Sunday, February 27, 2005
afternoon in hell
As you, my dear reader, may not be a parent, you may not be aware that corporate America has designed its own insidious version of Hell to torment the parents of young children.
If, my dear reader, you are a parent of a young child or have been one in the past, you know doubt are already familiar with the tale of misery and woe I am about to share.
I empathize with you, and like Clinton, you no doubt feel my pain.
This afternoon The Boy had the honor to be one of three children other than cousins to be invited to a party by the niece of The Nurse (and virtual aunt). She just turned six. It was a birthday party.
The party was held at. . .
[INSERT DRAMATIC AND OMINOUS SOUNDING SOAP OPERA STYLE ORCHESTRAL FILL HERE]
Chuck E. Cheese's
Where a kid can be a kid!
And adults can spend a few hours secretly wishing they never had one.
Or at the very least, adults can spend a few hours wishing that Mr. Cheese had the decency to sell beer, like the good people of Peter Piper Pizza.
When you walk in, you are greeted by a Chuck E. Cheese security agent, a high school kid armed with an ultraviolet number stamp blocking your entrance with movie theater or bank lobby style vinyl covered rope barrier.
After stamping your family with the same invisible number to prevent child snatching, the security agent moves the rope aside and the Gates of Hell are opened wide.
(The same person also guards the exit and makes sure that everyone leaving together has the same number. I'd love to find out more about the lawsuit that lead to the implementation of that procedure.)
Within seconds of entering my head began to pound with an ache that could most easily be cured by a strong alcoholic beverage. Now that I am home following the ordeal, I am pleased to report that I have found the cure. (Thank you Martinis 101.)
It's not the kids. I love kids. I spend my days with them and have devoted my life to them.
Okay maybe it is the kids. There's just so damn many of them. Running and screaming and basically acting like little Hellions.
It's just sensory overload. The flashing lights and sounds from the games, all the freaking people.
And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
That's one thing I hate! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!
And I don't know exactly what it is, but those animatronic creatures that sing bastardized cover versions of oldies hits. . .
They somehow remind me of when acid goes bad.
Our nearest Chuck E. Cheese's is not located in the most affluent part of town. The Wife fondly refers to it as "The Ghetto Chuck E. Cheese's".
And that just adds to the experience.
There's nothing quite like the thrill of eating warm cardboard covered with melted grease while surrounded by the screaming children of hootchied out current and former teenage mothers in cut up t-shirts and low rise jeans two sizes too small along wit' their gangsta wannabe overblinged boyfriends and baby daddies.
Good times.
|
If, my dear reader, you are a parent of a young child or have been one in the past, you know doubt are already familiar with the tale of misery and woe I am about to share.
I empathize with you, and like Clinton, you no doubt feel my pain.
This afternoon The Boy had the honor to be one of three children other than cousins to be invited to a party by the niece of The Nurse (and virtual aunt). She just turned six. It was a birthday party.
The party was held at. . .
[INSERT DRAMATIC AND OMINOUS SOUNDING SOAP OPERA STYLE ORCHESTRAL FILL HERE]
Chuck E. Cheese's
Where a kid can be a kid!
And adults can spend a few hours secretly wishing they never had one.
Or at the very least, adults can spend a few hours wishing that Mr. Cheese had the decency to sell beer, like the good people of Peter Piper Pizza.
When you walk in, you are greeted by a Chuck E. Cheese security agent, a high school kid armed with an ultraviolet number stamp blocking your entrance with movie theater or bank lobby style vinyl covered rope barrier.
After stamping your family with the same invisible number to prevent child snatching, the security agent moves the rope aside and the Gates of Hell are opened wide.
(The same person also guards the exit and makes sure that everyone leaving together has the same number. I'd love to find out more about the lawsuit that lead to the implementation of that procedure.)
Within seconds of entering my head began to pound with an ache that could most easily be cured by a strong alcoholic beverage. Now that I am home following the ordeal, I am pleased to report that I have found the cure. (Thank you Martinis 101.)
It's not the kids. I love kids. I spend my days with them and have devoted my life to them.
Okay maybe it is the kids. There's just so damn many of them. Running and screaming and basically acting like little Hellions.
It's just sensory overload. The flashing lights and sounds from the games, all the freaking people.
And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
That's one thing I hate! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!
And I don't know exactly what it is, but those animatronic creatures that sing bastardized cover versions of oldies hits. . .
They somehow remind me of when acid goes bad.
Our nearest Chuck E. Cheese's is not located in the most affluent part of town. The Wife fondly refers to it as "The Ghetto Chuck E. Cheese's".
And that just adds to the experience.
There's nothing quite like the thrill of eating warm cardboard covered with melted grease while surrounded by the screaming children of hootchied out current and former teenage mothers in cut up t-shirts and low rise jeans two sizes too small along wit' their gangsta wannabe overblinged boyfriends and baby daddies.
Good times.
|
Friday, February 25, 2005
odd harmony of time
Today presents an odd harmony of time.
Exactly one month ago on this date, Curtis chose to end his life.
Exactly four weeks ago on this day, the funeral.
I still think lots about him, but just not everyday.
It was a perfect day for a funeral. Well, not a perfect day because the very nature of the event defies positive description. It was an appropriate day for a funeral. The world was a shadowless gray. The air was cold and damp.
The funeral was part Monty Python and part Reverend Lovejoy. It was held in a giant church that I thought more resembled a shopping mall than a house of worship. Ironically appropriate, I thought, given that is was located somewhere in the homogenous soul crushing belly of the beast that stands as giant monument to the misguided power of American consumer culture, the Suburban Sprawl.
Just because you can't change where you came from doesn't mean you have to like going back, for any reason.
If someone with a greater wisdom and propensity for cliche than I once said something about judging a man by the company he keeps. . .
Then, please allow me to invoke En Vogue:
"What a man, what a man, what a man
What a mighty good man"
When discussing the funeral and the days and events surrounding it, No. 6 told me that it would be "Just like our 20 year high school reunion, except even more depressing." On some level that may have been true. I did not attend the reunion so I can not say.
But when I looked around at my peers, the people I know, have known before, a few I met at that time, and one who contacted me recently via e-mail, I saw an amazingly diverse, articulate, successful and talented group of people of all races and creeds. Doctors, teachers, writers, musicians, artists, parents (even another parent of a child with disabilities similar to The Boy's), software developers and other hi-tech professionals. Business people from across the spectrum, accountants, real estate, etc.
All of us drawn together and connected by the common thread that was and forever will be Curtis.
Oddly enough, I don't recall meeting any lawyers. The Curtis I remember dreamed of being Michal Kuzak or Victor Sufuentes on L.A. Law. He talked of someday arguing great cases before the Supreme Court, of being a crusader for truth and justice.
His career as an attorney didn't turn out like that. Who knows? That may have been a factor.
Not everyone who wished to be there at the funeral could be there. That is understandable. Lives move in a myriad of ways and multitude of directions.
As a service to those people and for those of us who were there and would like to remember or to share with others, I am honored on this strange anniversary to present the official eulogy from the service.
It was the most moving and most difficult speech ever delivered by the One, the Only, the Wade.
I met Curtis in 1977, and I’ve talked about him countless times. I never imagined doing so in this setting. But I am honored to do so, as I feel honored to have known him, and am comforted by the faces of the family and friends gathered today to pay their respects.
What I have to say is for you, the living. Together we ride waves of shock, confusion, anger, sadness, remorse and helplessness. I’m sure each of us will anguish over the question ‘WHY’?. There is no answer. This is a riddle for which there will be no answer. We should not dwell on death, but instead turn our thoughts and energy towards life, and towards offering support for Curtis’s family, and for each other.
So today, we gather here to celebrate the life of Curtis Mulkey, our dear friend, brother, and son. We are here today because he touched all of our lives. In the faces among us, I see close friends that Curtis has known for decades. I’m not sure how many people can say they have as many long-term, and life-long relationships as Curtis had. He enjoyed being surrounded by his friends. He would drop everything for his friends. Amongst friends, Curtis was bursting with Joy and Warmth.
He had a charm, wit, and sense of humor that drew people to him, and kept them there. He took genuine pleasure in the people he knew. Curtis had an innate curiosity, and devoured information. Curtis had a voracious mind, both blessed, and burdened, with extreme intelligence.
His love of books was no doubt fostered by Tish, and in the Mulkey household, intellectual capital was never at a premium. Curtis was responsible for turning me on to ALL of my favorite authors. In so many ways, who I am today, what I think and feel, is a direct result of his wisdom and intelligence. In my estimation, however, Curtis’ greatest gift was his wry sense of humour, which many of us share.
Curtis was Co-Captain and Ringleader on too many Capers to recount. I’ve already shared some of my memories of Curtis with friends, and I’ve shared a special one with his family. In the weeks and months ahead, we will all recall and share more memories of Curtis. My own priceless experiences with Curtis would keep us here for hours. Instead, this morning, I will share a few of yours.
