit, there were a few typos I should have caught. The part that chaps my ass is the part that follows:
I don't appreciate the implication that being "cool" is more important than student learning. It's my fucking job to teach all of my kids. Nowhere in my type-ridden letter does it even mention anything except my professional philosophy regarding education and character cultivation. I don't talk about where I went this summer or my dog or that I'm just oh so excited to have your child. No. This is what your kid will be doing. I'm going to make my instruction transparent so that you know what I'm doing and why. At no point should you assume that I will do anything less than that. And "truthful with your instruction?" Fuck off.
On a more objective level, maybe this guy's doing what I unintentionally did: trying to sound smart and coming off like a jackass. His heart's probably in the right place. But after reading the letter from the mom that starts, "It seems that teachers keep getting younger and younger!"I just don't have the patience for this righteous dribble.
...and that my friends is a diatribe.
I am dismayed to find that I am still struggling for credibility with the parents of my students, especially when I have yet to actually meet them.
I asked my students to "be real" with me, so it follows that I should "be real" with them. So I shared a little of my life (which I usually save for later in the year) including the fact that I "recently" (3 years, yikes!) went to WWU and that I play in a band. I'm sure those are the only two details my students remember when mom asks how are your classes, mmm, yes, and your teachers, what are they like? Oh, they probably mention that I'm way young and that a bunch of kids thought I was a senior. So, in the parents mind I am some young idiot probably lamely attempting to be the "cool" teacher by being younger and playing in a band. Nevermind the fact that I graduated from college, got fantastic marks in my internship, immediately got a job in a competitive market, taught a successful two years, run the freshman orientation program, and so on. Nope, I just play in a band and try to look young, probably in an effort to score with their teenage daughters.
Son of a bitch.
I got an email from a parent today responding to a letter I asked him to write about his student. I did this with all the parents, and most are pleasantly surprised to see a teacher engaging them. Not this guy. He expressed his concern over the grammatical errors in the letter, especially considering I am an English teacher. To his credit, there were a few typos I should have caught. The part that chaps my ass is the part that follows:
I want ******* to respect you...not to like you and/or refer to you as a
"cool" teacher.
If he does refer you as "cool" or likable then I will then know that he
indeed does have respect for you...make sense?
Last but not least I will share with you something that is very
important to me.
You being a teacher is a privilege not a job and with that I have the
utmost respect for teachers that do it for the sheer love of the
profession and sense of giving back to the community.
I will support you 200% as long as you are truthful with your
instruction, guidance and mentorship as it pertains to *******.
I don't appreciate the implication that being "cool" is more important than student learning. It's my fucking job to teach all of my kids. Nowhere in my type-ridden letter does it even mention anything except my professional philosophy regarding education and character cultivation. I don't talk about where I went this summer or my dog or that I'm just oh so excited to have your child. No. This is what your kid will be doing. I'm going to make my instruction transparent so that you know what I'm doing and why. At no point should you assume that I will do anything less than that. And "truthful with your instruction?" Fuck off.
On a more objective level, maybe this guy's doing what I unintentionally did: trying to sound smart and coming off like a jackass. His heart's probably in the right place. But after reading the letter from the mom that starts, "It seems that teachers keep getting younger and younger!"I just don't have the patience for this righteous dribble.
...and that my friends is a diatribe.
High School High
Recently the dog and I have taken to eavesdropping on the neighbor kids.
The dog gets upset and barks, but I'm fairly ambivalent about them and keep quiet. These kids aren't the cream of the crop, mind you, but they're not degenerates either. They smoke pot pretty frequently, and I've watched them drop Visine into their eyes behind their garage. They do it enough that I'd be surprised if their mom didn't know they were smoking pot and dropping Visine behind the garage.
One time I caught them smoking behind our fence. I didn't know it at the time, but they were getting high, too (the smell had wafted slowly to our yard). They looked pretty shitty: scraggily, bored, and high. I just felt bad for them. They still had the teenage acne and dopey haircuts under the hats their moms bought them from Zumiez.
I don't report them to the cops or anything; they're not hurting anyone or driving stoned. To be honest, they're not even that loud. They have a drum set in their garage, which we had growing up too but they don't really play it. Maybe they're too stoned to play. There's really nothing chill about the drums, so I guess that's out of the question. Maybe the pot works like a preventative for noise pollution. I'm not sure which would be worse. Maybe I'll go ask my neighbors from when I was a teenage Keith Moon.
I don't know if they're in high school anymore. I caught them (really just noticed them is all) behind our fence and they ran off when a girl yelled out, "Hey, Mr. Ballew!" If they aren't in school, they have friends that are. I imagine that if they are students, it will be a little awkward in the hall: I'll give them that subtle nod that says, "Hey, I know your secret Cheech, but I'm not telling," while they'll give me that acknowledging eye contact avoidance that says, "I know it's you, please don't bust me, my mom will kill me." From there on, I imagine we'll maintain the status quo.
Being a teacher doesn't actually make it more awkward in these situations; in fact, I feel it gives me a little more empathy to these High Times high schoolers. They're just kids doing what kids do: hanging out. Yeah, sure, they're doing drugs, but come on, we're a little more enlightened nowadays. They could doing coke or getting girls pregnant; instead, they're just choosing to hang out, mind their own business, and trip the light fantastic.
I say trip on, boys - as long as you stay on your side of the fence.
The dog gets upset and barks, but I'm fairly ambivalent about them and keep quiet. These kids aren't the cream of the crop, mind you, but they're not degenerates either. They smoke pot pretty frequently, and I've watched them drop Visine into their eyes behind their garage. They do it enough that I'd be surprised if their mom didn't know they were smoking pot and dropping Visine behind the garage.
One time I caught them smoking behind our fence. I didn't know it at the time, but they were getting high, too (the smell had wafted slowly to our yard). They looked pretty shitty: scraggily, bored, and high. I just felt bad for them. They still had the teenage acne and dopey haircuts under the hats their moms bought them from Zumiez.
I don't report them to the cops or anything; they're not hurting anyone or driving stoned. To be honest, they're not even that loud. They have a drum set in their garage, which we had growing up too but they don't really play it. Maybe they're too stoned to play. There's really nothing chill about the drums, so I guess that's out of the question. Maybe the pot works like a preventative for noise pollution. I'm not sure which would be worse. Maybe I'll go ask my neighbors from when I was a teenage Keith Moon.
I don't know if they're in high school anymore. I caught them (really just noticed them is all) behind our fence and they ran off when a girl yelled out, "Hey, Mr. Ballew!" If they aren't in school, they have friends that are. I imagine that if they are students, it will be a little awkward in the hall: I'll give them that subtle nod that says, "Hey, I know your secret Cheech, but I'm not telling," while they'll give me that acknowledging eye contact avoidance that says, "I know it's you, please don't bust me, my mom will kill me." From there on, I imagine we'll maintain the status quo.
Being a teacher doesn't actually make it more awkward in these situations; in fact, I feel it gives me a little more empathy to these High Times high schoolers. They're just kids doing what kids do: hanging out. Yeah, sure, they're doing drugs, but come on, we're a little more enlightened nowadays. They could doing coke or getting girls pregnant; instead, they're just choosing to hang out, mind their own business, and trip the light fantastic.
I say trip on, boys - as long as you stay on your side of the fence.
Reflections On A Concert: Al Green
Last week, I saw Al Green at the Tulalip Amphitheater. It was awesome. Kinda awesome. No, it was awesome. Here are some thoughts I had during the show:
1. There was a strange Native blessing before the show. It was very strange, and I felt like some of the performers didn't exactly know what they were blessing, except for one guy, which brings me to...
2. Native Americans love the beautiful ladies. They honor them. So many beautiful ladies in the world. Not the audience, but the world.
3. What is with black bass players? Why do they always have funny hats? I should ask the bass player of the opening band. His hat was funnier than Al Green's bass player's hat.
4. Black people dress up for concerts, makin' me feel like a hobo, even though I was better dressed than most people there.
5. People are willing to pay $8 for a beer, anywhere.
6. Al Green is a golden god, still.
7. Al Green only knows two cities in the northwest: Seattle and Tacoma.
8. Ladies (still) love Al Green, and judging the roses he was constantly throwing out, he loves them back.
9. Al Green is a little bit crazy. I'm not sure if it's because he's old, or because he's been a star for so long. Either way, he's kinda kooky.
10. Kooky old men are oddly likable. Kooky old women are off-putting.
1. There was a strange Native blessing before the show. It was very strange, and I felt like some of the performers didn't exactly know what they were blessing, except for one guy, which brings me to...
2. Native Americans love the beautiful ladies. They honor them. So many beautiful ladies in the world. Not the audience, but the world.
3. What is with black bass players? Why do they always have funny hats? I should ask the bass player of the opening band. His hat was funnier than Al Green's bass player's hat.
4. Black people dress up for concerts, makin' me feel like a hobo, even though I was better dressed than most people there.
5. People are willing to pay $8 for a beer, anywhere.
6. Al Green is a golden god, still.
7. Al Green only knows two cities in the northwest: Seattle and Tacoma.
8. Ladies (still) love Al Green, and judging the roses he was constantly throwing out, he loves them back.
9. Al Green is a little bit crazy. I'm not sure if it's because he's old, or because he's been a star for so long. Either way, he's kinda kooky.
10. Kooky old men are oddly likable. Kooky old women are off-putting.
Library Finds: Bottomless Bellybutton
As a child, there is only one kind of sand: sand. The beginning of Dawn Shaw's Bottomless Bellybutton explains what we come to know: there are many different kinds of sand in the world. Dry sand, wet sand, sand in the wind, sand being swept off a deck, etc..
As we grow, we accumulate experiences and knowledge. We come to know all the different kinds of sand, clouds, and water; we begin to think we have it all - life - figured out. We know what a family is, what love is, until something monumental shakes us up so bad we don't know where, or even who, we are.
The graphic novel tells the story of the Loony family and grandpa and grandma Loony's decision to separate after forty years of marriage. Each of the Loony children, Dennis, Claire, and Peter react differently to the news as they gather at the Loony family's house.
Like most families, each of the children (and their children) are different in personality, appearance, and experience. Through their reactions, we begin to understand that love is not a singularly defined thing. Like the different kinds of sand catalogued at the beginning of the story, there are different kinds of love. As children, we define romantic love by the only relationship we directly experience: the love between parents. Growing up, we experience love differently, complicating our view of love in our minds, yet often never reconcile that new definition with our parents' relationship . Bottomless Bellybutton is the story of a family individually attempting to reconcile those views, reminding us that we're never really grown up enough to know everything, we can grow up enough to accept it and maybe even appreciate it.
The graphic novel, like any good book, is alternately funny, sad, and insightful. It's also long and weighs a ton; though there are no page numbers, I would wager that it's nearly 600-700 pages long. The simplicity of Shaw's artwork and his pacing allow him to evoke complex emotions someone not familiar to the medium would think impossible from a graphic novel (I initially wrote the starkness of the artwork and narrative off myself). One three-page sequence in which a character undresses in front of another character is surprisingly sensual, while the austerity of the final pages in which the characters say goodbye to one another is devastating.
While part one (of three) may appear to be more emotional navel-gazing (pun intended) from another male with sexual and emotional hang-ups, the novel is every bit as complicated and rewarding as love. Or at least our understanding of it.
Coffee Girls
When I was in high school no one drank coffee. Teachers maybe, but certainly not students. True, we could used the caffeine kick to keep us conscious at 7:20am, but we just didn't drink it. As a result, I knew nothing about coffee and associated it with the adult world, far removed from our frivolous small town existence.
Though I may have been tempted to ignore or deny its existence, coffee was a big thing at the time. It wasn't what the cultural phenomenon it is now, or at least I don't think it was - remember, I was a teenager at the time, wont to deny the existence of that not directly in my own world. Coffee stands were around, as was Starbucks, though I only remember it from senior year onwards. You didn't order coffee at places like this, you ordered hot chocolate or whatever was seasonal or just whatever you could pronounce. As such, everything else was foreign, thus exotic to our small town minds and interests.
Men knew nothing about coffee, let alone cappuccinos or lattes; women knew about coffee, and not just any women, but exotic, cultured women. These were the kind of women (or girls, in our case) that drove Saabs, BMWs, and Mercedes cars, had trendy sunglasses, and knew where to go to dinner in Seattle. Their triple-shot caramel macciatto with skim milk was all but indecipherable to us, and further proof of their cultural superiority. If a girl knew what that drink was, she must know other drinks and where to get them, not to mention that she had the money to actually afford it. They were a stark contrast to girls we saw every day: blond highlights in a ponytail, hooded sports sweatshirt under the ubiquitous black North Face fleece, and flip flops. Always flip flops.
While some of those girls were content to just drink coffee, others made coffee. These girls were so beyond us they may as well have been exchange students, the kind who didn't need to be pretty to catch our attention (all foreign girls were inexplicably attractive to us). In school, music was our life, and a girl with credible musical taste was a rare commodity. Being a barista was the equivalent of a girl having OK Computer in her car stereo; you had to lock that girl down! The kind of girl that knew what the difference between a frappaccino and a latte - let alone how to make them - was the kind of girl who cut her hair short, wore funky clothes, and went to concerts in Seattle (the big city!). These girls were clearly out of our league.
Or at least they were in our minds.
In truth, they were likely the same over-caffeinated, over-tanned, future sorority sisters that litter high school and college campuses across the country*. Perhaps our perception of these girls was more informed by our sheltered fantasies than by actual observation. This is very plausible considering I was disappointed upon arriving in Ireland to find that no one looked like hobbits.
One thing that is undeniable is the ubiquity of coffee today. It's no longer just the city kids getting cranked up on the triple shot no foam lattes, it's everyone. Guys living in Arlington who drive who drive unnecessarily large trucks are waiting in line for their daily white chocolate mochas with whipped cream and sprinkles; those quirky, artsy girls that used to run the stands have been replaced by bikini baristas (see "future strippers"). This trend has completely demystified coffee for me. Sorry coffee girls, but I'm just not that into you anymore, but that guy in the truck might be.
Postscript:
It should be noted that the term "coffee girls" does not refer to all girls who work in the industry. No, the aforementioned ubiquity of coffee undermines this stereotype. There are a great deal of quality women - and men - who work in the egregiously massive coffee industry. To say that serving coffee is equivalent to having a butterfly tattoo on your lower back would be a humorous, albeit offensive, generalization to many women I know. If this is the case, I apologize.
*See nearly any teenage, female employee at your local mall for example(s)
Though I may have been tempted to ignore or deny its existence, coffee was a big thing at the time. It wasn't what the cultural phenomenon it is now, or at least I don't think it was - remember, I was a teenager at the time, wont to deny the existence of that not directly in my own world. Coffee stands were around, as was Starbucks, though I only remember it from senior year onwards. You didn't order coffee at places like this, you ordered hot chocolate or whatever was seasonal or just whatever you could pronounce. As such, everything else was foreign, thus exotic to our small town minds and interests.
Men knew nothing about coffee, let alone cappuccinos or lattes; women knew about coffee, and not just any women, but exotic, cultured women. These were the kind of women (or girls, in our case) that drove Saabs, BMWs, and Mercedes cars, had trendy sunglasses, and knew where to go to dinner in Seattle. Their triple-shot caramel macciatto with skim milk was all but indecipherable to us, and further proof of their cultural superiority. If a girl knew what that drink was, she must know other drinks and where to get them, not to mention that she had the money to actually afford it. They were a stark contrast to girls we saw every day: blond highlights in a ponytail, hooded sports sweatshirt under the ubiquitous black North Face fleece, and flip flops. Always flip flops.
While some of those girls were content to just drink coffee, others made coffee. These girls were so beyond us they may as well have been exchange students, the kind who didn't need to be pretty to catch our attention (all foreign girls were inexplicably attractive to us). In school, music was our life, and a girl with credible musical taste was a rare commodity. Being a barista was the equivalent of a girl having OK Computer in her car stereo; you had to lock that girl down! The kind of girl that knew what the difference between a frappaccino and a latte - let alone how to make them - was the kind of girl who cut her hair short, wore funky clothes, and went to concerts in Seattle (the big city!). These girls were clearly out of our league.
Or at least they were in our minds.
In truth, they were likely the same over-caffeinated, over-tanned, future sorority sisters that litter high school and college campuses across the country*. Perhaps our perception of these girls was more informed by our sheltered fantasies than by actual observation. This is very plausible considering I was disappointed upon arriving in Ireland to find that no one looked like hobbits.