For example, Senderling and Curtis always took pride recalling how Curtis was there the first time Jon ever played at a club. They were chaperoned by their parents because they were only 15, and the bouncer threatened to break their hands if they touched a drink. Twenty three years later, Jon was still playing, and Curtis was still coming to listen.
Many recall Curtis at his happiest away from Civilization, camping, on a mountain, or in a cabin. Whether rock climbing in Colorado, or relentlessly out-fishing the competition, many of you felt Curtis found his Greatest Peace in the Great Outdoors.
Curtis was incredibly proud of his brother Jonathan. It is so rare for an older brother to look up to his younger sibling. When Jonathan was playing with one of the greatest bands in Dallas, Curtis was so proud, and he glowed with pride when all of his friends went to see his brother play. One such gig led to a special moment for two people in this room. Curtis brought people together, and on 6 January 1994, Curtis invited Kirstin to go see Jonathan's band play at the Galaxy Club.
Kirstin endured the opening act of Loveswing with their stage decoration of hundreds of candles. At some point during the night, Curtis introduced her to a man wearing a leather trench and a baseball cap. It's now 11 years later, and Simon and Kiri are blissfully married. Thank you, Curtis, for bringing them together.
Curtis was the Best Man at Randy’s wedding. With Confidence and Poise, he gave a thoughtful, heartfelt toast to Randy and Kelly, and their future together. He also helped the Groom and Groomsmen “Limber Up” for the ceremony. On this night, Curtis’ playful nature was never more evident. While the bride and bridesmaids were preparing, Curtis led the guys in to the Church Gym for a fullcourt game of basketball. . . in their Tuxes.
I must relate one final story, from Vines High School, in the early ‘80s. A special group of people in this room were all together in the Talented and Gifted Program, and many were also on the Quiz Team that competed against teams from other schools. I apologize in advance if you don’t find it hilarious, but at the time it brought the house down. It encapsulates the Gonzo Spirit of Intellectual Humor that we all shared from a very young age.
During WhizQuiz competitions, Curtis would often hit the buzzer long before the question was complete, and 90% of the time he could guess the answer to an incomplete question. I fondly remember the beaming smile on O.C.’s face during these moments. But one time, there was a three-part question on Islam. As usual, Curtis was the first to buzz in. Of course, he easily identified Mohammed as Islam’s Prophet, and the Koran as Islam’s Holy Text. However, the final part of the question was: “what is the Hegira?” There was a pause. No one knew. The moderator repeated “what is the Hegira?” … There was a moment of tension. …. The moderator said “final answer, what is the Hegira?” …. then, as one, Jake and Curtis both blurted out, “it was their football team.” (That wasn’t the correct answer, but at the time we rolling in the aisles).
Our relationship with Curtis is forever altered, but he will always be with us, in our thoughts, in our memories, in our dreams, and in the hereafter. We feel his presence recalling these moments. The fabric of our lives are forever intertwined.
This morning, though, not only do we rejoice in his life, but we allow the healing to begin. Turn grief in to positive energy, and send it out to him. Take time each day; recall the moments we had together. Think of him and allow yourself to smile, laugh, and in that way, he lives on through each of us. Instead of grieving our loss, we must feel blessed and fortunate to have Curtis Mulkey in each of our lives.
We will never know the answer to the question we all ask. There is only one certainty, one enduring truth: everyone in this room knew Curtis, and the only Truth we will ever know, is that Curtis is our friend.
And on behalf of all of his friends, I say, goodbye, Curtis Mulkey, Godspeed, and may the force be with you.
I leave you with selected words from one of our favorite authors:
And you and I climb, crossing the shapes of the morning.
And you and I reach, over the sun, for the river.
And you and I climb, clearer, to-wards the movement.
And you and I called, Over valleys of endless seas.
We architects of life, Developing words that linger
Through fields of green, through open eyes, This for us to see
You can mend the wires
You can feed the soul a part
You can touch your life
You can bring your soul alive
Many moons cascade one river
They light from side to side
As we cross in close proximity
Like rivers our hearts entwine
As we flow down life's rivers
We see the stars glow one by one
All angels of the magic constellation
Be singing us now
|
Exactly one month ago on this date, Curtis chose to end his life.
Exactly four weeks ago on this day, the funeral.
I still think lots about him, but just not everyday.
Goodbye Max
Goodbye Ma
After the service
When you're walking slowly to the car
And the silver in her hair shines in the cold november air
You hear the tolling bell
And touch the silk in your lapel
And as the tear drops rise to meet the comfort of the band
You take her frail hand
And hold on to the dream
- Roger Waters
It was a perfect day for a funeral. Well, not a perfect day because the very nature of the event defies positive description. It was an appropriate day for a funeral. The world was a shadowless gray. The air was cold and damp.
The funeral was part Monty Python and part Reverend Lovejoy. It was held in a giant church that I thought more resembled a shopping mall than a house of worship. Ironically appropriate, I thought, given that is was located somewhere in the homogenous soul crushing belly of the beast that stands as giant monument to the misguided power of American consumer culture, the Suburban Sprawl.
Just because you can't change where you came from doesn't mean you have to like going back, for any reason.
If someone with a greater wisdom and propensity for cliche than I once said something about judging a man by the company he keeps. . .
Then, please allow me to invoke En Vogue:
"What a man, what a man, what a man
What a mighty good man"
When discussing the funeral and the days and events surrounding it, No. 6 told me that it would be "Just like our 20 year high school reunion, except even more depressing." On some level that may have been true. I did not attend the reunion so I can not say.
But when I looked around at my peers, the people I know, have known before, a few I met at that time, and one who contacted me recently via e-mail, I saw an amazingly diverse, articulate, successful and talented group of people of all races and creeds. Doctors, teachers, writers, musicians, artists, parents (even another parent of a child with disabilities similar to The Boy's), software developers and other hi-tech professionals. Business people from across the spectrum, accountants, real estate, etc.
All of us drawn together and connected by the common thread that was and forever will be Curtis.
Oddly enough, I don't recall meeting any lawyers. The Curtis I remember dreamed of being Michal Kuzak or Victor Sufuentes on L.A. Law. He talked of someday arguing great cases before the Supreme Court, of being a crusader for truth and justice.
His career as an attorney didn't turn out like that. Who knows? That may have been a factor.
Not everyone who wished to be there at the funeral could be there. That is understandable. Lives move in a myriad of ways and multitude of directions.
As a service to those people and for those of us who were there and would like to remember or to share with others, I am honored on this strange anniversary to present the official eulogy from the service.
It was the most moving and most difficult speech ever delivered by the One, the Only, the Wade.
I met Curtis in 1977, and I’ve talked about him countless times. I never imagined doing so in this setting. But I am honored to do so, as I feel honored to have known him, and am comforted by the faces of the family and friends gathered today to pay their respects.
What I have to say is for you, the living. Together we ride waves of shock, confusion, anger, sadness, remorse and helplessness. I’m sure each of us will anguish over the question ‘WHY’?. There is no answer. This is a riddle for which there will be no answer. We should not dwell on death, but instead turn our thoughts and energy towards life, and towards offering support for Curtis’s family, and for each other.
So today, we gather here to celebrate the life of Curtis Mulkey, our dear friend, brother, and son. We are here today because he touched all of our lives. In the faces among us, I see close friends that Curtis has known for decades. I’m not sure how many people can say they have as many long-term, and life-long relationships as Curtis had. He enjoyed being surrounded by his friends. He would drop everything for his friends. Amongst friends, Curtis was bursting with Joy and Warmth.
He had a charm, wit, and sense of humor that drew people to him, and kept them there. He took genuine pleasure in the people he knew. Curtis had an innate curiosity, and devoured information. Curtis had a voracious mind, both blessed, and burdened, with extreme intelligence.
His love of books was no doubt fostered by Tish, and in the Mulkey household, intellectual capital was never at a premium. Curtis was responsible for turning me on to ALL of my favorite authors. In so many ways, who I am today, what I think and feel, is a direct result of his wisdom and intelligence. In my estimation, however, Curtis’ greatest gift was his wry sense of humour, which many of us share.
Curtis was Co-Captain and Ringleader on too many Capers to recount. I’ve already shared some of my memories of Curtis with friends, and I’ve shared a special one with his family. In the weeks and months ahead, we will all recall and share more memories of Curtis. My own priceless experiences with Curtis would keep us here for hours. Instead, this morning, I will share a few of yours.
For example, Senderling and Curtis always took pride recalling how Curtis was there the first time Jon ever played at a club. They were chaperoned by their parents because they were only 15, and the bouncer threatened to break their hands if they touched a drink. Twenty three years later, Jon was still playing, and Curtis was still coming to listen.
Many recall Curtis at his happiest away from Civilization, camping, on a mountain, or in a cabin. Whether rock climbing in Colorado, or relentlessly out-fishing the competition, many of you felt Curtis found his Greatest Peace in the Great Outdoors.