One thing that is undeniable is the ubiquity of coffee today. It's no longer just the city kids getting cranked up on the triple shot no foam lattes, it's everyone. Guys living in Arlington who drive who drive unnecessarily large trucks are waiting in line for their daily white chocolate mochas with whipped cream and sprinkles; those quirky, artsy girls that used to run the stands have been replaced by bikini baristas (see "future strippers"). This trend has completely demystified coffee for me. Sorry coffee girls, but I'm just not that into you anymore, but that guy in the truck might be.
Postscript:
It should be noted that the term "coffee girls" does not refer to all girls who work in the industry. No, the aforementioned ubiquity of coffee undermines this stereotype. There are a great deal of quality women - and men - who work in the egregiously massive coffee industry. To say that serving coffee is equivalent to having a butterfly tattoo on your lower back would be a humorous, albeit offensive, generalization to many women I know. If this is the case, I apologize.
*See nearly any teenage, female employee at your local mall for example(s)
Library Finds: Graphic Novelfest 2009 Pt. I
It's graphic novelfest 2009 at 114 N Dunham Ave this summer. Here are our recommendations:
Read Brian K. Vaughan's Y: The Last Man series now before it blows up as a movie trilogy and pop culture milestone. It's epic in the greatest sense of the word: long, intricate, funny, philosophical, and heartbreaking. It's Lord of the Rings if it only focused on Frodo's journey and instead of Sam, Frodo had a pet monkey named Ampersand. Also, instead of Orcs, there are ninja assassins and militant feministas. The narrative is tightly focused considering the length and depth of the multiple plot lines; though some subplots seem arbitrary. they useful ways for Vaughan to explore the implications of a world without the Y chromosome. It's an achievement of imagination, and reading it has been as much of a rewarding experience as I've had reading any other "traditional" novel. It is to my 20s what Star Wars was to my early teens: a flawed masterpiece that is a lens through which I now view everything else.
When you're done reading Y, you'll want to read everything else Vaughan has written, and I would recommend Ex Machina, the series directly following Y. EM follows Mitch Hundred, a normal guy who comes across an alien (?) artifact which endows him with the ability to talk to and control machines. He becomes a super hero (like the Rocketeer, really), saves the second plane from hitting the World Trade Towers, becomes a celebrity, then decides he can make a greater difference by running for mayor of New York. The story follows his tenure as mayor, and feels like an amalgam of West Wing, Superman, and The Wire. Like Y, the dialogue is smart, fast, and full of pop-culture references. It's also fantastic, too.
The Escapists, also by Vaughan, is a shorter series that is as tightly written as either of the mentioned series. It's an homage to the comics medium itself. The art is a bit cartoon-y, but the writing is flawless.
The only writer that rivals Vaughan in my book is Grant Morrison. Morrison's run on X-Men was brilliant (do check it out), and his take on Superman is transcendent. All-Star Superman Vol. I & II concern the twilight of Supe's life, exploring the themes of power and responsibility better than anything I've ever read. The writing is simple, beautiful, poetry almost. And the end, it's just heart-wrenching to turn each page. It's almost a shame they have to continue publishing Superman comics after this series, because it would be the perfect swan song to the series' long history. Attention movie studios, drop all the terrible ideas and scripts you have now and pick up this series, but please don't change a thing. It's perfect. PERFECT.
Bill Willingham's Fables is also decent. Imagine all the fairytale creatures and characters in the modern world, forced to conceal themselves in a small community in New Jersey after being forced out of their lands. It's fun to observe and speculate what kinds of modern problems these old characters find themselves in (Snow White divorces Prince Charming, the Beast turns back into a beast every time he and Beauty fight, and who wouldn't after hundreds of years?). There's not much to invest in as a reader so far, but I'm only on vol. II.
Pt. II of the recommendation list will tackle the more alternative comic-style graphic novels.
Read Brian K. Vaughan's Y: The Last Man series now before it blows up as a movie trilogy and pop culture milestone. It's epic in the greatest sense of the word: long, intricate, funny, philosophical, and heartbreaking. It's Lord of the Rings if it only focused on Frodo's journey and instead of Sam, Frodo had a pet monkey named Ampersand. Also, instead of Orcs, there are ninja assassins and militant feministas. The narrative is tightly focused considering the length and depth of the multiple plot lines; though some subplots seem arbitrary. they useful ways for Vaughan to explore the implications of a world without the Y chromosome. It's an achievement of imagination, and reading it has been as much of a rewarding experience as I've had reading any other "traditional" novel. It is to my 20s what Star Wars was to my early teens: a flawed masterpiece that is a lens through which I now view everything else.
When you're done reading Y, you'll want to read everything else Vaughan has written, and I would recommend Ex Machina, the series directly following Y. EM follows Mitch Hundred, a normal guy who comes across an alien (?) artifact which endows him with the ability to talk to and control machines. He becomes a super hero (like the Rocketeer, really), saves the second plane from hitting the World Trade Towers, becomes a celebrity, then decides he can make a greater difference by running for mayor of New York. The story follows his tenure as mayor, and feels like an amalgam of West Wing, Superman, and The Wire. Like Y, the dialogue is smart, fast, and full of pop-culture references. It's also fantastic, too.
The Escapists, also by Vaughan, is a shorter series that is as tightly written as either of the mentioned series. It's an homage to the comics medium itself. The art is a bit cartoon-y, but the writing is flawless.
The only writer that rivals Vaughan in my book is Grant Morrison. Morrison's run on X-Men was brilliant (do check it out), and his take on Superman is transcendent. All-Star Superman Vol. I & II concern the twilight of Supe's life, exploring the themes of power and responsibility better than anything I've ever read. The writing is simple, beautiful, poetry almost. And the end, it's just heart-wrenching to turn each page. It's almost a shame they have to continue publishing Superman comics after this series, because it would be the perfect swan song to the series' long history. Attention movie studios, drop all the terrible ideas and scripts you have now and pick up this series, but please don't change a thing. It's perfect. PERFECT.
Bill Willingham's Fables is also decent. Imagine all the fairytale creatures and characters in the modern world, forced to conceal themselves in a small community in New Jersey after being forced out of their lands. It's fun to observe and speculate what kinds of modern problems these old characters find themselves in (Snow White divorces Prince Charming, the Beast turns back into a beast every time he and Beauty fight, and who wouldn't after hundreds of years?). There's not much to invest in as a reader so far, but I'm only on vol. II.
Pt. II of the recommendation list will tackle the more alternative comic-style graphic novels.
FCB
Of course they're going to be good, but I didn't know they'd be that good. Barcelona is amazing. Truly something to behold. And let's be honest, they probably weren't even playing that hard. Did you see Henry, he just smiled and let those botched shots and runs slide off his back like a duck's feathers.
Really, though, this game was all about Messi. I had heard of this kid (22 years old!) before, but wow, did he live up to the hype. Unbelievable. And did anyone else notice a startling resemblance to a young Dustin Hoffman? Even the hair, which, come on Lionel, with all that money surely you can get something more up to date than Al Pacino's hair style in Scarface?
+
=
Really, though, this game was all about Messi. I had heard of this kid (22 years old!) before, but wow, did he live up to the hype. Unbelievable. And did anyone else notice a startling resemblance to a young Dustin Hoffman? Even the hair, which, come on Lionel, with all that money surely you can get something more up to date than Al Pacino's hair style in Scarface?
+
=
Weddings: The Ultimate Social Event
Why is it that weddings get such a bad rap? So many people look down upon them, but then have their own wedding. Why bother if you dislike them so much? Some men might toss off the obligatory, "Well, she wanted one, so you know," but I hear plenty of women complaining about weddings. I understand it's a necessary cultural ritual and rite of passage, but what's so bad about a wedding? Really?
I love weddings.
Let's get that out there first and foremost, because it's about to get all biased up in here.
Reasons why weddings are awesome:
1. Weird family members
They don't even need to be your own to get a kick out of someone's uncle Ralphy
2. Free drinks
Even if it's just beer and wine, you can get as many as you want w/out even getting out your wallet or feeling like you've got a problem, because, hey, it's a celebration. Right?
3. Appetizers
Yes, they're usually more bland and cold than a restaurant appetizer, but they taste that much better after your third glass of wine.
4. Toasts
Most of the time they're terrible, which is often more entertaining. The cliches and awkward fight to stave off the tears make the drink afterwards that much better.
5, Dancing
Wedding dancing is like public school; it's an idiosyncratic culture and event where giving either a half-assed, off-the-cuff effort or an intense, over-the-top effort are completely acceptable (everything in the middle is derided). Even better, though, is the mixture of reasons #1 and #2. Watching your wined-up grandma or uncle dance to Daft Punk or the Jackson 5 makes you want to get down even more and do those ridiculous dance moves you would never do in any other public situation. Golden.
6. Desserts
It used to be the obligatory cake, but now people are starting to break away from tradition for novelty. Cupcakes, pies, dessert trays. These aren't your ordinary cupcakes, either, these are creme brulee with turkish sea salt caramel icing. Even if it is just a cake, it's better than a Costco cake. Let them have cake!
I know of very few other events that adhere to every item on this list - political conventions, perhaps - making them the ultimate social event. I can't wait to go to another wedding.
Excuse me, could I have another glass of the white? Thank you!
I love weddings.
Let's get that out there first and foremost, because it's about to get all biased up in here.
Reasons why weddings are awesome:
1. Weird family members
They don't even need to be your own to get a kick out of someone's uncle Ralphy
2. Free drinks
Even if it's just beer and wine, you can get as many as you want w/out even getting out your wallet or feeling like you've got a problem, because, hey, it's a celebration. Right?
3. Appetizers
Yes, they're usually more bland and cold than a restaurant appetizer, but they taste that much better after your third glass of wine.
4. Toasts
Most of the time they're terrible, which is often more entertaining. The cliches and awkward fight to stave off the tears make the drink afterwards that much better.
5, Dancing
Wedding dancing is like public school; it's an idiosyncratic culture and event where giving either a half-assed, off-the-cuff effort or an intense, over-the-top effort are completely acceptable (everything in the middle is derided). Even better, though, is the mixture of reasons #1 and #2. Watching your wined-up grandma or uncle dance to Daft Punk or the Jackson 5 makes you want to get down even more and do those ridiculous dance moves you would never do in any other public situation. Golden.
6. Desserts
It used to be the obligatory cake, but now people are starting to break away from tradition for novelty. Cupcakes, pies, dessert trays. These aren't your ordinary cupcakes, either, these are creme brulee with turkish sea salt caramel icing. Even if it is just a cake, it's better than a Costco cake. Let them have cake!
I know of very few other events that adhere to every item on this list - political conventions, perhaps - making them the ultimate social event. I can't wait to go to another wedding.
Excuse me, could I have another glass of the white? Thank you!
Mid-Mid-Life Crisis?
Lately I really want a motorcycle and leather jacket. Really, I do. I've never had any inclination towards either of the two, but lately it's all I can think about.
Now, I don't want just any motorcycle and leather jacket. No, I don't want to be the middle-aged man looking to buy a shiny Harley and cruise like Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider, uh uh, no; nor do I want to be some a-wipe in a leather racing jacket and cargo shorts swerving in and out of traffic on his lime green crotch rocket. No, I want the Marlon Brando or James Dean-style shit: cropped leather racing jacket on a simple, black motorcycle. No flash, no pomp, just a GD motorcycle.
I hope you're getting the aesthetic here. Now, for the jacket, a simple leather cafe racer jacket will suffice. I realize this deviates a bit from the ones pictured above, but simplicity is key. I'm thinking brown, because, let's face it, I'm just not tough enough for black.*
As for the bike, simplicity is again the key. I've put a lot of thought into this part (arguably the most important part), and have come to a brand-based decision: Triumph motorcycles. Here is one of the original Triumphs ridden by Brando in the pictures:
This is a Triumph Thunderbird, which they don't make anymore. So, as a fitting replacement, I'm going with either a Bonneville:
or a Thruxton:
of course, either would suffice. They're pretty similar in design and price, and I would definitely go with black, although I saw a pretty badass dark green Bonneville a while ago.
But let's be realistic, I could easily find the leather jacket for an affordable price on ebay, but will I ever get the motorcycle? It's certainly not affordable considering that we're buying a house and getting our masters degrees. Which brings me to another point: why the hell do I want them now? Why was I so content not to have one before? Is it because we're buying a house and getting a master's degree, two things indicative of being a "grown up?" I mean, I did just see Tears for Fears at the Chateau St. Michelle Winery, and if that's not grown up material, jesus, I don't know what is. In this case, perhaps it's a mid-twenties life crisis, or a mid-mid-life crisis. Am I subconsciously seeking my youth through a reckless, endangering form of entertainment?
In the end, maybe I'm just overthinking it. I mean, it is a motorcycle after all. They're awesome. Beyond that, do you need another reason? This is an open call: call me if you want to ride.
*There are some of you that are thinking, "Ben, you're not tough enough for any of this, why are you worrying about the color of a jacket you'll never get?" To those people: piss off, a-wipes.
Now, I don't want just any motorcycle and leather jacket. No, I don't want to be the middle-aged man looking to buy a shiny Harley and cruise like Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider, uh uh, no; nor do I want to be some a-wipe in a leather racing jacket and cargo shorts swerving in and out of traffic on his lime green crotch rocket. No, I want the Marlon Brando or James Dean-style shit: cropped leather racing jacket on a simple, black motorcycle. No flash, no pomp, just a GD motorcycle.
I hope you're getting the aesthetic here. Now, for the jacket, a simple leather cafe racer jacket will suffice. I realize this deviates a bit from the ones pictured above, but simplicity is key. I'm thinking brown, because, let's face it, I'm just not tough enough for black.*
As for the bike, simplicity is again the key. I've put a lot of thought into this part (arguably the most important part), and have come to a brand-based decision: Triumph motorcycles. Here is one of the original Triumphs ridden by Brando in the pictures:
This is a Triumph Thunderbird, which they don't make anymore. So, as a fitting replacement, I'm going with either a Bonneville:or a Thruxton:of course, either would suffice. They're pretty similar in design and price, and I would definitely go with black, although I saw a pretty badass dark green Bonneville a while ago.But let's be realistic, I could easily find the leather jacket for an affordable price on ebay, but will I ever get the motorcycle? It's certainly not affordable considering that we're buying a house and getting our masters degrees. Which brings me to another point: why the hell do I want them now? Why was I so content not to have one before? Is it because we're buying a house and getting a master's degree, two things indicative of being a "grown up?" I mean, I did just see Tears for Fears at the Chateau St. Michelle Winery, and if that's not grown up material, jesus, I don't know what is. In this case, perhaps it's a mid-twenties life crisis, or a mid-mid-life crisis. Am I subconsciously seeking my youth through a reckless, endangering form of entertainment?
In the end, maybe I'm just overthinking it. I mean, it is a motorcycle after all. They're awesome. Beyond that, do you need another reason? This is an open call: call me if you want to ride.
*There are some of you that are thinking, "Ben, you're not tough enough for any of this, why are you worrying about the color of a jacket you'll never get?" To those people: piss off, a-wipes.
Dollar Stores: Multiple Universes?
I don't like dollar stores.
They creep me out; there's something unsettling about the people who work there (day-time tavern maids), the smell (dirty Rite-Aid), and the products. The thing is about the products - and they have almost everything at the dollar store - is that I don't recognize any of them. There are no recognizable brands in the store, as if these products never really existed. It's like entering a parallel universe, similar to our own universe, but with subtle variations. You can't quite put a finger on the differences until you look closely at the shelves. Surely no one in our universe has bought a ceramic rabbit playing football and put it on their mantel; what kind of power sources does this sister universe use that makes batteries so affordable?
When I force myself to look closely at the food products (perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the dollar store), I expect to find the change in names you see in science fiction novels. For example, in The Golden Compass, a bar of chocolate is called a bar of "chocolatl," as the cultural-linguistic history of the word "chocolate" never occurred in the GC universe. Sure enough, the dollar store universe seems to share most of our important historical events, because the names of ingredients and manufacturing towns are the same.
With that being said, no one has heard of or seen these products. They must be from somewhere/time that never existed in our own universe.
I wonder, then, if it is unnatural to co-exist in multiple dimensions. In this, I mean that if we exist too long in the universe that is not our own, do we put our health at risk, or worse, the existence of these co-existent universes? Many sci-fi stories have concerned theirselves with this conundrum. What happens if I eat this $1 cereal or package of nuts I've never seen? What will happen to my hair if I use this shampoo brand I've never heard of? What happens if I drink this pop that never existed?
Whether this is the case or not, I will not ever enter this dollar dimension long enough to test the quantum limitations.
They creep me out; there's something unsettling about the people who work there (day-time tavern maids), the smell (dirty Rite-Aid), and the products. The thing is about the products - and they have almost everything at the dollar store - is that I don't recognize any of them. There are no recognizable brands in the store, as if these products never really existed. It's like entering a parallel universe, similar to our own universe, but with subtle variations. You can't quite put a finger on the differences until you look closely at the shelves. Surely no one in our universe has bought a ceramic rabbit playing football and put it on their mantel; what kind of power sources does this sister universe use that makes batteries so affordable?