Curtis was incredibly proud of his brother Jonathan. It is so rare for an older brother to look up to his younger sibling. When Jonathan was playing with one of the greatest bands in Dallas, Curtis was so proud, and he glowed with pride when all of his friends went to see his brother play. One such gig led to a special moment for two people in this room. Curtis brought people together, and on 6 January 1994, Curtis invited Kirstin to go see Jonathan's band play at the Galaxy Club.
Kirstin endured the opening act of Loveswing with their stage decoration of hundreds of candles. At some point during the night, Curtis introduced her to a man wearing a leather trench and a baseball cap. It's now 11 years later, and Simon and Kiri are blissfully married. Thank you, Curtis, for bringing them together.
Curtis was the Best Man at Randy’s wedding. With Confidence and Poise, he gave a thoughtful, heartfelt toast to Randy and Kelly, and their future together. He also helped the Groom and Groomsmen “Limber Up” for the ceremony. On this night, Curtis’ playful nature was never more evident. While the bride and bridesmaids were preparing, Curtis led the guys in to the Church Gym for a fullcourt game of basketball. . . in their Tuxes.
I must relate one final story, from Vines High School, in the early ‘80s. A special group of people in this room were all together in the Talented and Gifted Program, and many were also on the Quiz Team that competed against teams from other schools. I apologize in advance if you don’t find it hilarious, but at the time it brought the house down. It encapsulates the Gonzo Spirit of Intellectual Humor that we all shared from a very young age.
During WhizQuiz competitions, Curtis would often hit the buzzer long before the question was complete, and 90% of the time he could guess the answer to an incomplete question. I fondly remember the beaming smile on O.C.’s face during these moments. But one time, there was a three-part question on Islam. As usual, Curtis was the first to buzz in. Of course, he easily identified Mohammed as Islam’s Prophet, and the Koran as Islam’s Holy Text. However, the final part of the question was: “what is the Hegira?” There was a pause. No one knew. The moderator repeated “what is the Hegira?” … There was a moment of tension. …. The moderator said “final answer, what is the Hegira?” …. then, as one, Jake and Curtis both blurted out, “it was their football team.” (That wasn’t the correct answer, but at the time we rolling in the aisles).
Our relationship with Curtis is forever altered, but he will always be with us, in our thoughts, in our memories, in our dreams, and in the hereafter. We feel his presence recalling these moments. The fabric of our lives are forever intertwined.
This morning, though, not only do we rejoice in his life, but we allow the healing to begin. Turn grief in to positive energy, and send it out to him. Take time each day; recall the moments we had together. Think of him and allow yourself to smile, laugh, and in that way, he lives on through each of us. Instead of grieving our loss, we must feel blessed and fortunate to have Curtis Mulkey in each of our lives.
We will never know the answer to the question we all ask. There is only one certainty, one enduring truth: everyone in this room knew Curtis, and the only Truth we will ever know, is that Curtis is our friend.
And on behalf of all of his friends, I say, goodbye, Curtis Mulkey, Godspeed, and may the force be with you.
I leave you with selected words from one of our favorite authors:
And you and I climb, crossing the shapes of the morning.
And you and I reach, over the sun, for the river.
And you and I climb, clearer, to-wards the movement.
And you and I called, Over valleys of endless seas.
We architects of life, Developing words that linger
Through fields of green, through open eyes, This for us to see
You can mend the wires
You can feed the soul a part
You can touch your life
You can bring your soul alive
Many moons cascade one river
They light from side to side
As we cross in close proximity
Like rivers our hearts entwine
As we flow down life's rivers
We see the stars glow one by one
All angels of the magic constellation
Be singing us now
|
Thursday, February 24, 2005
done
That's it. I quit. I'm finished. I'm done.
". . . Koko's nipple fetish. . . "???
What the fuck?
I am speechless. I am totally without speech.
(kudos to the world's best fake newsman for bringing this to my attention)
|
". . . Koko's nipple fetish. . . "???
What the fuck?
I am speechless. I am totally without speech.
(kudos to the world's best fake newsman for bringing this to my attention)
|
frightening
Wanna see something really scary?
Good. Look. . .
These people are scary.
The pairing of Christianity and American Conservative thought is the worst (and most dangerous) combination of theology and politics since the Nazis.
Do you doubt the word of the Good Doctor? Do you require additional evidence?
Then, the Good Doctor recommends, my dear reader, that you take a few minutes from your otherwise busy and productive day to take their test.
Sure, you have to register so just make stuff up. I did. It worked.
Then you get the thrill of using a five point scale (from "strongly agree" to "strongly disgree") with such thought provoking statements as:
Every person that has ever lived on earth, but Jesus Christ, has committed sins.
George W. Bush is the President of the United States of America.
A God given responsibility of government is to protect the righteous and punish the wicked.
Hallelujah! But wait' there's more. . .
Individual freedoms would be advanced and protected under a one-world government under United Nations authority.
The biblical purpose for wealth is to provide for ones family, proclaim the Gospel, be a blessing to others, test your stewardship and ones loyalty to God.
Oh my God! (bad pun intended) What a hoot! Really, you must try it out for yourself.
I actually got a negative score! I am apparently a. . .
"Communist/Marxist/Socialist/Secular Humanist Worldview Thinker".
And they say that like it's a bad thing.
I can only pray (to my secular Marxist idol?) that I start to receive e-mail soliciting the sale of my salvation.
These folks will be fun to play with.
|
Good. Look. . .
These people are scary.
The pairing of Christianity and American Conservative thought is the worst (and most dangerous) combination of theology and politics since the Nazis.
Do you doubt the word of the Good Doctor? Do you require additional evidence?
Then, the Good Doctor recommends, my dear reader, that you take a few minutes from your otherwise busy and productive day to take their test.
Sure, you have to register so just make stuff up. I did. It worked.
Then you get the thrill of using a five point scale (from "strongly agree" to "strongly disgree") with such thought provoking statements as:
Every person that has ever lived on earth, but Jesus Christ, has committed sins.
George W. Bush is the President of the United States of America.
A God given responsibility of government is to protect the righteous and punish the wicked.
Hallelujah! But wait' there's more. . .
Individual freedoms would be advanced and protected under a one-world government under United Nations authority.
The biblical purpose for wealth is to provide for ones family, proclaim the Gospel, be a blessing to others, test your stewardship and ones loyalty to God.
Oh my God! (bad pun intended) What a hoot! Really, you must try it out for yourself.
I actually got a negative score! I am apparently a. . .
"Communist/Marxist/Socialist/Secular Humanist Worldview Thinker".
And they say that like it's a bad thing.
I can only pray (to my secular Marxist idol?) that I start to receive e-mail soliciting the sale of my salvation.
These folks will be fun to play with.
|
Monday, February 21, 2005
to the original Good Doctor
Hunter S. Thompson
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive. . . "And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamned animals?"
Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.
It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go. They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest."
- Hunter S. Thompson, FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS
Completely twisted. And no going back.
As previously mentioned, I first read those words when I arrived at The University. And yes, it was not merely a novel, but a guidebook, a manual for living.
And implicit in those words was a challenge, how far can you push it? How far can you precariously teeter on the precipice of madness and still maintain your balance and make it back? Just how whacked out of your head can you get in one night, or weekend, or week, and wake up fundamentally yourself and not in jail some morning when it's all said and done.
The Road Trip? The Original Good Doctor was a mentor and an inspiration. We would stop at the liquor store on our way out of town. The rule was one shot of Jack every 25 miles and load a new bowl every 50, swallowing ephedrine tablets as needed and chainsmoking Camels to prevent the booze and the weed from completely dulling my edge.
I vividly remember nights huddled under the covers in the darkness of my room, reminding and repeating as sort of a mantra to myself, "it's just the drugs, I'm not crazy, it's just the drugs. . ."
And then there's all the nights I don't remember, or remember as sort of hazy stuporous dream.
Any regrets? Nah.
Any after effects? Well, I'd like to think some of those nights spent out of my skull on Dragworm Acid help me today by giving me some insight into the mindset of some of my students with autism.
But I might just be blowing smoke out my ass.
Those days are decades behind me. I am now blissfully living the savage journey deep into the heart of the American Dream: The Wife, The Boy, the career as a Teacher. Although I still look everybit the part of a slovenly hippie or dopefiend, I am actually a respected professional in my field.
It is with bittersweet and mournful irony this morning that I awoke to the news that The Great Gonzo chose to end his life using the same method as the dear friend who turned me onto his writing in our youth.
May you both have found the peace you desired.
|
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive. . . "And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamned animals?"
Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.
It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go. They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest."
- Hunter S. Thompson, FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS
Completely twisted. And no going back.
As previously mentioned, I first read those words when I arrived at The University. And yes, it was not merely a novel, but a guidebook, a manual for living.