When I force myself to look closely at the food products (perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the dollar store), I expect to find the change in names you see in science fiction novels. For example, in The Golden Compass, a bar of chocolate is called a bar of "chocolatl," as the cultural-linguistic history of the word "chocolate" never occurred in the GC universe. Sure enough, the dollar store universe seems to share most of our important historical events, because the names of ingredients and manufacturing towns are the same.
With that being said, no one has heard of or seen these products. They must be from somewhere/time that never existed in our own universe.
I wonder, then, if it is unnatural to co-exist in multiple dimensions. In this, I mean that if we exist too long in the universe that is not our own, do we put our health at risk, or worse, the existence of these co-existent universes? Many sci-fi stories have concerned theirselves with this conundrum. What happens if I eat this $1 cereal or package of nuts I've never seen? What will happen to my hair if I use this shampoo brand I've never heard of? What happens if I drink this pop that never existed?
Whether this is the case or not, I will not ever enter this dollar dimension long enough to test the quantum limitations.
TFF! USA! TFF! USA!
List of awesome things:
1. Tears for Fears.
2. Drinking wine.
3. Eating crab cakes.
4. Watching Jimbo (dad) do a half sprint to get good concert seats.
5. Watching Jim do things #2 and #3 and then start to dance.
There are few places you can do all five of these things, but I have managed to find that place: Chateau St. Michelle. Jimbo refers to it as his "special place," and I'm happy to say it's now my happy place too.
Sure the wine's way overpriced ($40 a bottle!), and sure it's in Woodinville (more like Woof'nville), and it's festival seating, but let me assure you that it's the most brilliant concert venue I've been to in a long time. That means a lot coming from me because I really don't like to go to concerts anymore; people bug me, it's overpriced, and it takes too long. Last night, o night, was perfect.
First of all we spent a looonnnggg time in line while my parents chatted up some people behind us. Turns out he's a local basketball coach. His brother (cousin?) starts talking to us
Ok pause, because I could best explain it by describing Ash, our new friend, as the East Indian David Coy. A talker, charming, quick thinking, and overtly social, the guy can hook you.
Unpause.
So David, er, Ash, and Jimbo start talking about seating. Jimbo lets Ash & co. in on his strategy for finding the perfect spot, Jimbo's El Dorado if you will. Ash tells Jimbo that he's following him and that they are now best friends. He also promises him a "sick" bottle of wine.*
When the doors open, Jimmy B. pumps his little hobbit legs as fast as he can. All we see is his neon green folding chair backpack bobbing up and down across the field. At one point, you can he hesitates; apparently, the Winery has a new system for letting in people, which throws Jimbo Baggins' plan out the window. Moments later, he has formulated a new plan and is back to humping (I'm using Vietnam vocabulary now) his chair across the green. He stakes his claim with a blanket or two and gives the stink eye to anyone who challenges him on his turf. We're in.
And then the feasting. Wine, cheese, crackers, wine, shrimp salad, wine, crab cakes, champagne, and cookies. Then more wine. We trade food with Ash & co. (actually, it's not really "we," just Jimbo and Ash, yeah, it gets a little bromantic for a while). Ash fulfills his promise and buys a sick bottle of wine for us. Cheers!
Wait! What are we doing? We've got tickets for Tears for Fears! Yeah! In the middle of bottle #4, TFF hits the stage. Maybe it was the fairly decent sound system; maybe it was the two and half decades of writing hit songs; maybe it was the five bottles of wine, but TFF was f'ing amazing. Best band, ever. The crowd thought so, too, because they got their shit in the air everytime a jam was played. White people were dancingn like you've never seen. Ash did hip hop arms back and forth the whole show while drunk diling everyone he knew (he then alternated between singing into the phone and raising it in the air to let his annoyed friends listen on the other end of the line). My parents watched everything he did; I think my they had a huge crush on him, and to be perfectly honest, how could you not after a few bottles of wine? Dude was hilarious!
TFF looked good. They've aged well considering how ugly they were
as kids (see right). Most importantly, though, they sounded the exact
same! Roland Orzobal's voice sounded exactly like it does on the record. So good. They played all the hits: Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Woman in Chains, Sowing the Seeds of Love, Break it Down, Head Over Heels, and Shout (do you want an encore, do you want more? yes plz!). Whoever Ash called during "Shout" really got quite the call, because he got midly aggressive during that song. Who doesn't, though?
So now that I've shouted and let it all out, here are the things I can do without:
1. Concerts anywhere besides Chateau St. Michelle.
2. Alcohol-free shows.
3. Shows were you can't eat crab cakes.
Come on! I'm talking to you. Come on!
Listen:
Break It Down Again
Everybody Wants to Rule the World
Head Over Heels
*Yeah, I know, he said "sick" to mean "awesome." He was kinda douchey, but he was Canadian (Vancouver), so we let it slide.
1. Tears for Fears.
2. Drinking wine.
3. Eating crab cakes.
4. Watching Jimbo (dad) do a half sprint to get good concert seats.
5. Watching Jim do things #2 and #3 and then start to dance.
There are few places you can do all five of these things, but I have managed to find that place: Chateau St. Michelle. Jimbo refers to it as his "special place," and I'm happy to say it's now my happy place too.
Sure the wine's way overpriced ($40 a bottle!), and sure it's in Woodinville (more like Woof'nville), and it's festival seating, but let me assure you that it's the most brilliant concert venue I've been to in a long time. That means a lot coming from me because I really don't like to go to concerts anymore; people bug me, it's overpriced, and it takes too long. Last night, o night, was perfect.
First of all we spent a looonnnggg time in line while my parents chatted up some people behind us. Turns out he's a local basketball coach. His brother (cousin?) starts talking to us
Ok pause, because I could best explain it by describing Ash, our new friend, as the East Indian David Coy. A talker, charming, quick thinking, and overtly social, the guy can hook you.
Unpause.
So David, er, Ash, and Jimbo start talking about seating. Jimbo lets Ash & co. in on his strategy for finding the perfect spot, Jimbo's El Dorado if you will. Ash tells Jimbo that he's following him and that they are now best friends. He also promises him a "sick" bottle of wine.*
When the doors open, Jimmy B. pumps his little hobbit legs as fast as he can. All we see is his neon green folding chair backpack bobbing up and down across the field. At one point, you can he hesitates; apparently, the Winery has a new system for letting in people, which throws Jimbo Baggins' plan out the window. Moments later, he has formulated a new plan and is back to humping (I'm using Vietnam vocabulary now) his chair across the green. He stakes his claim with a blanket or two and gives the stink eye to anyone who challenges him on his turf. We're in.
And then the feasting. Wine, cheese, crackers, wine, shrimp salad, wine, crab cakes, champagne, and cookies. Then more wine. We trade food with Ash & co. (actually, it's not really "we," just Jimbo and Ash, yeah, it gets a little bromantic for a while). Ash fulfills his promise and buys a sick bottle of wine for us. Cheers!
Wait! What are we doing? We've got tickets for Tears for Fears! Yeah! In the middle of bottle #4, TFF hits the stage. Maybe it was the fairly decent sound system; maybe it was the two and half decades of writing hit songs; maybe it was the five bottles of wine, but TFF was f'ing amazing. Best band, ever. The crowd thought so, too, because they got their shit in the air everytime a jam was played. White people were dancingn like you've never seen. Ash did hip hop arms back and forth the whole show while drunk diling everyone he knew (he then alternated between singing into the phone and raising it in the air to let his annoyed friends listen on the other end of the line). My parents watched everything he did; I think my they had a huge crush on him, and to be perfectly honest, how could you not after a few bottles of wine? Dude was hilarious!
TFF looked good. They've aged well considering how ugly they were
as kids (see right). Most importantly, though, they sounded the exact
same! Roland Orzobal's voice sounded exactly like it does on the record. So good. They played all the hits: Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Woman in Chains, Sowing the Seeds of Love, Break it Down, Head Over Heels, and Shout (do you want an encore, do you want more? yes plz!). Whoever Ash called during "Shout" really got quite the call, because he got midly aggressive during that song. Who doesn't, though?