And implicit in those words was a challenge, how far can you push it? How far can you precariously teeter on the precipice of madness and still maintain your balance and make it back? Just how whacked out of your head can you get in one night, or weekend, or week, and wake up fundamentally yourself and not in jail some morning when it's all said and done.
The Road Trip? The Original Good Doctor was a mentor and an inspiration. We would stop at the liquor store on our way out of town. The rule was one shot of Jack every 25 miles and load a new bowl every 50, swallowing ephedrine tablets as needed and chainsmoking Camels to prevent the booze and the weed from completely dulling my edge.
I vividly remember nights huddled under the covers in the darkness of my room, reminding and repeating as sort of a mantra to myself, "it's just the drugs, I'm not crazy, it's just the drugs. . ."
And then there's all the nights I don't remember, or remember as sort of hazy stuporous dream.
Any regrets? Nah.
Any after effects? Well, I'd like to think some of those nights spent out of my skull on Dragworm Acid help me today by giving me some insight into the mindset of some of my students with autism.
But I might just be blowing smoke out my ass.
Those days are decades behind me. I am now blissfully living the savage journey deep into the heart of the American Dream: The Wife, The Boy, the career as a Teacher. Although I still look everybit the part of a slovenly hippie or dopefiend, I am actually a respected professional in my field.
It is with bittersweet and mournful irony this morning that I awoke to the news that The Great Gonzo chose to end his life using the same method as the dear friend who turned me onto his writing in our youth.
May you both have found the peace you desired.
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Wednesday, February 16, 2005
please give me a raise
Ruminate.
Sure it sounds fun, almost like sitting around sharing stories about the salad days while sipping a lager or two with the companionship of old friends.
Or yes, it could still be introspectively pleasant to "to go over in the mind repeatedly and often casually or slowly" or "to engage in contemplation" as our dear friend Webster defines it.
But, my dear reader, by now I have little doubt that you know me better than that. After all, I'm a Special Ed. teacher.
You have been warned.
Read on at your own peril.
(But by all means, please, keep reading.)
Unless you were born in a barn and live under a rock somewhere you surely know what month February is.
(as an aside: 140 years after The Civil War and The Man is still keeping the brothaman down. Sure, it's Black History Month, but what month is it? February. The shortest month of the year. There's what, 400, 500, years of brutality and oppression and The Man can't give up a long month like for example May, or August?)
Today we had our annual Black History Month Luncheon at school. It is, with no sense of the irony attached, the one day of the year when we as a staff come together and celebrate all the freedom, progress and other liberal hippie PC crap that goes along with it by eating a giant hearty meal of all the foods associated with the worst stereotypes.
For Chris'sakes man, today for the first (and hopefully last) time, I ate a piece of a barbequed pig's foot.
I say again: I ate part of a pig's foot.
I've seen pigs. I've seen where they walk. Yet I still ate a piece of a pig's foot. As I was at school, I did it without the benefit of liquor.
It wasn't that bad.
And yes, there were also huge quantities of fried chicken and watermelon.
I say again: served with a complete lack of irony.
The staff at my school aren't the only ones enjoying a gluttonous feast of cholesterol, salt, and nutritionally empty carbohydrates, all served with copious quantities of animal fat. You know, good old fashioned Southern diet food.
Mmmmm. . . animal fat.
We are, after all, there for the children. The must also partake of the bounty. So they partook.
I learned that one of my student's, this one, really loves meat that comes on a bone. Chicken, ribs, and slightly disturbingly yes, even pig's feet.
I haven't seen anyone gnaw the meat off a bone with such gusto and outright ravenous intensity since Aunt Gladys got drunk on Old Style and devoured a bucket of KFC at the family reunion picnic in 1986.
Anyways, the luncheon goes just fine. We all sit together in the cafeteria, as a class and as a campus and just plain feast out. An hour or so goes by and the whole campus is all drunk on food.
So we go back to the classroom. Unofficially to nap as best as possible, but officially because I have planned a fun filled afternoon of exciting instructional activities that relate to a curriculum for Black History Month.
Right.
So we get back to the room, everyone just kinda chills. Around 30 minutes uneventfully goes by, then. . .
For some reason at this moment in time, my teaching assistants are not in the classroom. I'm seated at a desk in the middle of the room, working, I mean really working and not wasting time on the internet reading the blogged wisdom of my compadres, making cool stuff on my classroom eMac that the kids can play with to expand their knowledge and their skills.
I hear this low noise, like a loud swallow. . . in reverse.
I try to pretend like I didn't hear it.
One of those seconds long eternities pass.
Out of the corner of my eye I see this student holding his hands near his face, like you do if you drink water using your hands as a container.
"This just can't be anything good," I tell myself.
I am so right.
He has vomited, nay, ruminated, into his cupped hands. They are full of halfway chewed and slightly digested bits of barbequed meats, along with other bits of things you find in a stomach 30 minutes or so after a very filling lunch.
And he's eating it.
Again.
As I am calmly and carefully escort him to the trash and the sink so that he can clean his hands without dumping his stomach goo all over the floor, this thought pops into my head:
"Wow, that barbeque still smells really good."
You were warned.
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Sure it sounds fun, almost like sitting around sharing stories about the salad days while sipping a lager or two with the companionship of old friends.
Or yes, it could still be introspectively pleasant to "to go over in the mind repeatedly and often casually or slowly" or "to engage in contemplation" as our dear friend Webster defines it.
But, my dear reader, by now I have little doubt that you know me better than that. After all, I'm a Special Ed. teacher.
You have been warned.
Read on at your own peril.
(But by all means, please, keep reading.)
Unless you were born in a barn and live under a rock somewhere you surely know what month February is.
(as an aside: 140 years after The Civil War and The Man is still keeping the brothaman down. Sure, it's Black History Month, but what month is it? February. The shortest month of the year. There's what, 400, 500, years of brutality and oppression and The Man can't give up a long month like for example May, or August?)
Today we had our annual Black History Month Luncheon at school. It is, with no sense of the irony attached, the one day of the year when we as a staff come together and celebrate all the freedom, progress and other liberal hippie PC crap that goes along with it by eating a giant hearty meal of all the foods associated with the worst stereotypes.
For Chris'sakes man, today for the first (and hopefully last) time, I ate a piece of a barbequed pig's foot.
I say again: I ate part of a pig's foot.
I've seen pigs. I've seen where they walk. Yet I still ate a piece of a pig's foot. As I was at school, I did it without the benefit of liquor.
It wasn't that bad.
And yes, there were also huge quantities of fried chicken and watermelon.
I say again: served with a complete lack of irony.
The staff at my school aren't the only ones enjoying a gluttonous feast of cholesterol, salt, and nutritionally empty carbohydrates, all served with copious quantities of animal fat. You know, good old fashioned Southern diet food.
Mmmmm. . . animal fat.
We are, after all, there for the children. The must also partake of the bounty. So they partook.
I learned that one of my student's, this one, really loves meat that comes on a bone. Chicken, ribs, and slightly disturbingly yes, even pig's feet.
I haven't seen anyone gnaw the meat off a bone with such gusto and outright ravenous intensity since Aunt Gladys got drunk on Old Style and devoured a bucket of KFC at the family reunion picnic in 1986.
Anyways, the luncheon goes just fine. We all sit together in the cafeteria, as a class and as a campus and just plain feast out. An hour or so goes by and the whole campus is all drunk on food.
So we go back to the classroom. Unofficially to nap as best as possible, but officially because I have planned a fun filled afternoon of exciting instructional activities that relate to a curriculum for Black History Month.
Right.
So we get back to the room, everyone just kinda chills. Around 30 minutes uneventfully goes by, then. . .
For some reason at this moment in time, my teaching assistants are not in the classroom. I'm seated at a desk in the middle of the room, working, I mean really working and not wasting time on the internet reading the blogged wisdom of my compadres, making cool stuff on my classroom eMac that the kids can play with to expand their knowledge and their skills.
I hear this low noise, like a loud swallow. . . in reverse.
I try to pretend like I didn't hear it.
One of those seconds long eternities pass.
Out of the corner of my eye I see this student holding his hands near his face, like you do if you drink water using your hands as a container.
"This just can't be anything good," I tell myself.
I am so right.
He has vomited, nay, ruminated, into his cupped hands. They are full of halfway chewed and slightly digested bits of barbequed meats, along with other bits of things you find in a stomach 30 minutes or so after a very filling lunch.
And he's eating it.
Again.
As I am calmly and carefully escort him to the trash and the sink so that he can clean his hands without dumping his stomach goo all over the floor, this thought pops into my head:
"Wow, that barbeque still smells really good."
You were warned.
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Monday, February 14, 2005
love letter
Happy Valentine's Day?
Yeah, okay. Whatever.
While nowhere near the mythic Bad Craziness status of a Valentine's Day back around 1991 or so when the good Golatron and I celebrated our status as the "valentinles". . .