So now that I've shouted and let it all out, here are the things I can do without:
1. Concerts anywhere besides Chateau St. Michelle.
2. Alcohol-free shows.
3. Shows were you can't eat crab cakes.
Come on! I'm talking to you. Come on!
Listen:
Break It Down Again
Everybody Wants to Rule the World
Head Over Heels
*Yeah, I know, he said "sick" to mean "awesome." He was kinda douchey, but he was Canadian (Vancouver), so we let it slide.
Agenticity
Like most young boys (and some nerdy girls), I spent a lot of time wondering about the great mysteries of our time: aliens, sasquatch, and the bermuda triangle. I read as many books from the library as I could get my grubby little hands on, watched episodes of Unsolved Mysteries once the opening scenes were finished (too scary), and rented as many VHS tapes as I could from S&S Videoworks down the street.
As I reflect back on it, I seem to remember a lot more mainstream media coverage on those topics, as well as specials on the end of the world, biblical prophesy, and the dead sea scrolls (the last three being interrelated as far as the one-hour specials on Fox were concerned). Perhaps it was a symptom of postmodernism: the fall of the great political super powers to capitolism, the shallow light of day after the plastic, neon night of materialism that was the 1980s, and so on. We were a culture looking for answers and/or some kind of salvation, whether it was through the end times or the arrival of the ineffable powers that be.
I grew up, though, and the idea of sasquatch and aliens, however pleasurable to my simple, suburban world, seemed implausible to the rational, adult world I was becoming a part of. Every once in a while, I picked up a book or an article on the great mysteries of my childhood, and although some authors make a good argument for the supernatural (Daniel Pinchbeck's research on aliens and crop circles in 2012 are intriguing), I found myself erring on the Dana Scully side of the X-Files. I want to believe, but I just can't.
Scientific American recently published a short essay by Michael Shermer that coincides with my venture into Scully-levels of skepticism. The theory is based on another theory by the author:
I don't know if I buy it, necessarily, but it does seem to account for a lot of those terrible one-hour specials about Nostradamus and the dead sea scrolls, not to mention The DaVinci Code. In the end, it's another theory that seems to outweigh the irrational accounts and theories of the believers of the world.
As I reflect back on it, I seem to remember a lot more mainstream media coverage on those topics, as well as specials on the end of the world, biblical prophesy, and the dead sea scrolls (the last three being interrelated as far as the one-hour specials on Fox were concerned). Perhaps it was a symptom of postmodernism: the fall of the great political super powers to capitolism, the shallow light of day after the plastic, neon night of materialism that was the 1980s, and so on. We were a culture looking for answers and/or some kind of salvation, whether it was through the end times or the arrival of the ineffable powers that be.
I grew up, though, and the idea of sasquatch and aliens, however pleasurable to my simple, suburban world, seemed implausible to the rational, adult world I was becoming a part of. Every once in a while, I picked up a book or an article on the great mysteries of my childhood, and although some authors make a good argument for the supernatural (Daniel Pinchbeck's research on aliens and crop circles in 2012 are intriguing), I found myself erring on the Dana Scully side of the X-Files. I want to believe, but I just can't.
Scientific American recently published a short essay by Michael Shermer that coincides with my venture into Scully-levels of skepticism. The theory is based on another theory by the author:
“Patternicity:” the human tendency to find meaningful patterns in meaningless noise.In it, he explains that, as a result of this tendency, we project larger meanings onto these patterns.
“Agenticity”: the tendency to believe that the world is controlled by invisible intentional agents. We believe that these intentional agents control the world, sometimes invisibly from the top down (as opposed to bottom-up causal randomness).In other words, if these patterns do exist (empirically or not, it doesn't seem to matter), humans will find a pattern in the chaos of the universe. If there is a pattern, it has to have been created by some intelligent being(s), and if we are only now perceiving it, it must have been there prior to our existence or ability to perceive it in terms of technology. Considering this, the being(s) must be beyond us in intellect and power, thus he/she/it/they must be controlling us.
I don't know if I buy it, necessarily, but it does seem to account for a lot of those terrible one-hour specials about Nostradamus and the dead sea scrolls, not to mention The DaVinci Code. In the end, it's another theory that seems to outweigh the irrational accounts and theories of the believers of the world.
Like I said...
But I just can't.
But I just can't.
Abandoned: LIfe As We Knew It
When the world comes to an abrupt and catastrophic end, which it likely will, and does, in Life As We Knew It, things necessarily get pushed by the wayside. Jobs, school, and figure skating just aren't as important as ensuring the survival of yourself and your family in a post-apocalyptic world. Unfortunately, the everyday problems of teenage girls remain. Friends, boys, and body image still rule in the land of sweet sixteen, even after the moon has been pushed out of its orbit (the meteor was denser than anticipated), causing tidal waves, volcanic eruptions, and climate change. True, mosquitoes are now carrying the West Nile virus, but Dan is so cute (and he notices me now when he didn't before) that I'm going to risk going outside and go swimming.
Well I'm not risking finishing the book.
ABANDONED in Twilight land.
Thrift Store Shoes
I don't make it to the thrift store too often. I would love to be one of those people who have the patience to revisit the same spot every few days to find the "deals," but I just can't do it. Blame it on having a life, or blame it on procrastination, or a general lack of follow-through I have demonstrated throughout my life. Today, though, I did visit the thrift store, and I bought something I've never even looked at: Thrift store shoes.
That's right, some guy never really wore his Dexter brand suede chucks, the same ones I was going to buy for $60 on amazon.com (best deal).
So these aren't the exact shoe, but they're close enough.
So I washed them, disinfected them with rubbing alcohol, and let some ants crawl over them to munch away at anything that might later touch my feet. To be honest, they're probably now cleaner than any other pair of shoes I own. Should I be doing anything else to prevent the bacterial hordes from taking down the walls of the Helm's Deep of my skin?
Now, I've owned thrift store coats, ties, shirts - you name it - but never, ever shoes. For whatever reason, the idea is still a little icky to me. I think if I wear them a couple of times and put the idea of old man feet out of my mind, then I think I can move on. I feel like it's a Fear Factor event.
I'm going to win this event and get free immunity for the next event (thrift store hat?!?!?!).
That's right, some guy never really wore his Dexter brand suede chucks, the same ones I was going to buy for $60 on amazon.com (best deal).
So these aren't the exact shoe, but they're close enough.
So I washed them, disinfected them with rubbing alcohol, and let some ants crawl over them to munch away at anything that might later touch my feet. To be honest, they're probably now cleaner than any other pair of shoes I own. Should I be doing anything else to prevent the bacterial hordes from taking down the walls of the Helm's Deep of my skin?Now, I've owned thrift store coats, ties, shirts - you name it - but never, ever shoes. For whatever reason, the idea is still a little icky to me. I think if I wear them a couple of times and put the idea of old man feet out of my mind, then I think I can move on. I feel like it's a Fear Factor event.
I'm going to win this event and get free immunity for the next event (thrift store hat?!?!?!).
Library Finds: Shortcomings
Despite all the good attention and press they're getting, graphic novels haven't quite moved beyond the "comic book" stigma in the mainstream. Case in point: every time I recommend one to my friends, I do so with the caveat that "it's a graphic novel, so, you know, it might not be your thing," which I don't really buy into in the first place. Sorry graphic novels, I'm kinda a douche bag about you, still.
Speaking of douche bags, Shortcomings follows Ben, an Asian-American late twenty-something after his long-time girlfriend, Miko, breaks up with him. He seeks solace in his lesbian best friend and young white women, which his ex thinks he fetishizes. It explores issues of race (cultural assimilation and fetishization) and gender in a subtle way that didn't put me off as too college sophomore liberatin
g their mind in sociology 201.More importantly, though, the art was simple and beautiful. Tomine manages to do so much with so little. All of the art is in black & white ink.
The graphic novel does get points for the title, which may or may not refer to the stereotype of the asian male wang. Yes, that subject is discussed, briefly.
Library Finds: The Gunslinger
This book marks my first experience reading Stephen King. The last time I encountered Mr. King was in 3rd grade watching The Stand on VHS and drinking Jolt Cola in order to make it through all four hours. It was awesome, and like most things from 3rd grade, not awesome. So, it was with a bit of trepidation that I entered The Dark Tower series.
So why commit so much of myself and my time (seven books long!) with someone I hardly know: LOST. The writers of the show say that the DT series has probably influenced the direction of the show more than any other written works. This being so, I feel it's like the baby I unintentionally knocked up my girlfriend with. As a diehard LOST fan and Catholic-raised man, I have to commit.
Now, I feel the same way about the sci-fi/fantasy genre and women: I like'em a little quirky, but not too quirky. Too much in fantasy direction and you lose me in alternating waves of pity and incredulity; too much in the opposite direction (realism/too serious women) and you lose me in alternating waves of apathy and incredulity.
So, which side does The Gunslinger fall on? Put it this way, if book one of the series were a girl in high school, she'd be the girl that wore one of those beanies with cat ears on it and drew anime on her notebook. It's pretty goddamned nerdy. Luckily, I picked up the revised edition, which King wrote a forward explaining that he wrote the book when he was 19, so he applied a little of what he now knows as a writer to the book. Thank you, Mr. King. I can only imagine what it was like before. Woof. The premise is pretty cool, but the language is pretty difficult to get through at times without gagging or rolling your eyes. I mean, it's still better than anything Dan Brown (The DaVinci Code) wrote. That guy eats my poo.
The premise: Take Clint Eastwood's character from The Good, the Bad, & the Ugly, mix in a little Arthurian legend, and a shake of Cormac McCarthy's American dystopia. Voila. The gunslinger chases down the Man in Black (why, we don't really know yet) until the very end of the book, where he finds a little of his destiny (to reach the dark tower, a nexus of time and space).
If you can make it past some of the stilted language and pacing, it's not a bad read. The end' is promising, and, apparently, the quality of the books improves drastically with each successive installment. I've already got book two on hold.
Let me know what you think of it.
That kind of teacher...
Today is the day before the last day of school. This is typically the last real day of school in terms of student presence and actual learning (though, the latter is unlikely at this time), so it's often the time that those teachers who really connect with their students give a heartfelt send-off.
I apparently, am not one of those teachers.
Now, mind you, I'm not the other kind of teacher, either. You know, the ones that never seemed to give a damn in the first place and invested little to none of themselves in their class or their students; the kind of teacher you forgot you had unless he or she was a terrible person and made your life miserable. Even time seems to erase those names, though. My 7th grade science teacher, the devil's niece, was one of those teachers. Damn. What was her name?
With five minutes left to go I rounded up the troops; these were kids I'd been with from my first day onwards. They'd seen me screw up (though, they might not have known it), succeed, fall on my ass (literally), break up fights, swear, trip, laugh, rock out, make a fool out of myself, and find out I still had a job. I was their lieutenant and, dammit, they were my unit. So here they were, sitting their, waiting. Some were texting, a few talking, a few staring outside, and I started to give a half-planned, heart-felt speech. The talkers continued to talk until someone told them to shut up, because "Ballew's giving a speech!"
And then, I didn't give it.
Well, I kinda did. I wished them well, told them to be safe, the stuff parents tell you, but not a teacher. I just couldn't do it, though. I thought I had the words, the sentiment, the desire, but when it came time, I didn't have any of it. I felt awkward and disingenuous, and had I kept going, I think they would have seen through it right away. Instead, I just gave up and looked for funny stories from over our time together. Maybe that will be my direction: let the stories do the talking. Sure, I could say the same trite thing the students will hear from their other teachers, but as you quickly find out in your first year, a lot of the times kids just aren't listening. Instead, I'll let the stories do the talking, and hope that the class is mature enough to pick up on the idea that we've invested a lot of time and ourselves into room C208.
Author's Note:
I realize looking over this, it's not funny, clever, or particularly relevant to what our normal blog posts have been about, but it was on my mind. It's something that teachers think about; the legacy they will leave behind, though it's the teacher that stays behind. It's nostalgic, corny, and quite a bit arrogant, but those seem to be essential parts of effective teaching.
In the end, I'm comfortable with the fact that I'm not Jaime Escalante or Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society. I don't care enough in the first place, so why should I suddenly care (or fake caring) in the last place?
This doesn't make me a bad teacher, does it? I mean, I don't want to have a heart attack like Escalante, even if he did have Lou Diamond Phillips in his class. Psshh...
I apparently, am not one of those teachers.
Now, mind you, I'm not the other kind of teacher, either. You know, the ones that never seemed to give a damn in the first place and invested little to none of themselves in their class or their students; the kind of teacher you forgot you had unless he or she was a terrible person and made your life miserable. Even time seems to erase those names, though. My 7th grade science teacher, the devil's niece, was one of those teachers. Damn. What was her name?
With five minutes left to go I rounded up the troops; these were kids I'd been with from my first day onwards. They'd seen me screw up (though, they might not have known it), succeed, fall on my ass (literally), break up fights, swear, trip, laugh, rock out, make a fool out of myself, and find out I still had a job. I was their lieutenant and, dammit, they were my unit. So here they were, sitting their, waiting. Some were texting, a few talking, a few staring outside, and I started to give a half-planned, heart-felt speech. The talkers continued to talk until someone told them to shut up, because "Ballew's giving a speech!"
And then, I didn't give it.
Well, I kinda did. I wished them well, told them to be safe, the stuff parents tell you, but not a teacher. I just couldn't do it, though. I thought I had the words, the sentiment, the desire, but when it came time, I didn't have any of it. I felt awkward and disingenuous, and had I kept going, I think they would have seen through it right away. Instead, I just gave up and looked for funny stories from over our time together. Maybe that will be my direction: let the stories do the talking. Sure, I could say the same trite thing the students will hear from their other teachers, but as you quickly find out in your first year, a lot of the times kids just aren't listening. Instead, I'll let the stories do the talking, and hope that the class is mature enough to pick up on the idea that we've invested a lot of time and ourselves into room C208.
Author's Note:
I realize looking over this, it's not funny, clever, or particularly relevant to what our normal blog posts have been about, but it was on my mind. It's something that teachers think about; the legacy they will leave behind, though it's the teacher that stays behind. It's nostalgic, corny, and quite a bit arrogant, but those seem to be essential parts of effective teaching.
In the end, I'm comfortable with the fact that I'm not Jaime Escalante or Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society. I don't care enough in the first place, so why should I suddenly care (or fake caring) in the last place?
This doesn't make me a bad teacher, does it? I mean, I don't want to have a heart attack like Escalante, even if he did have Lou Diamond Phillips in his class. Psshh...
The Proof is in the Powerpoint
As a teacher, I have my suspicions of who likes to smoke a joint or two and who doesn't. It's not terribly hard to pick out those Cheech and Chong-ites. They usually exhibit all the cliche traits you associate with stoners: tye-dye, Bob Marley shirts & hats, hobbit-ish hair, a certain proneness to staring throughout the day, interest in hemp, and the desire to do a project on legalizing it. Hell, sometimes you can just plan smell it on them and whoosh, off to the office.
I would imagine they would try to hide it, but I suppose that's against their gentle, relaxed disposition. That's why I was both surprised and not surprised while watching the following student presentation. This person is a notorious stoner, but manages to get by thanks to his elf-like innocence and average grades. The proof, I maintain, can be found in the background images to each of the slides.
Click on the image below to see the subsequent slides.
Slide #1: Hella trippy.
Slide #2: Skating is not a crime. Neither should pot be. It's totally harmless. Legalize them.
Slide #3: Like static on the TV. Dude, did you ever see Poltergeist? It's like that movie! Dude!
Slide #4: Lightning. Tight.
Slide #5: Just thinking about the brain is so trippy, don't you think? That pic is rad, too.
Slide #6: I smoke two joints in the morning, I smoke two joints at night...
Slide #7: Wood, like the skate board ramp my friend's step dad built but I said I built for my project.
Slide #8: A seed. I don't know, it just looked cool.
Slide #9: Pure white. Think about it, dude.
POSTSCRIPT
As if I didn't need any more proof, as I was typing this up, the student attempted to staple two papers together but got stuck. Eventually he figured it out and then asked to use the library. Had he gone, my money says he wouldn't have actually made it there...
I would imagine they would try to hide it, but I suppose that's against their gentle, relaxed disposition. That's why I was both surprised and not surprised while watching the following student presentation. This person is a notorious stoner, but manages to get by thanks to his elf-like innocence and average grades. The proof, I maintain, can be found in the background images to each of the slides.
Click on the image below to see the subsequent slides.
Slide #1: Hella trippy.
Slide #2: Skating is not a crime. Neither should pot be. It's totally harmless. Legalize them.
Slide #3: Like static on the TV. Dude, did you ever see Poltergeist? It's like that movie! Dude!
Slide #4: Lightning. Tight.
Slide #5: Just thinking about the brain is so trippy, don't you think? That pic is rad, too.