(imagine Ricardo Montalbon saying it, it sounds really cool: "val-en-TEEN-less")
. . . by knocking back a few bottles of Cisco, straight from the bag mothafucka, we was hardcore. . .
. . . and by doing more bong hits than the Surgeon General or the FDA recommended at that time as your daily dose of weed. . .
(I have this vague dreamlike memory of the Mighty Golatron standing up then falling down flatass backwards and me leaving somehow and ending up at a now decades gone "gentlemen's" establishment of some ill repute with I think Fang)
(although that could have been and probably was another one of a thousand nights)
. . . today has not been the most romantic and ideal of Valentine's Day.
I knew it wouldn't be. The Wife and I have made plans to postpone it a day and made arrangements for The Nurse to stay late tomorrow with The Boy so we can go out to a proper romantic dinner for two.
Well, okay not that proper. We'll be using a gift card for dinner at a franchise Italian eatery courtesy of my suburban parents as an anniversary gift.
And probably not that romantic. A strip mall is not exactly the canals of Venice.
But a free meal's a free meal. And for that I'm very grateful.
So tonight, The Wife and The Boy both fell asleep around 9:00. Actually, just The Wife fell asleep around 9:00. The Boy was awake but as content and blissed out as can be next to The Wife in my space on our bed. He was sound asleep by around 10:30. Thankfully he is very sound sleeper. In a bit I'll sneak him into his own bed.
(I wonder what he thinks in the morning when he wakes up in a diffent place from where he remembers falling asleep. I wonder if he feels at all like me on a typical weekend in college.)
So, while the rest of the family peacefully slumbers, I have been helping The Wife complete a scholarship application for nursing school. College ain't cheap and Lord knows school teachers get paid squat.
By "helping" of course I mean just flat out doing it. Hey, a grand's a grand. And it's not that she can't or won't, it's just that the poor girl doesn't sleep much anymore. That apparently happens with nursing school.
But as I finished the answering all the questions and completing the application and reading it all back I realized something.
It's kind of an institutional or government application style love letter, a listing of all of The Wife's wonderful qualities and the wonderful things she believes in and has done.
While the better half lies dreaming, I am left to write about all her intellectually and spiritually beautiful attributes on the application in order to convince total strangers to give her a cool $1K for school after reading not one, but two entire pages about her and her qualifications and educational goals.
Deadlines are deadlines.
So I sat down and typed out the answers to the questions on the damned forms.
And then I did three revisions of "toning it down" (damned jug of cheap-ass Chardonnay and it's judgement impairing passion inflating abilities).
To me, it still reads like a love letter.
'Cuz I love her.
So Happy Valentine's Day.
|
Yeah, okay. Whatever.
While nowhere near the mythic Bad Craziness status of a Valentine's Day back around 1991 or so when the good Golatron and I celebrated our status as the "valentinles". . .
(imagine Ricardo Montalbon saying it, it sounds really cool: "val-en-TEEN-less")
. . . by knocking back a few bottles of Cisco, straight from the bag mothafucka, we was hardcore. . .
. . . and by doing more bong hits than the Surgeon General or the FDA recommended at that time as your daily dose of weed. . .
(I have this vague dreamlike memory of the Mighty Golatron standing up then falling down flatass backwards and me leaving somehow and ending up at a now decades gone "gentlemen's" establishment of some ill repute with I think Fang)
(although that could have been and probably was another one of a thousand nights)
. . . today has not been the most romantic and ideal of Valentine's Day.
I knew it wouldn't be. The Wife and I have made plans to postpone it a day and made arrangements for The Nurse to stay late tomorrow with The Boy so we can go out to a proper romantic dinner for two.
Well, okay not that proper. We'll be using a gift card for dinner at a franchise Italian eatery courtesy of my suburban parents as an anniversary gift.
And probably not that romantic. A strip mall is not exactly the canals of Venice.
But a free meal's a free meal. And for that I'm very grateful.
So tonight, The Wife and The Boy both fell asleep around 9:00. Actually, just The Wife fell asleep around 9:00. The Boy was awake but as content and blissed out as can be next to The Wife in my space on our bed. He was sound asleep by around 10:30. Thankfully he is very sound sleeper. In a bit I'll sneak him into his own bed.
(I wonder what he thinks in the morning when he wakes up in a diffent place from where he remembers falling asleep. I wonder if he feels at all like me on a typical weekend in college.)
So, while the rest of the family peacefully slumbers, I have been helping The Wife complete a scholarship application for nursing school. College ain't cheap and Lord knows school teachers get paid squat.
By "helping" of course I mean just flat out doing it. Hey, a grand's a grand. And it's not that she can't or won't, it's just that the poor girl doesn't sleep much anymore. That apparently happens with nursing school.
But as I finished the answering all the questions and completing the application and reading it all back I realized something.
It's kind of an institutional or government application style love letter, a listing of all of The Wife's wonderful qualities and the wonderful things she believes in and has done.
While the better half lies dreaming, I am left to write about all her intellectually and spiritually beautiful attributes on the application in order to convince total strangers to give her a cool $1K for school after reading not one, but two entire pages about her and her qualifications and educational goals.
Deadlines are deadlines.
So I sat down and typed out the answers to the questions on the damned forms.
And then I did three revisions of "toning it down" (damned jug of cheap-ass Chardonnay and it's judgement impairing passion inflating abilities).
To me, it still reads like a love letter.
'Cuz I love her.
So Happy Valentine's Day.
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Thursday, February 10, 2005
a note from home
As part of the regular process to facilitate good communication with a student's family and other primary caregivers, and to foster a positive relationship that encourages and supports student development and learning. . .
(yeah, I talk the talk)
. . . students come to school everyday with a small, typically spiral, notebook that is used to send messages and information between the student's home and school. School writes about the day at school, home writes about what happened at home. Nothing fancy, you get the idea.
Sometimes these notes have a brevity and a tone that suggests a frantic effort in a time of chaos to get the student ready for school and out the door in the morning. Imagine hastily written words sprawled almost haphazardly across the page.
I find this highly amusing.
This morning, the note from the mother of one of my big teenage boy with profound autism said only this:
"He refused to bathe this AM. He is wearing 5 pairs of pants."
True dat. He is wearing 5 pairs of pants. Boxers, three pairs of spandex bicycle shorts, and elastic waistband sweatpants.
A year or so ago, I received another such frantic note regarding this student with whom you are by now, my dear reader, already aquainted.
It was scrawled in pencil, unsigned and undated on a torn piece of paper stained with grease spots of unknown origin:
"X refused to put on underwear"
Very true. He seldom wears underwear, or even pants.
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(yeah, I talk the talk)
. . . students come to school everyday with a small, typically spiral, notebook that is used to send messages and information between the student's home and school. School writes about the day at school, home writes about what happened at home. Nothing fancy, you get the idea.
Sometimes these notes have a brevity and a tone that suggests a frantic effort in a time of chaos to get the student ready for school and out the door in the morning. Imagine hastily written words sprawled almost haphazardly across the page.
I find this highly amusing.
This morning, the note from the mother of one of my big teenage boy with profound autism said only this:
"He refused to bathe this AM. He is wearing 5 pairs of pants."
True dat. He is wearing 5 pairs of pants. Boxers, three pairs of spandex bicycle shorts, and elastic waistband sweatpants.
A year or so ago, I received another such frantic note regarding this student with whom you are by now, my dear reader, already aquainted.
It was scrawled in pencil, unsigned and undated on a torn piece of paper stained with grease spots of unknown origin:
"X refused to put on underwear"
Very true. He seldom wears underwear, or even pants.
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Wednesday, February 09, 2005
out of touch
Dubya, in Omaha, Nebraska earlier this week, mingling with the commoners to hype his plan to revamp, revise, repair or otherwise redo, No. 6's favorite topic of late, Social Security:
(The entire transcript can be found here)
THE PRESIDENT: Good. Okay, Mary, tell us about yourself.
MS. MORNIN: Okay, I'm a divorced, single mother with three grown, adult children. I have one child, Robbie, who is mentally challenged, and I have two daughters.
THE PRESIDENT: Fantastic. First of all, you've got the hardest job in America, being a single mom.
MS. MORNIN: Thank you. (Applause.)
THE PRESIDENT: You and I are baby boomers.
MS. MORNIN: Yes, and I am concerned about -- that the system stays the
same for me.
THE PRESIDENT: Right.
MS. MORNIN: But I do want to see change and reform for my children because I realize that we will be in trouble down the road.
THE PRESIDENT: It's an interesting point, and I hear this a lot -- will the system be the same for me? And the answer is, absolutely. One of the things we have to continue to clarify to people who have retired or near retirement -- you fall in the near retirement.
MS. MORNIN: Yes, unfortunately, yes. (Laughter.)
THE PRESIDENT: Well, I don't know. I'm not going to tell your age, but you're one year younger than me, and I'm just getting started. (Laughter.)
MS. MORNIN: Okay, okay.
THE PRESIDENT: I feel great, don't you?
MS. MORNIN: Yes, I do.
THE PRESIDENT: I remember when I turned 50, I used to think 50 was really old. Now I think it's young, and getting ready to turn 60 here in a couple of years, and I still feel young. I mean, we are living longer, and people are working longer, and the truth of the matter is, elderly baby boomers have got a lot to offer to our society, and we shouldn't think about giving up our responsibilities in society. (Applause.) Isn't that right?
MS. MORNIN: That's right.
THE PRESIDENT: Yes, but nevertheless, there's a certain comfort to know that the promises made will be kept by the government.
MS. MORNIN: Yes.
THE PRESIDENT: And so thank you for asking that. You don't have to worry.
MS. MORNIN: That's good, because I work three jobs and I feel like I contribute.
THE PRESIDENT: You work three jobs?
MS. MORNIN: Three jobs, yes.
THE PRESIDENT: Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that. (Applause.) Get any sleep? (Laughter.)
MS. MORNIN: Not much. Not much.
THE PRESIDENT: Well, hopefully, this will help you get you sleep to know that when we talk about Social Security, nothing changes.
MS. MORNIN: Okay, thank you.
First, Dubya expresses that being single mom is "the hardest job in America". Okay, I'll give him credit for that. Then he goes on to state that he think's it's "fantastic" that she has to work three jobs on top of the "hardest job"?
He calls it "uniquely American"? It is uniquely American. And not something as president I would be proud of.
If I were President, I'd have the sense to recognize it as a tragic consequence of my big-business corporation favoring taking care of my rich buddies economic policies.
He should be apologizing to this woman.
He then makes a joke about her not getting enough sleep and tells her she will sleep better knowing that Social Security is okay?
And she thanks him!
What the fuck?
|
(The entire transcript can be found here)
THE PRESIDENT: Good. Okay, Mary, tell us about yourself.
MS. MORNIN: Okay, I'm a divorced, single mother with three grown, adult children. I have one child, Robbie, who is mentally challenged, and I have two daughters.
THE PRESIDENT: Fantastic. First of all, you've got the hardest job in America, being a single mom.
MS. MORNIN: Thank you. (Applause.)
THE PRESIDENT: You and I are baby boomers.
MS. MORNIN: Yes, and I am concerned about -- that the system stays the
same for me.
THE PRESIDENT: Right.
MS. MORNIN: But I do want to see change and reform for my children because I realize that we will be in trouble down the road.
THE PRESIDENT: It's an interesting point, and I hear this a lot -- will the system be the same for me? And the answer is, absolutely. One of the things we have to continue to clarify to people who have retired or near retirement -- you fall in the near retirement.
MS. MORNIN: Yes, unfortunately, yes. (Laughter.)
THE PRESIDENT: Well, I don't know. I'm not going to tell your age, but you're one year younger than me, and I'm just getting started. (Laughter.)
MS. MORNIN: Okay, okay.
THE PRESIDENT: I feel great, don't you?
MS. MORNIN: Yes, I do.
THE PRESIDENT: I remember when I turned 50, I used to think 50 was really old. Now I think it's young, and getting ready to turn 60 here in a couple of years, and I still feel young. I mean, we are living longer, and people are working longer, and the truth of the matter is, elderly baby boomers have got a lot to offer to our society, and we shouldn't think about giving up our responsibilities in society. (Applause.) Isn't that right?
MS. MORNIN: That's right.
THE PRESIDENT: Yes, but nevertheless, there's a certain comfort to know that the promises made will be kept by the government.
MS. MORNIN: Yes.
THE PRESIDENT: And so thank you for asking that. You don't have to worry.
MS. MORNIN: That's good, because I work three jobs and I feel like I contribute.
THE PRESIDENT: You work three jobs?
MS. MORNIN: Three jobs, yes.
THE PRESIDENT: Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that. (Applause.) Get any sleep? (Laughter.)
MS. MORNIN: Not much. Not much.
THE PRESIDENT: Well, hopefully, this will help you get you sleep to know that when we talk about Social Security, nothing changes.
MS. MORNIN: Okay, thank you.
First, Dubya expresses that being single mom is "the hardest job in America". Okay, I'll give him credit for that. Then he goes on to state that he think's it's "fantastic" that she has to work three jobs on top of the "hardest job"?
He calls it "uniquely American"? It is uniquely American. And not something as president I would be proud of.
If I were President, I'd have the sense to recognize it as a tragic consequence of my big-business corporation favoring taking care of my rich buddies economic policies.
He should be apologizing to this woman.
He then makes a joke about her not getting enough sleep and tells her she will sleep better knowing that Social Security is okay?
And she thanks him!
What the fuck?
|
sick kid update
Diagnosis: ear infection in his right ear. Ouch. But relatively minor and easily treated.
I'm back at work next to the ticking autism bombs. There's one next to me now, sitting and feeding paper into a shredder. The different personalities from his undiagnosed psychiatric disorder are currently having a mostly unintelligible discussion. I've learned the hard way it's best not to interupt them.
Shredding paper because it is a functional vocational task. It is a real job that someone has to do. It is a way for him and his classmates to make a positive contribution to the world. The fields of education in general and special education in particular generate thousands upon thousands of pages of confidential documents. You can't just throw them in the trash or the recycle bin because of the confidential student information. My students can't read. So as a service, my class provides 100% guaranteed confidential document destruction.
And yes, my dear reader, I have tried like hell to jam my fingers as well as other body parts into the damn thing without success, so I am fairly confident with it's safety.
And no, you sick bastard, I have not tried that part, although once a student attempted it because he liked the vibration of the machine. We noticed and intervened. It's very difficult not to notice a 16 year old with autism attempting to mount a paper shredder. You would have had to really try not to look.
Can you imagine me making a call to the mom to tell her that her son is on his way to the ER because he got his Mr. Winky and/or The Twins caught in a paper shredder?
But I digress. . .
The Wife does not have class this morning so I left The Boy snuggled up in bed with his momma, all hopped up on antibiotics and Advil. The lucky bastard. I should still be in bed snuggled up next to his momma, all hopped up on sum'tin boy, I tell you what (or hoppin' up on sum'tin, nudge, nudge). . .
(Gotta go, the ticking of the bomb just got a whole lot LOUDER!)
|
I'm back at work next to the ticking autism bombs. There's one next to me now, sitting and feeding paper into a shredder. The different personalities from his undiagnosed psychiatric disorder are currently having a mostly unintelligible discussion. I've learned the hard way it's best not to interupt them.
Shredding paper because it is a functional vocational task. It is a real job that someone has to do. It is a way for him and his classmates to make a positive contribution to the world. The fields of education in general and special education in particular generate thousands upon thousands of pages of confidential documents. You can't just throw them in the trash or the recycle bin because of the confidential student information. My students can't read. So as a service, my class provides 100% guaranteed confidential document destruction.
And yes, my dear reader, I have tried like hell to jam my fingers as well as other body parts into the damn thing without success, so I am fairly confident with it's safety.
And no, you sick bastard, I have not tried that part, although once a student attempted it because he liked the vibration of the machine. We noticed and intervened. It's very difficult not to notice a 16 year old with autism attempting to mount a paper shredder. You would have had to really try not to look.
Can you imagine me making a call to the mom to tell her that her son is on his way to the ER because he got his Mr. Winky and/or The Twins caught in a paper shredder?
But I digress. . .
The Wife does not have class this morning so I left The Boy snuggled up in bed with his momma, all hopped up on antibiotics and Advil. The lucky bastard. I should still be in bed snuggled up next to his momma, all hopped up on sum'tin boy, I tell you what (or hoppin' up on sum'tin, nudge, nudge). . .
(Gotta go, the ticking of the bomb just got a whole lot LOUDER!)
|
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
sick kid
Normally by this time of the morning I find myself next to the three ticking bombs that are my big rowdy students with way wacked out autism. As I have previously shared many an adventure with you, my dear reader, you know this to be true.
Always a challenge, usually entertaining, sometimes downright odd.
Today poses a new set of challenges.
Today I am playing Mr. Mom and staying home with a sick kid. The Wife has nursing school class, and I have accrued literally about 500 hours of sick leave in my tenure thus far as a teacher.
The Boy is sick. Really sick this time, not just a cold or allergy nonsense. Nor just labeled sick or actually made that way by doctors who don't know him and don't take the time to do so, and assume that because he is a child with significant disabilities he must have an illness.
Yeah, that really happens.
But this time is for real. Which is kinda weird, because it is the first time in almost a year he has been sick with anything more substantial than allergies or a cold.
The last time The Boy was actually sick it started the chain of events that lead to him being placed with us months sooner than we were planning.
Which was a good thing, and yes, almost one year in the past.
Back to the present.
I brought him home from school yesterday morning with labored breathing, almost like panting, and a fever.