Slide #6: I smoke two joints in the morning, I smoke two joints at night...
Slide #7: Wood, like the skate board ramp my friend's step dad built but I said I built for my project.
Slide #8: A seed. I don't know, it just looked cool.
Slide #9: Pure white. Think about it, dude.
POSTSCRIPT
As if I didn't need any more proof, as I was typing this up, the student attempted to staple two papers together but got stuck. Eventually he figured it out and then asked to use the library. Had he gone, my money says he wouldn't have actually made it there...
Reasons I would be a good Native American
Gross generalizations aside, I feel that I would be a fantastic Native American. Here are few reasons why I feel this way (which have been informed by little reading on tribal culture, art, Sherman Alexie novels, and a 2nd grade field trip):
*Never actually done it, but appreciate it nonetheless
I plan to continue adding to this list. Check back soon.
- I like nuts and berries.
- I like salmon.
- I have similar hair in that water seems to "roll off" my hair, not wet it.
- I like whiskey and beer.
- I don't trust the white man.
- I like to kayak, which is very similar to canoeing.
- I like Neil Young.
- I like to dance.
- I like woodworking*
*Never actually done it, but appreciate it nonetheless
I plan to continue adding to this list. Check back soon.
Emperor of the Universe
After his song "Mother-in-law" became a number one hit on the R&B charts, New Orleans artist Ernie K-Doe proclaimed that only two songs would still be known in 1,000 years. The first was "The Star Spangled Banner," the second was "Mother-in-Law."
I am happy to say that, so far, he is correct.
Check it out
K-Doe also proclaimed himself the Emperor of the Universe. I suppose the title was up for grabs at that point in time - that is, unless L. Ron Hubbard isn't full of shit.
I am happy to say that, so far, he is correct.
Check it out
K-Doe also proclaimed himself the Emperor of the Universe. I suppose the title was up for grabs at that point in time - that is, unless L. Ron Hubbard isn't full of shit.
"What part of 'I got pissed on' don't you understand?"
Based on true events, but names have been changed to respect anonymity.
Pete and Juan go to the bathroom during lunch. They use adjacent urinals, cause, hey, they're buddies, and buddies can pee in close proximity to one another without it being gay. As they're peeing, another boy leaves the bathroom and turns off the lights on his way out. This surprises Pete, who then turns to face the light switch, and in the act of turning pees down Juan's leg.
"Dude! Ah! What the f#$%! You just pissed on my f#%cking leg!" Juan yells as Pete laughs in disbelief.
"Shit! What am I going to do? You just pissed on my leg dude. Oh god. That's disgusting! People are going to see! I'm going to kick your ass you f*@cking asshole!"
Pete laughs some more. "That's so gross. You gotta wash that out man, or it's going to stink!"
"F#%k you! You're such a piece of shit. I can't believe you f*#cking pissed one me. Jesus!"
"Sorry dude, it was an accident. Really."
"How is that an accident? You turned and pissed on my jeans! I got f#$cking pissed on! You're an asshole!"
Pete then gets a paper towl, wets it, then washes his jeans. At this point in time, it has come to the attention of the vice principals and security officers that something is up in the bathroom. As Pete and Juan walk out of the bathroom they are stopped by a group of school officials and the eyes of the 500 other students eating lunch.
Like wildfire, the story has spread trhoughout the commons that Juan peed on Pete in the bathroom. Between the principals, security officers, and the 500 other students, there are a total of 510 eyes looking over Pete. Sure enough, as he turns to discuss the event with the principals, a large wet spot on Pete's leg becomes visible. Chaos ensues and Juan is rushed to the office while Pete explains what exactly happened.
Pete walks back to Mr. Blue's class and waits for him to arrive. A dozen or so classmates join him outside the door while he explains what happened again. Mr. Blue soon arrives and notices a congregation growing in front of his door, Pete at its heart.
"What's up? How was lunch, guys?" Mr. Blue asks, looking towards the obviously distraught Pete.
"Shitty!"
"Whoa, watch the language there. What happened? Why was it bad?" The rest of the kids giggle and snigger under their breaths.
"I got pissed on."
"What?"
"I got pissed on. A guy pissed on my leg!"
"What? Are you kidding. No really, seriously."
"What part of 'I got pissed on' don't you understand?" Mr. Blue laughs incredulously and stares in disbelief.
Pause.
"Well, did you wash it off?"
"Yeah, of course!"
"With soap?"
"No." Mr. Blue laughs some more, then suggests that Pete go wash it down with some soap.
A few minutes later Pete rejoins the class. Mr. Blue finally settles down the class and manages to get them to move on to the subject at hand: Lord of the Flies. As the read together, the story's antagonist throws a piece of meat at another boy and tells him to eat it or else...
"Or else I'll piss on your leg" The boy seated next to Pete yells. The class erupts; Mr. Blue even breaks and laughs a bit. He corrals them again and moves on. As he continues reading, the image of Pete getting peed on continually flashes across his mind. With each sentence his grin grows wider until, by the end of the paragraph, he begins laughing. He blames it on another teacher's story from lunch. This process continues for four long pages. All the while Pete sits, staring into the windows across from him. By the end of the period, he has his face on the desk and his book lies on the floor.
The bell rings and the students leave. Pete leaves, dry.
Based on actual events.
Pete and Juan go to the bathroom during lunch. They use adjacent urinals, cause, hey, they're buddies, and buddies can pee in close proximity to one another without it being gay. As they're peeing, another boy leaves the bathroom and turns off the lights on his way out. This surprises Pete, who then turns to face the light switch, and in the act of turning pees down Juan's leg.
"Dude! Ah! What the f#$%! You just pissed on my f#%cking leg!" Juan yells as Pete laughs in disbelief.
"Shit! What am I going to do? You just pissed on my leg dude. Oh god. That's disgusting! People are going to see! I'm going to kick your ass you f*@cking asshole!"
Pete laughs some more. "That's so gross. You gotta wash that out man, or it's going to stink!"
"F#%k you! You're such a piece of shit. I can't believe you f*#cking pissed one me. Jesus!"
"Sorry dude, it was an accident. Really."
"How is that an accident? You turned and pissed on my jeans! I got f#$cking pissed on! You're an asshole!"
Pete then gets a paper towl, wets it, then washes his jeans. At this point in time, it has come to the attention of the vice principals and security officers that something is up in the bathroom. As Pete and Juan walk out of the bathroom they are stopped by a group of school officials and the eyes of the 500 other students eating lunch.
Like wildfire, the story has spread trhoughout the commons that Juan peed on Pete in the bathroom. Between the principals, security officers, and the 500 other students, there are a total of 510 eyes looking over Pete. Sure enough, as he turns to discuss the event with the principals, a large wet spot on Pete's leg becomes visible. Chaos ensues and Juan is rushed to the office while Pete explains what exactly happened.
Pete walks back to Mr. Blue's class and waits for him to arrive. A dozen or so classmates join him outside the door while he explains what happened again. Mr. Blue soon arrives and notices a congregation growing in front of his door, Pete at its heart.
"What's up? How was lunch, guys?" Mr. Blue asks, looking towards the obviously distraught Pete.
"Shitty!"
"Whoa, watch the language there. What happened? Why was it bad?" The rest of the kids giggle and snigger under their breaths.
"I got pissed on."
"What?"
"I got pissed on. A guy pissed on my leg!"
"What? Are you kidding. No really, seriously."
"What part of 'I got pissed on' don't you understand?" Mr. Blue laughs incredulously and stares in disbelief.
Pause.
"Well, did you wash it off?"
"Yeah, of course!"
"With soap?"
"No." Mr. Blue laughs some more, then suggests that Pete go wash it down with some soap.
A few minutes later Pete rejoins the class. Mr. Blue finally settles down the class and manages to get them to move on to the subject at hand: Lord of the Flies. As the read together, the story's antagonist throws a piece of meat at another boy and tells him to eat it or else...
"Or else I'll piss on your leg" The boy seated next to Pete yells. The class erupts; Mr. Blue even breaks and laughs a bit. He corrals them again and moves on. As he continues reading, the image of Pete getting peed on continually flashes across his mind. With each sentence his grin grows wider until, by the end of the paragraph, he begins laughing. He blames it on another teacher's story from lunch. This process continues for four long pages. All the while Pete sits, staring into the windows across from him. By the end of the period, he has his face on the desk and his book lies on the floor.
The bell rings and the students leave. Pete leaves, dry.
Based on actual events.
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