Something's wrong. Not sure what.
This morning he is still running a fever, and he vomited, no easy feat with his nissen.
It's very frustrating. He hurts, or at least we think he does. He's obviously nauseous as is evident by the vomiting. When he is awake he is tense, has shallow rapid breathing, and he whines. When he falls asleep, he relaxes and his breathing returns to normal. That tells us something hurts.
Stomach bug? Allergy cold with excessive drainage into his stomach? What?
He cries, but he cannot tell us what is wrong. We are left playing medical detective, trying to guess symptoms all his symptoms from his behavior.
Did I mention it's very frustrating? My child hurts and I am powerless to help.
Off to the doctor soon.
|
Always a challenge, usually entertaining, sometimes downright odd.
Today poses a new set of challenges.
Today I am playing Mr. Mom and staying home with a sick kid. The Wife has nursing school class, and I have accrued literally about 500 hours of sick leave in my tenure thus far as a teacher.
The Boy is sick. Really sick this time, not just a cold or allergy nonsense. Nor just labeled sick or actually made that way by doctors who don't know him and don't take the time to do so, and assume that because he is a child with significant disabilities he must have an illness.
Yeah, that really happens.
But this time is for real. Which is kinda weird, because it is the first time in almost a year he has been sick with anything more substantial than allergies or a cold.
The last time The Boy was actually sick it started the chain of events that lead to him being placed with us months sooner than we were planning.
Which was a good thing, and yes, almost one year in the past.
Back to the present.
I brought him home from school yesterday morning with labored breathing, almost like panting, and a fever.
Something's wrong. Not sure what.
This morning he is still running a fever, and he vomited, no easy feat with his nissen.
It's very frustrating. He hurts, or at least we think he does. He's obviously nauseous as is evident by the vomiting. When he is awake he is tense, has shallow rapid breathing, and he whines. When he falls asleep, he relaxes and his breathing returns to normal. That tells us something hurts.
Stomach bug? Allergy cold with excessive drainage into his stomach? What?
He cries, but he cannot tell us what is wrong. We are left playing medical detective, trying to guess symptoms all his symptoms from his behavior.
Did I mention it's very frustrating? My child hurts and I am powerless to help.
Off to the doctor soon.
|
Sunday, February 06, 2005
follow this
I have no doubt, my dear reader, that you are familiar with the most famous quote of Joseph Campbell:
"Follow your Bliss"
What you may not know, my dear reader, is that is only the first part of it.
I am proud to present, for the first time ever, the complete quote from one of the greatest Storytellers and Sages of the modern world:
"Follow your Bliss. Sneak up on it from behind, grab it by the fucking throat and don't stop squeezing until it's lying cold, limp, and lifeless at your feet."
Life is for living.
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"Follow your Bliss"
What you may not know, my dear reader, is that is only the first part of it.
I am proud to present, for the first time ever, the complete quote from one of the greatest Storytellers and Sages of the modern world:
"Follow your Bliss. Sneak up on it from behind, grab it by the fucking throat and don't stop squeezing until it's lying cold, limp, and lifeless at your feet."
Life is for living.
|
Friday, February 04, 2005
get 'em when their young
Thursday, February 03, 2005
still waiting on that raise
I have purposely avoided posting entries for the past several days, not for a lack of material or ideas, but out of respect for the memory of a dear friend.
As a kind of self-imposed moment of cyber-silence.
It has been over a week since that tragic day, and well (I hate cliches, especially when they ring true, but) as The Beatles sang, "Ob li di, Ob la da, life goes on. . . "
So, it is in the spirit of moving forward I kindly offer the following. . .
_______________
If you are not already convinced, my dear reader, even after I shared with you a more typical than not day in the life that I need a raise. . .
If by some strange stretch of the imagination, my dear reader, you are not one hundred percent positively convinced after learning something of the perils of the Good Doctor Noyz that I still need a raise. . .
Well then, grab yourself a cold one, make yourself comfy, and then read the following tale of brave teaching adventure. If when you reach the end, you are still not convinced I am in need of a serious increase in my compensation, go fuck yourself.
Otherwise, relax and enjoy. . .
[and write or call your local legislator 'cuz those bastards are here until June taking up all the best parking downtown and crowding up the strip clubs while trying to figure out how to fix public education in this state (like that's the only problem, ha!) and adequately compensate the caring professionals who dedicate their lives to improving the lives of children, Lord know the legislature has done a suck-ass job thus far]
_______________
Two weeks before the holiday break, at the beginning of December, I received a new student in my classroom. He is another young man with profound autism. He is fifteen. He is about six feet tall with the appropriate proportional weight.
He ended up in my class after his parents moved him halfway across the state to the nearest State run facility for individuals with significant cognitive disabilities combined with serious behavior issues. In the old days, it was commonly referred to as an "asylum" but we modern people refer instead to it as a "State School".
As I understand the process, it takes a judge's decision to place people at the State School. It is a form of involuntary committment.
People do not get sent there because they may have been a little disruptive in class or gotten into just a little bit of trouble.
I knew it must be something big, but received no information as to what.
With this in mind, over the course of a long distance phone call, I delicately asked his mother to tell a little bit about her son.
These are some of the things she told me:
He shattered the glass doors to a bowling alley by punching them when he got upset on a family bowling trip.
He broke her nose with a head-butt.
He threw a vacuum cleaner at her.
He breaks windows on school buses and breaks doors at home.
(call me twisted, but I think this next one is rather humorous, I would have loved to have been a witness)
He, and I quote mom directly here, "trashed a Cuisinart display at a Mervyn's."
He does not really speak, although he repeats things you say (echolalia) in a mumbling way that is rather common with individuals with profound autism.
He screams. Blood-boiling, ear-splitting, hair-curling screams. Like standing next to an old air-raid siren. He screams when he gets fruststrated or angry.
He gets frustrated or angry a lot.
That's part of the problem with autism. Frustration and anger brought about in part by your inability to effectively communicate your wants and needs and understand the requests of others and the rules of the world. That's why he's in my class. It's what we're working on.
He is self-abusive. He slaps himself in the face, not stopping even after he has made his appearance racoon-like with two black eyes.
When you intervene to stop the self-abuse, he directs it outwards and attacks: hands, head, and teeth.
He also has pica behavior. I once watched him eat a piece of standard copier paper like cotton candy, one torn strip at a time.
But wait, there's more to this pica business. Much more.
He regurgitates at will. Yes, that's correct my dear reader, he has mastered the art of vomiting on demand. He can do it just sitting there, without moving or gagging himself with his hand or anything. Teenage girls with eating disorders would just die with envy at this skill.
He vomits up his meals, one mouthful and a time (although sometimes he overestimates and it spills out down his chin onto his clothes), and then re-chews and swallows them. Lovely.
Are you getting the picture? Serious problems, serious autism.
Given that, I still can't help but be reminded of Homer Simpson.
Do you, my dear reader, remember that episode of "The Simpsons" where Homer gets hypnotized and has that childhood flashback where he remembers some traumatic event and just screams for like three straight days? I love that episode! The screaming is just so funny! Cracks me up everytime!
That was this student today. We don't know why. Never quite figured it out. All I can say is that he pretty much screamed all day long.
Imagine standing next to an air-raid siren for several hours.
Or striking a minor open chord on a Gibson SG with maximum overdrive while standing in front of a double Marshall stack cranked up to eleven. . . over and over and over again to the point where even Malcolm Young would grow bored.
It was an impressive display of vocal ability. It had the high piercing shrillness to pierce your eardrums and the growling gravely low end that you literally feel in your bones.
As I write this, almost eight hours have past since this student boarded a bus and left for the day. I swear my ears are still freakin' ringing.
And I must confess, my dear reader, after the first few hours, it began to wear me down and get to me.
Then I thought of Homer and that episode. Ha ha ha, funny stuff.
It made me laugh. It broke the tension and I was able to spend the rest of the day smiling while blocking his screaming butting head with my upper arms and chest as I attempted to hold his hands so he couldn't beat the crap out of either one of us.
Good times.
He really is a sweet kid. He's just a little messed up. A little love, a little patience, a little structure, consistency, and routine. . . we'll get there, where ever there is.
Today was not the first time he reminded me of Homer Simpson.
A couple of Fridays back, near the end of the school day, my teaching assistants and I were diligently getting the students ready to go home: changing diapers that needed changing (on two 20+ year old students), putting on coats and jackets, straps and seatbelts on a wheelchair or two, you know, regular end of the school day stuff.
My new student is sitting on a bean bag chair in the converted closet cave-like nesting space for comfort and security I made for him in the classroom. The other students are leaving, my teaching assistants are going back and forth taking them to their school buses to go home.
One or two almost broken bus windows taught us that this young man doesn't do a very good job of waiting while sitting on the bus, so he waits in my classroom until the handful of other students that ride that bus have boarded. This way he doesn't have to wait, the bus leaves as soon as he gets on it, and therefore doesn't try to break the bus windows.
And that's a good thing.
Anyway, on this Friday afternoon, barely one hour to go until beer thirty, he's sitting there, in his little cave. I am across the room with one of my teaching assistants finishing up securing one of his classmates in their wheelchair.
I look over, and first notice that he has something on his hand. He is licking it, like a little kid licks brownie batter off a mixing spoon.
Then I notice his clothes, they are streaked and splotched with a brown substance that as I previously mentioned, looks something like brownie batter, but not quite that dark, more of a caramel color, like butterscotch pudding.
I glance over at the kitchen area of the classroom. None of the cabinets are open. "Where did he get the. . . " I think. After a moment of bewilderment it suddenly clicks, "Oh holy fuck no, that's not brownie batter. . . Sweet merciful crap!"
Literally.
GAAAAGHH! He is licking his own shit off his fingers and eating it! GAAAAGH!
I take a deep breath, "this is attention seeking behavior." I tell myself, "He knows it's time to go, he doesn't like to wait, he's not getting any attention because we are helping the other students." With almost superhuman calmness I begin to walk slowly across the room towards my poo-eater. The trick is to remain calm and show no emotion.
If you react emotionally, either positively or negatively, to an attention seeking behavior you have just reinforced it and therefore increased the chance of it happening again. Not quite Skinner 101, but still basic psychology.
As I get closer, I notice that not only is he licking his own shit from his fingers and he has he wiped his own feces all over his clothes. . .
But he has also smeared his shit, his own feces, all across his face, cheek to cheek and ear to ear, like a five o'clock shadow.
He looks just like Homer Simpson.
|
As a kind of self-imposed moment of cyber-silence.
It has been over a week since that tragic day, and well (I hate cliches, especially when they ring true, but) as The Beatles sang, "Ob li di, Ob la da, life goes on. . . "
So, it is in the spirit of moving forward I kindly offer the following. . .
_______________
If you are not already convinced, my dear reader, even after I shared with you a more typical than not day in the life that I need a raise. . .
If by some strange stretch of the imagination, my dear reader, you are not one hundred percent positively convinced after learning something of the perils of the Good Doctor Noyz that I still need a raise. . .
Well then, grab yourself a cold one, make yourself comfy, and then read the following tale of brave teaching adventure. If when you reach the end, you are still not convinced I am in need of a serious increase in my compensation, go fuck yourself.
Otherwise, relax and enjoy. . .
[and write or call your local legislator 'cuz those bastards are here until June taking up all the best parking downtown and crowding up the strip clubs while trying to figure out how to fix public education in this state (like that's the only problem, ha!) and adequately compensate the caring professionals who dedicate their lives to improving the lives of children, Lord know the legislature has done a suck-ass job thus far]
_______________
Two weeks before the holiday break, at the beginning of December, I received a new student in my classroom. He is another young man with profound autism. He is fifteen. He is about six feet tall with the appropriate proportional weight.
He ended up in my class after his parents moved him halfway across the state to the nearest State run facility for individuals with significant cognitive disabilities combined with serious behavior issues. In the old days, it was commonly referred to as an "asylum" but we modern people refer instead to it as a "State School".
As I understand the process, it takes a judge's decision to place people at the State School. It is a form of involuntary committment.
People do not get sent there because they may have been a little disruptive in class or gotten into just a little bit of trouble.
I knew it must be something big, but received no information as to what.
With this in mind, over the course of a long distance phone call, I delicately asked his mother to tell a little bit about her son.
These are some of the things she told me:
He shattered the glass doors to a bowling alley by punching them when he got upset on a family bowling trip.
He broke her nose with a head-butt.
He threw a vacuum cleaner at her.
He breaks windows on school buses and breaks doors at home.
(call me twisted, but I think this next one is rather humorous, I would have loved to have been a witness)
He, and I quote mom directly here, "trashed a Cuisinart display at a Mervyn's."
He does not really speak, although he repeats things you say (echolalia) in a mumbling way that is rather common with individuals with profound autism.
He screams. Blood-boiling, ear-splitting, hair-curling screams. Like standing next to an old air-raid siren. He screams when he gets fruststrated or angry.
He gets frustrated or angry a lot.
That's part of the problem with autism. Frustration and anger brought about in part by your inability to effectively communicate your wants and needs and understand the requests of others and the rules of the world. That's why he's in my class. It's what we're working on.
He is self-abusive. He slaps himself in the face, not stopping even after he has made his appearance racoon-like with two black eyes.
When you intervene to stop the self-abuse, he directs it outwards and attacks: hands, head, and teeth.
He also has pica behavior. I once watched him eat a piece of standard copier paper like cotton candy, one torn strip at a time.
But wait, there's more to this pica business. Much more.
He regurgitates at will. Yes, that's correct my dear reader, he has mastered the art of vomiting on demand. He can do it just sitting there, without moving or gagging himself with his hand or anything. Teenage girls with eating disorders would just die with envy at this skill.
He vomits up his meals, one mouthful and a time (although sometimes he overestimates and it spills out down his chin onto his clothes), and then re-chews and swallows them. Lovely.
Are you getting the picture? Serious problems, serious autism.
Given that, I still can't help but be reminded of Homer Simpson.
Do you, my dear reader, remember that episode of "The Simpsons" where Homer gets hypnotized and has that childhood flashback where he remembers some traumatic event and just screams for like three straight days? I love that episode! The screaming is just so funny! Cracks me up everytime!
That was this student today. We don't know why. Never quite figured it out. All I can say is that he pretty much screamed all day long.
Imagine standing next to an air-raid siren for several hours.
Or striking a minor open chord on a Gibson SG with maximum overdrive while standing in front of a double Marshall stack cranked up to eleven. . . over and over and over again to the point where even Malcolm Young would grow bored.
It was an impressive display of vocal ability. It had the high piercing shrillness to pierce your eardrums and the growling gravely low end that you literally feel in your bones.
As I write this, almost eight hours have past since this student boarded a bus and left for the day. I swear my ears are still freakin' ringing.
And I must confess, my dear reader, after the first few hours, it began to wear me down and get to me.
Then I thought of Homer and that episode. Ha ha ha, funny stuff.
It made me laugh. It broke the tension and I was able to spend the rest of the day smiling while blocking his screaming butting head with my upper arms and chest as I attempted to hold his hands so he couldn't beat the crap out of either one of us.
Good times.
He really is a sweet kid. He's just a little messed up. A little love, a little patience, a little structure, consistency, and routine. . . we'll get there, where ever there is.
Today was not the first time he reminded me of Homer Simpson.
A couple of Fridays back, near the end of the school day, my teaching assistants and I were diligently getting the students ready to go home: changing diapers that needed changing (on two 20+ year old students), putting on coats and jackets, straps and seatbelts on a wheelchair or two, you know, regular end of the school day stuff.
My new student is sitting on a bean bag chair in the converted closet cave-like nesting space for comfort and security I made for him in the classroom. The other students are leaving, my teaching assistants are going back and forth taking them to their school buses to go home.
One or two almost broken bus windows taught us that this young man doesn't do a very good job of waiting while sitting on the bus, so he waits in my classroom until the handful of other students that ride that bus have boarded. This way he doesn't have to wait, the bus leaves as soon as he gets on it, and therefore doesn't try to break the bus windows.
And that's a good thing.
Anyway, on this Friday afternoon, barely one hour to go until beer thirty, he's sitting there, in his little cave. I am across the room with one of my teaching assistants finishing up securing one of his classmates in their wheelchair.
I look over, and first notice that he has something on his hand. He is licking it, like a little kid licks brownie batter off a mixing spoon.
Then I notice his clothes, they are streaked and splotched with a brown substance that as I previously mentioned, looks something like brownie batter, but not quite that dark, more of a caramel color, like butterscotch pudding.
I glance over at the kitchen area of the classroom. None of the cabinets are open. "Where did he get the. . . " I think. After a moment of bewilderment it suddenly clicks, "Oh holy fuck no, that's not brownie batter. . . Sweet merciful crap!"
Literally.
GAAAAGHH! He is licking his own shit off his fingers and eating it! GAAAAGH!
I take a deep breath, "this is attention seeking behavior." I tell myself, "He knows it's time to go, he doesn't like to wait, he's not getting any attention because we are helping the other students." With almost superhuman calmness I begin to walk slowly across the room towards my poo-eater. The trick is to remain calm and show no emotion.
If you react emotionally, either positively or negatively, to an attention seeking behavior you have just reinforced it and therefore increased the chance of it happening again. Not quite Skinner 101, but still basic psychology.
As I get closer, I notice that not only is he licking his own shit from his fingers and he has he wiped his own feces all over his clothes. . .
But he has also smeared his shit, his own feces, all across his face, cheek to cheek and ear to ear, like a five o'clock shadow.
He looks just like Homer Simpson.
|
